hummingbirds and toads

There are cicadas whirring outside my window. It is 9:30 pm and it's already dark outside. It was 85 degrees Fahrenheit today and people were sighing at how nice and cool it is.

I'm on day three in my new stomping grounds in the Raleigh, NC area. The last two months have taken me from Munich to Austria to the Lakes District in England to the West Highland Way in Scotland to Raleigh, North Carolina. It's been a wonderful whirlwind.

I'm not going to lie: transitions are hard and culture shock is real (you can see my friend Angela's take on that here) and there have been tears. This morning, in fact.

But there have also been many small, good things today that remind me that this is where I want to be.

Here are some of them.

~ a tiny toad the size of my thumbnail on the sidewalk
~ hummingbirds zipping in and out of the garden
~ a bunny rabbit meandering through the yard
~ cicadas so loud I hear them through my closed window every night
~ a pool with water that is pleasantly tepid, not freezing
~ gracious people
~ magnolia blossoms
~ crepe myrtles
~ white pine trees
~ a dryer so my laundry is finished after two hours total
~ garlic bread
~ iced tea
~ a screened-in porch

In the middle of so much newness, little things like these go a long way toward helping me keep my chin up. As does the audiobook of Charlotte's Web narrated by E. B. White himself. Just saying.

The Art of Leaving Well

One thing I've learned through many moves over the years is that leaving well is an art form, not a formula.

It would be easier if it were a formula: I could make a list, check off all the boxes, and tie up all the loose ends before moving on.

But that's not how life works. Uprooting is a messy, unpredictable business. Just as I successfully pull up one tie to a place, I inadvertently establish another. Somehow I always manage to be putting down new roots until the actual moment of being transplanted.

I'm moving away from Munich in less than a month, and it is really tempting to check out now. But I’m still here. If I’m called to bloom where I’m planted, that means I’m called to bloom here until the day I go. 

So even while I set up final visits with friends, I allow myself to spend time with new acquaintances. I initiate a four-week Bible study with a teenager from church. I invite a couple of kids over for a tea party.

I visit familiar haunts for the last time while still discovering new, delightful places.

Even while I'm preparing to leave, I still live here. There are still things for me to do here.

None of this means living in denial. Closure is important. But the truth is that there will always be loose ends. There will always be unfinished conversations and unexplored possibilities and things on the to-do list that never got done. People that I wish I’d sought out over the last two years that it’s now time to say goodbye to. It’s enough to make me crazy. 

In the weeks before I graduated from college, I was under immense pressure and immense blessing. I was preemptively grieving the loss of a community that was precious to me while daily receiving all the riches that community had to offer. I did not know how to process it all, and I was afraid that I would leave important things undone - that somehow I would miss something crucial and have no chance to rectify my mistake.

During that time the Lord gave me a word through a friend: "Rest easy. I'll take care of the loose ends. Fear not. Trust Me."

While this transition is not nearly as devastating as that one was, it is good for me to remember the assurance God gave me in the midst of it.

It’s a reminder that the work I’ve been doing here in relationships and community isn’t actually my work: it’s the Lord’s work. And it is being accomplished in His timing. If it feels unfinished to me, that’s ok, because I’m not the one responsible to finish it - He is.  

In the meantime, I write myself reminders, give myself space to grieve and to rejoice, hang out with friends, and practice the art of leaving well.

Things I Learned This Month | April 2019

After a brief hiatus, I'm back on track with sharing a list of some of the things I learned this month. I got the idea from Emily P. Freeman a year or two ago, and it's a simple practice that I really enjoy.

1. I learned all sorts of interesting things about T.J. Maxx.

I was curious about the store's name in Europe. Over here, it's called T.K. Maxx. But it's obviously the same store - it has the exact same branding and products. Turns out, when the company extended into the UK it didn't want to be confused with T.K. Hughes, another well-established brand. So in Europe it's T.K. Maxx. Further fun fact, T.J. Maxx and Marshall's are owned by the same parent company, TJX. What I could not discover is why the store is called T.J. Maxx in the first place. The internet has no conclusive evidence, so I suppose it shall remain a mystery.

2. "Critical thinking without hope is cynicism. But hope without critical thinking is naivete."

I heard Maria Popova say this in an interview with Krista Tippett on the show On Being, and it has really stuck with me.

3. A mantra for discerning a possible next right thing: Do what you know. Finish what you started. Use what you have. 

I got this one from Myquillen Smith during a bonus episode of Emily P. Freeman's podcast The Next Right Thing. 

4. The crepe man I remember from childhood has been there for 20 years.

Mom and I went to Heidelberg for my first visit since we moved in 2012. A highlight of the day was getting a crepe from the crepe man. (Did I think to ask his name? No.) He has a little stand in an alcove in the outside of the main church in Heidelberg, and when we lived in Heidelberg we would often get his crepes for lunch and eat them on the bridge. I was pleased to discover that they are still the best crepes that I have ever had. It was fun to visit with him a little bit and discover that this is an art that he has perfected over 20 years. Apparently once a French school group bought his crepes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner because they are so delicious.

Poetry Corner | Two Easter Poems

I couldn't choose which of these to share, so here are both. 

Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell

by Denise Levertov

Down through the tomb's inward arch
He has shouldered out into Limbo
to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber:
the merciful dead, the prophets,
the innocents just His own age and those
unnumbered others waiting here
unaware, in an endless void He is ending
now, stooping to tug at their hands,
to pull them from their sarcophagi,
dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas,
neighbor in death, Golgotha dust
still streaked on the dried sweat of his body
no one had washed and anointed, is here,
for sequence is not known in Limbo;
the promise, given from cross to cross
at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn.
All these He will swiftly lead
to the Paradise road: they are safe.
That done, there must take place that struggle
no human presumes to picture:
living, dying, descending to rescue the just
from shadow, were lesser travails
than this: to break
through earth and stone of the faithless world
back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained
stifling shroud; to break from them
back into breath and heartbeat, and walk
the world again, closed into days and weeks again,
wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit
streaming through every cell of flesh
so that if mortal sight could bear
to perceive it, it would be seen
His mortal flesh was lit from within, now,
and aching for home. He must return,
first, in Divine patience, and know
hunger again, and give
to humble friends the joy
of giving Him food—fish and a honeycomb.

***

***

***

Easter Day

by Christina Rosetti

Words cannot utter 
Christ His returning: 
Mankind, keep jubilee, 
Strip off your mourning, 
Crown you with garlands, 
Set your lamps burning. 

Speech is left speechless; 
Set you to singing, 
Fling your hearts open wide, 
Set your bells ringing: 
Christ the Chief Reaper 
Comes, His sheaf bringing. 

Earth wakes her song-birds, 
Puts on her flowers, 
Leads out her lambkins, 
Builds up her bowers: 
This is man's spousal day, 
Christ's day and ours.

we call this Friday "Good"

From T.S. Eliot's poem "East Coker"

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

    Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

    The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

    The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

    The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

finding home

The soul finds its own home if it ever has a home at all. ~Marilynne Robinson, Home, 282

Dear Katie,

On Sunday after church, you asked me if I ever wondered where home is. You are bright and outgoing and wistful and twelve years old. 

The question caught me off guard, and I answered with my knee-jerk reaction: Yes. I do wonder that, often. And as I wonder, sometimes the only thing that enables me to keep moving forward is the promise that our citizenship – our ultimate home – is in heaven. It seems abstract, but it is more concrete than any other answer I can offer in the space of a brief interaction in the church foyer.

But I’ve kept thinking about it. 

I've lived in nine different cities. Not counting the three places my parents have lived since I left for college. Two continents. Three countries. Zip codes that all run together in my head so that I always have to double-check before writing my return address. 

I'm moving to my tenth city in two months. 

When do I not wonder where home is?

For both of us, home is not a particular house on a particular street in a particular city, state, and country. And there’s a certain sadness to that – a sense of loss that I hear in the way you ask the question. When you ask where home is, I wonder, What would it be like to have one home?

Home is cardboard boxes and moving crates and knowing that this place is only temporary - and I hate that. 

And yet. And yet.

Home is every place I have unpacked those boxes. Would I really want to give any of those places up for the boon of just having one home?

I have a home that is far bigger than one house in one city. I have not one home, but many. I look for hints of home wherever I go, and often I find it in unexpected places. 

I discover a piece of home every time I walk into an art gallery. Also every time I walk into a bookstore.

Home is James Taylor's album "October Road" on repeat from July through November. And my mom's collection of Christmas music. And Handel's "Messiah."

Home is a dorm room filled with more people than is entirely comfortable - a jumble of coats and books and mugs of steaming tea and rich conversation - or silence. 

Home is wherever my parents live. 

Home is Orion in the clear winter sky. 

Home is gathering friends together to cook and laugh and visit.

Home is humid days on a screened-in-porch in North Carolina, swinging in a hammock, listening to the creek.  

Airports are home. And train stations. Any place where people occupy liminal space - in transition from one place to another. 

Home is the sound of the Amsel - the German blackbird with an orange beak that has the most beautiful song in the world. It is also the sound of cicadas whirring in the North Carolina heat. 

Home is the community of believers learning what it means to be pilgrims to the city of God. Sometimes we speak German as we walk through life together. Sometimes English. The language doesn’t matter as much as we sometimes think it does. 

Home is the quilts my grandmother made.

Home is a kitchen in a church basement.

Home is whatever hotel I'm spending the night in. 

Home is the collection of postcards and posters and photos and paintings that I tape to the wall and then take down again when it's time to go. 

Home is a gift that I often find when I least expect it. 

Home the way we want it doesn't exist. There is no place in the world where all the people who are precious to us gather to do life together. And even if there were, a lot of the people we love don't speak the same language. There is no one house in the world that holds all the smells we associate with home and holds all our memories. There is no place in the world that can possibly satisfy the yearning for a place where we are fully known, fully at rest, where all is truly, deeply, profoundly, well. 

That yearning is only fulfilled when Christ's Kingdom is made manifest. And that is why I cling tight to Paul's proclamation that our citizenship is in heaven: because it gives me hope that one day the yearning for home will actually be fulfilled. Though the ache seems to last forever, it will only last a lifetime. A lifetime seems long when you're in the middle of it. Especially when you're twelve. Or even twenty-four. But then there's forever. Forever at Home. What a weight of glory. 

For now, we get to carry around that yearning as we live the live of nomads. And we carry around more than that longing - we get to carry some of the things that make a place a home. My mom puts the Mary Engelbreit "bloom where you're planted" magnet on yet another fridge. I turn on the music that holds sustaining memories. We cook food that nourishes our bodies and reminds us of other meals around other kitchen tables. We schedule FaceTime calls and send text messages and write letters. 

We refuse to be defeated by the reality of how temporary this all is. We choose to put down roots even though we know that when it's time to move on the uprooting is agonizing. Because as long as we are willing to put down roots, we have access to a foretaste of home. As long as we look for them, we will find bits of home that we can carry with us wherever we go.

  

Grace,

Kate

Living by Prayer

from The Valley of Vision

O God of the open ear,
Teach me to live by prayer as well as by providence,
    for myself, soul, body, children, family, church;
Give me a heart frameable to thy will;
    so might I live in prayer, and honour thee,
        being kept from evil, known and unknown.
Help me to see the sin that accompanies all I do,
    and the good I can distill from everything.
Let me know that the work of prayer is to bring my will to thine,
    and that without this it is folly to pray;
When I try to bring thy will to mine it is to command Christ,
    to be above him, and wiser than he:
    this is my sin and pride.
I can only succeed when I pray
    according to thy precept and promise,
    and to be done with a it pleases thee,
    according to thy sovereign will.
When thou commandest me to pray for pardon, peace, brokenness,
    it is because thou wilt give me the thing promised,
        for thy glory, as well as for my good.
Help me not only to desire small things
    but with holy boldness to desire great things
        for thy people, for myself,
            that they and I might live to show thy glory.
Teach me that it is wisdom for me to pray for all I have,
                       out of love, willingly, not of necessity;
                  that I may come to thee at any time,
                      to lay open my needs acceptably to thee;
                  that my great sin lies in my not keeping
                      the savour of thy ways;
                  that the remembrance of this truth is one way
                      to the sense of thy presence;
                  that there is no wrath like the wrath of being governed
                      by my own lusts for my own ends.

Israel no. 1 | The Land

They say that after you've visited Israel, you'll read the Bible from a whole different perspective.

It's true.

Walking and driving through the land of the Bible makes all the little geographical details come alive - details that I never paid much attention to before.

Call me crazy, but it never hit me until I was standing at the ruins of Caeserea, in a palace part of which is literally underneath the Mediterranean, that Israel is a coastal country. Should I have realized this? Duh, yes. I've looked at maps. I've seen the strip of coast that Israel occupies. But somehow it didn't sink in what that meant. That's the point, I guess - I've read the Bible my whole life, looked at maps of Israel countless times, and it took standing in the wind and looking out at the waves to grasp Israel's location - the center of the fertile crescent. No backwater, but a key stretch on the route joining the Assyrian, Babylonian, and Egyptian empires, with access to all the riches of a shipping trade that stretched across the Mediterranean.

The land in northern Israel at the beginning of March is lush and fertile, with large herds of cattle grazing on the hills. That was unexpected to me, somehow. I expected sheep and goats and camels. Not cows.

And yet -

Every beast of the forest is Mine, 
the cattle on a thousand hills. 
I know all the birds of the hills, 
and all that moves in the field is mine. 
Psalm 50:10-11

Speaking of birds, Israel isn't just in an essential location when it comes to ancient civilizations. It's also a land bridge between Africa, Europe, and Asia for migrating birds. They don't like to fly over water, so rather than flying over the Mediterranean, they fly over Israel. We were there during migration season, and we saw countless flocks of storks flying North. I have never before seen a flock of storks. There is a pair that nests near my parents' house, and I'm accustomed to seeing them in rural Germany, but they come in pairs - occasionally in foursomes. Not in flocks!

But apparently they do come in flocks, and each family peels off to their own village after migrating.

The trees of the LORD are watered abundantly,
the cedars of Lebanon that he planted.
In them the birds build their nests;
the stork has her home in the fir trees. 
Psalm 104:16-17

I still marvel at the lushness. The Galilee mountainsides are covered with wildflowers and grass. The Jordan River rushes through, a strong current making crossing impossible without a bridge. Pomegranates, lemons, and oranges grow casually in people's gardens. But Anna, the owner of the apartment we stay at, tells us that when the heat of summer comes, everything is dry and brown, toasted to a crisp.

All flesh is like grass
and all its glory like the flower of grass.
The grass withers,
and the flower falls,
but the word of the Lord remains forever.
1 Peter 1:24-5

I collected minuscule seashells and pet an extroverted cat on the edge of the Sea of Galilee. Now, when I read that when Jesus was in Capernaum, and "the sun was setting, all those who had any who were sick with various diseases brought them to him, and he laid his hands on every one of them and healed them," I think of that cat. I know the view of the lake from the hamlet of Capernaum, and I know what mountain the sun sets over.

Once the sun sets, villages on hilltops shimmer with light. Impossible to hide, those cities on hills. Jackals howl in the darkness. In the morning, I sit on the balcony and watch the haze on the Sea of Galilee. A pair of swallows builds a nest over the door to the apartment. As we drive to our destination, we see a fox - grey, with very large ears.

Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head. Matthew 8:20

We say that Israel is a small country - and it is, if you're measuring by car or train or airplane. But it's nearly one hundred miles from Jerusalem to Nazareth, and forty more to Capernaum. When you read the gospel accounts, it seems that Jesus and His disciples are constantly traipsing back and forth between these cities. The authors barely give it a second thought, but that is a LOT of walking. Especially when you consider that nearly every footstep was accompanied by teaching or a miracle.

We drop south and rewind several thousand years: we float in the Dead Sea and are refreshed at the oasis of En Gedi. This is where David hid from Saul - a narrow strip of lush, hardy greenery running towards the Dead Sea, surrounded by arid rocky mountains. I cannot describe the relief of hearing the rush of water and the sound of birdsong in that starkly beautiful landscape. Now that I've seen the wilderness, the images in the Psalms are so much more real. As I hiked by the brook at En Gedi, I found myself thinking over and over,

As the deer panteth for the water, 
so my soul longs for You. 
Psalm 42:1

Hiking up to Herod the Great's palace at Masada before sunrise hammers home the power-hungry heart of the notoriously feared king - and the beauty of this desolate part of the land. We look across the Dead Sea into the mountains of Moab - Ruth's home.

Back up in Galilee, we had not only looked across into Jordan, but also at mountains that border Syria. With all the political tension and tragedy in this area today, I am struck by passages like this:

So his fame spread throughout all Syria, and they brought Him all the sick, those afflicted with various diseases and pains, those oppressed by demons, those having seizures and paralytics, and He healed them. And great crowds followed Him from Galilee and the Decapolis, and from Jerusalem and Judea, and from beyond the Jordan. ~ Matthew 4:24-25

The hope of Jesus is not bound by regional boundaries or ethnic differences or cultural conflicts. It wasn't then, and it isn't now. Being on the land brought that home to me in a whole new way.

And Jerusalem. What a city. I will have more to say about it, but I will close with this for now:

As mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people both now and forevermore. 
Psalm 125:2

Things I Learned This Month | February 2019

WOW this was a full month. I spent a whirlwind long weekend in New York for an event celebrating the mark of 100 days before Charlie's class graduates from West Point - one of the crazier good decisions I've made in the last few years. I'm so proud of my big little brother. And he got me flowers. Major brownie points.

I also got to meet the wonderful, beautiful Ellie, my best friend Liza's daughter. Also seeing Liza was super. She's a wonder woman - flew up to NY from SC solo with an eight-month-old.

Anyway. This monthly post has turned into an excuse to share the photos I would have written posts about if I had my life together, but the actual purpose is to share a handful of the things I learned this month with y'all. So. Without further ado, some things I learned this month.

1. Samin Nosrat, the author of the cookbook Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, had enrolled in a program to get her MFA in poetry when she learned that she had the opportunity to apprentice under a famous Italian cook in Florence. The rest is history. There's a strong connection between poetry and recipe writing, y'all - economy with words, vivid descriptions - I'm not even kidding.

2. Tossing a spoonful of baking soda into the cooking water for dried chick peas makes them heavenly. I got this tip from Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, and those chick peas were melt-in-your-mouth tender. I never would have thought I'd get excited about a new method to cook dried beans, but I so am.

3. The Greatest Showman soundtrack is superb. I'm super late to the game, I know, and I still haven't seen the movie. But Charlie's pals played this music nonstop during the weekend I was at West Point, and I love it. I will forever associate "A Million Dreams" with a bunch of cadets singing their hearts out as they prepared a spectacular brunch for their dates and friends.

4. "Tradition is to communities what memory is to individuals." This is a quote from Irish poet John O'Donahue that has me thinking quite a bit.

5. There are lyrics to the traditional clock chime. You know, the chime that you think of when you think of Big Ben or any church tolling the hours. This one. The words inscribed on a plaque in the Big Ben clock room are:

All through this hour
Lord be my guide

That by Thy power

No foot shall slide.

I learned this from a recent episode of Emily P. Freeman's podcast, The Next Right Thing. Which, by the way, is one thing I look forward to every single week. She's actually the inspiration for my monthly practice of sharing what I've learned. 

Things I Learned This Month | January 2019

After a brief hiatus, we're back to things I learned this month! (The main reason this didn't happen in December is that my brain wanted to remember all the things I learned in 2018. Which was, frankly, overwhelming.)

There's a "magic" lipstick that looks bright green but turns red when applied. 

A friend of mine visiting from North Africa brought me a stick, because apparently it's all the rage there. I was seriously skeptical until we tried it - and it worked. I did some googling, and different sources say different things about the magic. The Daily Mail says that the lipstick reacts to your skin's pH level to turn just the right shade of red. Into the Gloss says that it contains a dye called Red 27 which is colorless when dissolved in a waterless base, but which turns red upon contact with moisture. Either way, it's fun to apply lipstick that looks like it should belong to Elphaba and turns out to be as full of pizazz as Galinda.

Coffee does have its uses.

If you know me at all in real life, you know that I drink tea by the gallon and avoid coffee as if it were drinkable mud. I just don't like the taste. But on some days, it is a valid option to functioning like a normal human. I got up at 3:30 am to take a friend to the airport, and after I dropped her off, I had several hours to kill before going to work. So I hied me to Starbucks, got myself a grande Americano that I doctored liberally with cinnamon, cocoa powder, cream, and sugar, and took my medicine while doing my devotions and lesson planning. It worked: I stayed functional until my classes ended and then went home to take a nap. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I really enjoy the enforced contemplation of MRIs and acupuncture. 

I've been having mild, ongoing ankle issues that are exceptionally difficult to diagnose. As a result, I've spent awhile lying in dark rooms with lots of banging (MRI) and pins sticking in my ankle (acupuncture). I thought I'd chafe at the empty time, but instead I've found myself actually looking forward to it. For once I have an excuse to lie on my back and do nothing except daydream and pray. It's strangely rejuvenating. Silver linings, and all that.

Sometimes you have to learn by doing.

My church is piloting a translation ministry - the dream is to provide simultaneous translation of each evening service from German into English. When I was asked to participate, part of me thought, "I have no idea how to do this." A bigger part of me thought, "I'll never know how unless I try." I got to do a run-through while we tested technology during a service last week, and I actually really enjoyed it. Though, arbitrarily, my brain decided to fly through the sermon (the difficult part) with barely a hitch, and stumble haltingly through the announcements (the easy part). Lesson learned: concentrate just as much on the easy parts instead of assuming that since they're simpler they require less attention.

Rachel Huffington's Ultimate Ginger Cookies are every bit as amazing as they look in her pictures. 

I've been wanting to try these cookies ever since I realized they call for a full 3/4 cup of minced fresh ginger, and they did not disappoint. They smell heavenly, the texture is everything I wanted it to be, and the sharp kick of ginger is a perfect companion to a cup of tea. Also, they are good with peanut butter. But then, I think that just about anything is good with peanut butter.

wisdom from friends (and Taylor Swift): remember to enjoy this stage of life

“I’m so glad I’m not in my twenties anymore. It can be overwhelming and confusing and frustrating, because so many things are uncertain - where you’ll live, what you’ll do, who (if) you’ll marry. But remember to enjoy the freedom. Because while you gain stability with years and narrowing down options, you also lose the freedom of having your options wide open.” 

My friend smiled at her baby and took another bite of her salad while I mulled over her words. 

It’s strangely comforting to hear people in their thirties and forties and beyond talk about how difficult things could be when they were in their twenties: it helps to know that my uncertainty and occasional frustration are the norm. 

Cue Taylor Swift's "22": We're happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time. It's miserable and magical. My friend Angela and I have decided that this song is about all of your twenties, not just 22.

My least favorite question is “what do you want to do?” 

I know that until June I want to teach English in Munich. After June, when my contract ends, I have absolutely no idea. (Ok, well, I have lots of ideas, but zero plans.) I don’t know where I’ll be seven months from now, much less have a five-year plan. I’m learning to accept that, and even enjoy it. My friend was right - I enjoy a kind of freedom as a young, single woman in my twenties that I probably won’t have for the majority of my life. So why spend my time fretting that I don’t have plans when I have the freedom to entertain all sorts of possibilities?

It’s a process, but the Lord is helping me work through it. 

For my last few big decisions, God has faithfully shown me the next step - but it’s been about three months later than I think He should have let me in on His plans. So I’m working on preparing faithfully, but not freaking out when I don’t have concrete plans. 

One thing I have learned: I have a habit of declaring that I will absolutely not do something and then, in the course of a year or two, turning around and doing it. It's gotten to the point that it's rather ridiculous.

"I am absolutely not interested in going to Wheaton.” I went to Wheaton - and can't imagine a better place to have spent my college years.

"I am studying English Literature. Not German. Not as a minor, definitely not as a major. Nope.” At the eleventh hour I added German as a second major. It was a fluke - I still didn't want to study German academically, but it got to the point where it would have been dumb not to. 

"No way am I studying abroad during college - I've lived abroad. I want to spend four years rooted in one place.” My semester abroad in Oxford was a highlight of my college career. Not only did I learn to love research papers (yes, I'm crazy), but I still keep up with friends that I made there via a monthly Skype book club. We've read 26 books together in the last two years.

"I'm not going to live in Germany after college. I do not want to continue down a road that could leave me torn between two countries for my entire life...Ok, fine, I’ll move to Germany, but it will only be for a year, and then I’ll go back to the states.” I write this from my apartment in Munich, which I am living in for year two as an English Teaching Assistant. 

I'm beginning to learn wisdom. I’m working hard to not make any hard and fast declarations about what I will - or won’t - do. Which gives me even more freedom, since I’m learning to consider things that I might want to automatically rule out. 

In the meantime, I’m putting into practice an Instagram caption I wrote in June: Life is all about learning what to hang on to and what to let go of, always maintaining a strong sense of fun.

Some things I’m learning to let go of:

• My desire to be settled without uncertainty - because let's face it: even when I think I'm settled,  something is bound to change. 
• A self-imposed need to know what I want to do with my whole life - because even if I had a 50-year plan, it would so not last. 
• A fixed plan for any given day - because interruptions and changes of plan happen all the time.
• Comparison with other people’s jobs, relational status, or bandwidth. 

Some things I’m learning to hang on to: 

• Jesus. Always. 
• A commitment to making space and time for the people in my life - whether that’s through FaceTime, messaging, and snail mail with friends stateside; having friends over for lunch; or initiating coffee/tea dates with an acquaintances who I want to get to know better. 
• A sense of wonder and adventure - this applies to small things like stopping to enjoy the smell of scented candles as well as larger things like taking an overnight bus with friends to go to the Italian coast.
• Making time for things that make my soul rest - at the moment primarily cooking and reading. 

Where are you in your journey? Are you feeling settled? Uprooted? Clueless? Completely pulled together? In the midst of all of that, what do you cling to? What do you need to let go of?

Poetry Corner | A Song of Creation

My dear friend Angela is visiting, and this morning we did the Book of Common Prayer's service of morning prayer. I have always loved this canticle, so I want to share it with you this January Sunday. 

A Song of Creation Benedicite, omnia opera Domini 

Invocation

O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.
O ye angels of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

II The Cosmic Order

O ye heavens, bless ye the Lord; *
O ye waters that be above the firmament, bless ye the Lord;
O all ye powers of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

O ye sun and moon, bless ye the Lord; * 
O ye stars of heaven, bless ye the Lord;
O ye showers and dew, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

O ye winds of God, bless ye the Lord; * 
O ye fire and heat, bless ye the Lord;
O ye winter and summer, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

O ye dews and frosts, bless ye the Lord; * 
O ye frost and cold, bless ye the Lord;
O ye ice and snow, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

O ye nights and days, bless ye the Lord; *
O ye light and darkness, bless ye the Lord;
O ye lightnings and clouds, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

III The Earth and its Creatures

O let the earth bless the Lord; *
O ye mountains and hills, bless ye the Lord;
O all ye green things upon the earth, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

O ye wells, bless ye the Lord; *
O ye seas and floods, bless ye the Lord;
O ye whales and all that move in the waters, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

O all ye fowls of the air, bless ye the Lord; * 
O all ye beasts and cattle, bless ye the Lord;
O ye children of men, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

IV The People of God

O ye people of God, bless ye the Lord; *
O ye priests of the Lord, bless ye the Lord;
O ye servants of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.

O ye spirits and souls of the righteous, bless ye the Lord; * 
O ye holy and humble men of heart, bless ye the Lord.
Let us bless the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; * 
praise him and magnify him for ever.