Things We See

I always know summer is here when I begin to slack off on pretty much everything. Something in the 100 degree heat drains my ambition and commitment and stores it in a safe place until the coolness of fall arrives. I will not, however, give you a classic blogger apology about how I've let down my followers or abandoned my craft. The truth is, you see, I know that my piffy little blog is not meaningful enough to cause anyone disappointment nor are my ramblings anything but a feint resemblance of a craft. So unfortunately, dear readers, assuming you exist, there will be no remorseful discourse.

What I do wish to discuss are the things we see. I am continually surprised by what I can learn from observing other people. Pseudo-philosopher that I am, I enjoy the occasional although slightly creepy people-watching session. Begin story.

The other day I was at a local movie theater, waiting for some friends to meet me. Arriving uncharacteristically early and having that "awkwardly waiting on someone alone in a public place" feeling, I settled myself on a low wall to see what I could see. What first caught my attention were two young guys, standing decidedly apart, eyes anywhere but on each other. First date, I categorized. I smiled as I watched these two check watches, look at their phones for non-existent texts, sway, and continue to avoid each other's eyes. After a couple minutes, one of the boys was rescued by his date, greeted with an uncomfortable side hug and a brisk entrance to the theater. I mentally wished him luck as the girl barged ahead towards the concession stand. I managed to make eye contact with the remaining guy and shot him a quick, "I know how you feel" smile, feeling a sense of unity with this other stranded stranger. Apparently he did not share my sentiment and quickly turned his back on me, pulling out his phone for the tenth time in five minutes. A few more minutes crept by and a man and his young daughter walked up to the box office. Once he had purchased their tickets, the father began to walk towards the theater, stopping once he realized his girl had stooped several feet behind him. Turning, he and I both saw his five year old, stooped over, picking up handfuls of tampons and calling out "Daddy! You dropped these from your pocket!". I tired to calm my laughter as the man, clearly embarrassed, rushed back to his girl, yanked her discovery back into his pockets and rushed into the theater. That is either one dedicated husband or a questionable man. Smiling, I looked over at first-date guy to see if he had witnessed this gem of a moment. Alas, he'd missed it- nothing but phone checking and head shaking.

I followed his lead, checked my phone, sure my friends would be there soon. Putting my phone back in my bag, I saw the dreaded group of tweens approaching the theater. I don't know if it's just this movie theater, although I'd doubt it, but it seems like every time I go out to a movie, a unnecessarily large and loud group of 11-13 year olds have been set lose on the theater. Seriously, it's like they don't go home, choosing instead to plague innocent shoppers with their squeals and squawks and skate-shoes. I shutter to think I too, was once a mall-invading 12 year old. One girl, Hollister jeans and stick straight hair, was fumbling around with her wallet before purchasing her ticket, ended up dropping all her change on the tile floor. With an echoing cling, coins rolled for feet, as if escaping this wallet was their only opportunity to escape the mall. As her buddies giggled, she swept her hair off her shoulders and walked away, not even bothering to get the quarters that littered the theater entrance. As soon as the group had made its way into the theater but before I could squat down to pick up the loose change, a trio of elderly women made their way up to the line. Precious and permed, one white-haired lady noticed all the money on the ground and quickly alerted her girlfriends. Amused, I watched as all the women, dropping their purses, struggled to bend over and collect the change, finding value in what the 12 year old considered worthless. Once their treasure had been collected, the ladies got together and counted all the money, grinning and laughing at their good luck! I was and continue to be amazed at the difference between the perspectives of the generations.

Now at least 15-20 minutes had passed. My rear end was cold from sitting on the tile, our movie had already started, and first-date guy was still refusing to look at me! Happily for both of us, the boy's date finally showed up, rescuing him from my unceasing attempts to make eye contact. I hoped she was worth the wait.

I am glad to report my friends eventually showed up and we had an enjoyable time drooling over Johnny Depp in a pirate outfit. But even more than just watching the bad guy that might be good but who is really just good at being bad, I had the opportunity to really see people. If I hadn't been early, if my friends hadn't been late, if I hadn't had my eyes open, I would have missed it. So, keep a wary eye out. Because people are worth being seen.

Paper Hearts

A small Mexican girl gave me her heart. It’s hanging over the mirror in my dorm room. This heart has never beaten or pumped blood. But I do know this heart, this dirty crumpled heart, created out of a sheet of forgotten paper, has felt. It bears two words, names. Written in the hand of a child in blue crayon: Katelyn and Olivia. The first: an upper middle class college student, the second: a young orphan in Tijuana, Mexico.  Two different people, two different worlds, but a heart that unites them, if even for a moment.

I met Olivia on a short work trip to Tijuana last semester. A group of students from the university I attend in San Diego were going down to spend a day at an orphanage, bring the children lunch, and play with them. I have to admit, I was nervous. I had never been to Mexico and the media heightened descriptions of Tijuana had me, and my mother, a bit apprehensive. I left that morning feeling inadequate to be working with these kids. My Spanish isn’t that great and my understanding of the life of an orphan is even worse. I questioned if I could do anything to help these children who had known so little good.

Crossing the border, the scenery began to change. We departed the prosperous homes and clean streets of southern California and slowly descended into a world of decay. Arriving at the orphanage, we could see children playing in a cement yard, separated from the street by a tall concrete wall crowned with barbed wire. Guard dogs ran to meet us as we entered the iron gate and greeted the congregation of small faces. As I watched children scamper bare foot across cement and gravel, I remembered, with a painful embellishment of guilt, my own front yard in a Midwest suburban neighborhood. The contrast between my childhood and the life these kids were experiencing was drastic, difficult, and demoralizing. It was, and remains, incomprehensible to me that people can live in the same world, the same country, a mere 20 miles or so apart and live such vastly different lives.

Our group settled into the yard as games of basketball, soccer, and cards began to emerge out of the woodwork. I wandered over to the coloring station, sparing both my peers and the kids the frightening picture of me in any form of sport. I knelt down next to a small girl, of maybe seven or eight. She was intensely coloring a picture of Noah’s ark that looked as ancient as the story itself. Mustering up my bilingual courage, I began to try to talk to her about what she was doing. A pink crayon here, a green pencil there, and slowly but surely, the girl’s story began to unfold itself.

Her name was Olivia. She had dark hair cut in a blunt line. She had a beautiful smile, a contagious giggle, and an experience all her own.

Throughout the afternoon, as I attempted to converse with Olivia, I came to learn a little about her past. We talked about her family, what it was like to live in this orphanage, and like all good girl talk, we discussed her crush who conveniently happened to be at the coloring table as well. I don’t remember everything she said that day. Honestly, I couldn’t understand everything she said that day. But I do remember the shy joy she emanated, a humble happiness that was beyond her circumstances.  We colored more Bible stories, laughed, and tossed around paper cubes. The time spent with Olivia was not the torturously awkward encounter I had predestined the trip to be. Rather, it was a time of simple enjoyment and sincere relationship, things my generation has seemed to toss away.

When the time neared for my group to depart, Olivia came quietly to my side, hands behind her back. I knelt down on the cement to hug her but, instead of giving an embrace, I was given a heart. The tiny paper heart she had folded out of an old, printed page, our names scribbled in the middle, cupped in her hands like the invaluable treasure it was. I took the gift, recognizing that on a day I had set out to give, I had received.

Olivia’s story is one of thousands. The weak, forgotten, lost of this world are everywhere; we just have to open our eyes. In a culture that instinctively picks up People Magazine to emotionally stalk the latest money-crazed celebrity, stories like Olivia’s are easily pushed aside. The orphans, the widows, the homeless- these are far less pleasant to read about and make rather uncomfortable cocktail party conversation. We have determinedly closed our hearts, shut our eyes, and tuned out the desperate pleas. It is time we, as a people, as a country, tear down the walls of our hearts in order to be truly broken- hopelessly broken for the voiceless, hopeless, and the defenseless. I’m afraid we have become a people of fear. If we allow ourselves to feel something in the full force in which it exists, there will be no more ignoring it. A true experience of sorrow demands action, condemns apathy, and cultivates passion. But action requires sacrifice, something we Americans aren’t often inclined to. Regardless, this is not something we can continue to hide from.  Because there are stories out there, stories like Olivia’s that deserve to be heard.  We must lead lives of love, be listeners of stories, and learn to walk gracefully amongst the paper hearts. 

From Generals to Giants to the Globe

I learned something interesting the other day and decided it was worth sharing with the vast oblivion of the blogoshpere.

I learned about a tree.

But not just any tree. A GIANT tree. A general among trees.

General Sherman.

This tree, located in northern California's Sequoia National Park, is the largest tree in the world, according to its volume. It's an estimated 2000 or so years old and stands over 270 feet high. Incredible right?

I've never been to see the giant sequoia trees (although it's definitely on my list of adventures) but I imagine what it must be like to stand in front of this thing. This one tree, and many like it, are rooted in something deeper than simple soil. The General has been around centuries longer than I ever have and ever will be. That one tree has seen more time, more seasons, and more faces than most people. I like to picture what it would be like to stand in front of this giant of the ages, how I would feel at encountering this monument to stability and persistence.

And I think mostly I'd feel small.

Young.

 Inexperienced.

But like a lot of things I learn about, I wanted to look at the General in a different context. What if I were to step back a bit? How would a change of perspective affect my view?

This is a shot of Sequoia National Park from a distance.

Somewhere down there is General Sherman.

Looks a little different from up here, huh? 

The tree that seems so epic, that seems too big to be allowed is now untraceable, lost in a forest of creatures just like it.

It's interesting to realize how giants can obstruct my view. Too often, I find myself focused on the one. The one problem. The one day. The one idea. I am unable to look beyond the seemingly unconquerable issue that consumes my sight to see the majesty of the entire picture. I see nothing beyond my own life, the existence that, upon first glance, seems to take up all available space. When I live in the shadow of the General, there is no room to look around, no room to be grateful, no room to invest in the lives of others. All my energy is directed towards the giant.

But what if I changed my view?

What if I was able to step back, look down, and truly see?  What peace could be gained if, rather than zero in on the one, I was able to open my eyes to the many? How would that change the way I interact with others who, like myself, often cannot see the forest for the tree? How would my life be different if I gained a piece of heavenly perspective?

No Peace from Greenpeace

Todo, we're not in Kansas anymore.

As a misplaced Midwesterner living in SOCAL, (and no, that isn't just a term for the overpriced Hollister t-shirt, people actually do say that. Because, obviously, it is far too much effort to say southern California. These people have busy, important lives and benefit vastly from that 0.3 seconds they save in substituting the "word" SOCAL for an actual geographical region. But I digress...) Where was I? Oh yes, misplaced.

As a misplaced Midwesterner living in San Diego, I occasionally encounter some sharp reminder that this is a different world. When I first left the windy plains of Oklahoma for the big cities and populated beaches of San Diego, I expected to be a martian set down in Times Square- obviously, painfully out of place. I was certain I would be bearing some sort of scarlet letter, an assurance to gawking Cali girls (with their daisy dukes and bikinis on top) that I was merely a stranger in their presence and not some version of themselves gone prudishly awry. However, despite my Hestor Prine daydreams, I came to realize that for the most part, I was unremarkably similar to the inhabitants of California.

Yet, every once in a while, there stumbles across my path a vivid reminder that there are differences between the two places.

Exhibit A: Greenpeace.

What I know about this organization is limited to a card from the game of Life... or maybe it was Monopoly? Regardless, some board game I played as a child required me to pay my good, hard-earned paper money to something called Greenpeace. This was always very frustrating, watching my pink and blue bills disappear to some fund for whales. So, needless to say, when I left the nearby grocery store to see a couple young men with ocean blue shirts sporting the name, I was intrigued. Granted, not intrigued enough to stop and engage with their cause, but interested enough to take a glance.Unfortunately, that glance was met by a semi-crosseyed gaze of one of the advocates. And that was the end.

I played the "Pretend I didn't see you looking at me" card but to no avail. Even as I briskly passed the table full of biodegradable flyers, I saw my gazer, Oceanman we'll call him, begin to move towards me. Thinking I could outpace him, ( I am young, after all, and therefore automatically superb to everyone, right?) I quickened my step, nearly rounding the corner to the sanctuary of the street, when he caught up to me. And surprised me.

"You have a heart for the ocean," Oceanman called from just behind me.

Caught off guard, I made the fatal mistake of turning around.

"What? Did you say I have a heart for the ocean??" I asked, wondering what that even meant. Was my heart some sort of biological freak show, maybe beating in time to the crashing of waves or its pace increasing with the tide? If that's the case, I doubt a Greenpeacer has the medical expertise to help me.

Pleased that he finally had my direct attention, he nodded. Taking off his necklace and waving it in front of my face like a hypnotist does to a dozing subject, he explained, "See these shells? These are from the ocean. You love these shells. You love the ocean. I can just tell."

Sincerely amused now, I gave in, ready to engage in what I was certain would be a delightful conversation to store in my mental file cabinet. With no verbal encouragement from me, Oceanman continued.

"Do you know what we've done? We've built (insert some eco-friendly, fish-friendly, ocean-friendly term that I can't remember) all along the coast of California! We have saved fish from being hunted and preserved their natural habitat! That's cool right? And guess what else. Do you think it's better to prevent oil spills or clean them up? (no answer) Prevent, right? (still no answer) Right!" he jabbered, barely taking the time to breathe, much less wait for my response. "This is the kinda stuff we're about. So why don't we come back to the booth and get you signed on!".

There it was. Finally, the pitch. I'd wondered what he was selling. Sign ups. That was his particular product. Realizing I'd gathered all the entertainment I likely would from my friend, I began the drawn out process of escape.

"No, that's okay," I smiled, "I don't think so". But Oceanman was not giving up that easily.

"Well, you agree we need to save the oceans right? I mean, you think that we should like, ya know, protect them and stuff for the future generations," he persisted, agitatedly taking off his straw hat, complete with a giant blue fish embroidered on the top, and running his hands through his long, curly hair.

Not certain if that was a question or a statement, I replied, "Yeah, I think what you guys are doing is great. I admire your passion, I really do. But (unlike what he had assumed) this is actually not where my heart is. There are other things I'm involved in that I care about a lot. This just isn't one of them. I couldn't really give y'all (hoping Southern charm might serve me here) the enthusiastic work you need. Thank you for your time, though".

I did good, if I may say so myself. Diplomatic yet direct, kind but cautious. I was sure that was the end of the encounter and I began to turn away. Alas.

Oceanman had not given up. Trying another tactic, he circled around to face me again.

"That's a sweet rock," he commented, gesturing to my very cheap, very plastic necklace. "Can I see it?" A little uncomfortable at his reaching hand, I quickly pulled it as far from my body as I could. "What kind of stone is this?" Oceanman inquired.

"Ummm..." I stammered, "it's not real. I think it's from Target."

"Right on, right on. Well here, let me bless it for you." Now truly concerned for the well being of my  necklace not to mention the neck which its chain was cutting into, I stared as my new friend held the little turquoise stone in his palm, mumbling as he waved his other hand across the top of it. Laughing, he finished and tapped it against his beaded bracelet, stating "Fake on fake baby!", as if that should help me make some sort of sense of the past 30 seconds.

Ocanman continued, as if there had not just been a necklace blessing, and said,"Listen, you are already a Greenpeacer. With your little necklace and your cool sunglasses and overalls and braids. I can tell that you really care about people (he can?) and that you're already doing great things in your community (I am?). So why not just commit, come sign up, and let us count your contributions. We're just making what you already do official!" he exclaimed.

At this point, I was really ready to go. So I tried on last attempt at consideration. "I just need some time to think about it," I excused myself. "I need to do some more research about Greenpeace, I don't know that much about it. I'm not from California and..."

"You're not from California?!?!" was the interrupting cry of Oceanman. "Where are you from?", as if the idea that anyone dressed like me, who's obviously doing great things in the community, could come from anywhere else.

"I'm from Oklahoma", I replied, mentally adding 'where Greenpeace sounds like a part of a golf course and conservation is nearly a swear word'. "So I just want to learn more about this before I just sign up for it", I continued, sure that there was no way he could get around this argument.

"Well, I'll be here till 6 (it was 5:30) so that's plenty of time to go check out or website and come back and see me. I think it's time for you to step up, commit, and just make it all official. I have so many people promise me they'll come back later and I wait and wait and they never come back. Don't be like those people," he asserted, extending his hand to me. Nodding my mental disagreement, I shook his hand. With the desperate attempt of a drowning argument, he looked me (as best he could with his crossed eyes) in the eye and said, "So I'll see you later?"

"Maybe," was all I could muster before booking it around the corner and releasing the giggles I'd been socially thoughtful enough to keep inside.

I didn't go back. And (this is a big step for me) I didn't even feel guilty for disappointing someone. Although, occasionally throughout that day, I wondered about my Oceanman friend. I wondered what his life is really like. What is it that compels him to so outwardly harass passerby? Is he just a man living for a passion? Or does he so vehemently fill his world with a cause in hopes of overlooking the holes in it?

California is different. No, there is no wicked witch of the West, unless you count the psychic shop down the street. And no, there's no munchkins, advising me to follow a road of yellow bricks.  But the fact remains. While there's no place like home, I'm beginning to think there aren't too many places like California either.

Bugged by the Jitterbug

And they told us we couldn't have it all.

The baby boomers that patronize we yuppies with our foolish, materialistic fantasies are now dialing into the dream of having function, convenience, and style all in one. And yes, I did just apply the term style to the only cell phone that is guaranteed to be uglier than the bunions of its user.

While the Jitterbug phone is by no means a new addition to the world of communication, unless you're part of their main audience over the age of 80, where the several years since the product's release feel like a short walker-supported trot to the sponge bath, it has only just recently captured my very heart and soul. While sitting in my dorm room late one night with some friends, we started talking about some of the more ridiculous products on the needlessly huge American consumer market. And, obviously, the Jitterbug, in all its glory, came up. True to our instant gratification socialization, we quickly queued up a YouTube presentation of the phone's commercial. I gawked and giggled as a semi-animated couple dances and twirls across the screen with an ease that exists solely in the medicine-induced dreams of the premiere audience.

After the painful reminder to the elderly of a mobility long gone, a resume of the Jitterbug's "features" arrives on the screen.

"Comfortable Keypad"
Salvation for your fingertips, lest they come into contact with anything less comfy than crocheting yarn, cat fur, or leather driving gloves.

"Large Bright Screen"
Because you are too decrepit too read a normal screen.

"Powerful Speaker"
For those of you too deaf to hear at an average volume but not quite deaf enough to make the purpose of a phone irrelevant.

"Eliminates Noise"
Kind of like a mute button, without the stressful complexity of an whole other button.

With the appearance of these selling points, I became more and more insulted. Surely the makers of this product didn't expect to make money off harassing consumers with their own unconquerable inabilities. Americans wouldn't stand for that... right?

The next shot of the commercial displays an attractive middle-aged couple, examples of "stylish aging", both proud owners of Jitterbugs. As they stand uncomfortably close, (who stands 3 inches from someone elses face like that??) the woman exclaims that "No one else gets such personal service!" Aside from the obvious cheesiness of this statement, how would this lady have any clue as to how personal other phone companies' service is? I suppose we could grant her knowledge due to previous phone ownership. After all, she has supposedly lived for several decades, despite her fairly wrinkle free face. So who's to say she hasn't tried every phone under the sun and found each and every one to be wholly unsatisfying, nearly giving up her quest to find an egg-shaped phone with a comfortable keypad, bright screen, powerful speaker, noise eliminator, and the best freaking customer service in the world but to be saved just in time by the Jitterbug???

Following this claim is the statement "US based customer service". Bravo, Jitterbug. Not only have you insulted your audience's intelligence, but have now fueled an American elitist ideology. Because we all know that if you want THE BEST, it has to come from America. Heaven forbid you have to deal with some poor Indian man whose attempt to earn a living is inconveniencing your so frequently required cellular customer service. The commercial then pans to two scenes of the serene looking "helpful, live 24 hour" operators. Because there is no one more helpful or friendly than a person stuck in a cubicle at all hours of the night dealing with senile users of the world's simplest phone.  But thank goodness they're in America.

After the giddy office workers comes, perhaps, the best angle of all. Jitterbug is deemed "the perfect gift". Really? Perfect? Even encased in the generic, silk-lined box, the little turd of a phone doesn't look like a remotely appealing present. I imagine the note attached to the gift-"Finally a phone that even a dummy like you can work! Happy Christmas/Hanuka/Birthday/Anniversary/Valentines/Arbor Day!" Nothing says thoughtful like the most advanced idiot-proof technology.

To conclude their sales pitch, Jitterbug raps up with a plea to their audience's wallets. "Affordable...no contracts". The producers realize that their buyers' budgets are tied up in medication, prune juice, and cat food and are kind enough to accommodate. And let's not forget the contract free purchase. Because it will only take a month for Jitterbug users to realize that this "useful" phone is rather limited in its uses, even considering its meager price. Finally, the semi-real, semi-illustrated dancing couple leads us out of the commercial, either desiring a new Jitterbug or a new TV channel.

So while my Dustbowl grandmother likes to pride herself on her thrifty, consumerism-free lifestyle, the American dream of cutting edge technology coupled with convenience and low cost is working its way into Lincolns and nursing homes everywhere.

Yes, Gladys, you CAN have it all.

How would the world be different...

I've been asking myself something lately.
As a Christian. As a human.
I look around at the city I live in, the people I go to school with, and wonder...

How would the world be different if we actually lived like the Bible told us to?

That's easy to brush off. It's so simple to say but somewhere between the saying and the living, the message is lost. Christians, and I have to think especially in America, are raised with a disappointing sense of entitlement, that we deserve to have a good life, full of people we like and people who like us. Sadly, in our culture, being a Christian is often equated with enjoying life on easy street. We deceive ourselves into expecting, no, demanding, instant happiness a and genie-like God who takes care of all the "necessities" our credit cards can't quite handle. I am not to say that being in relationship with Christ does not bring joy. On the contrary, the Bible reminds us that being a child of God offers an outpouring of joy and a peace that passes all understanding. However, this kind of joy is not based on circumstance but rather on the recognition of the endless love and grace we unjustly receive. Therefore, it is out of THAT kind of joy, a joy of gratitude, a joy of being pursued in a divine love, that we serve and sacrifice.

So my question remains. What if Christians started taking the Bible seriously?
How would the world look if we actually...

cared for the widows, the orphans, as our own family?

cultivated the fruit of the spirit instead of the fruit of the world?

turned the other cheek?

loved like we have been loved?

I do not ask these questions as a judgement but as an acknowledgement that we as a Church, myself included, may have gotten it wrong. We walk by people on the street, we ignore our friends who are hurting, we allow or even cause the destruction of our families. We forget that poverty, suffering, and loneliness may be all that man on the street ever knows. We forget that our friends require the same care and love we expect them to grant us. We forget that childhoods, marriages, are things that shape and transform people. We forget that we are here for one reason and one reason alone: to be a tool to reveal the salvation of Christ. Who am I to waste this gift of life worrying about a bigger house, a nicer car, a better party? We too often behave as if time is OURS.

How would the world be different if we remembered that ALL of our lives, our time, our money, our efforts, belonged to God?

Would something need to change?
I know for me, it would. I pray, that through God's grace and guidance, I will move from "making time for God" to making time for me. I want my life to be so purposed, so focused on glorifying Christ that I forget the things I think are good, that I would lose sight of the emphasizes of this world, and gain an eternal perspective.

I plead with God that there might be an awakening in the church, that His servants would not settle for Christianity as a side dish to their already full lives, but pursue a passionate, consumed, abandoned life for God and through God. I cannot live like this without the help of God- I am too weak and the voices of thew world are too loud.

But it's what I struggle for.

And it's a worthy struggle, indeed.

Much to Learn.

I hate learning.

And I absolutely adore it.

Contradiction? Absolutely not. I love to learn. I enjoy having my eyes opened to the things I'd never seen before, beginning to understand this world and the things that fill it. At the same time, it frustrates me beyond belief. The more I come to learn of anything, the more I realize how little I know of everything. The more subjects I touch on, in school, conversation, or reading, the more awakened I am to this restless desire in me to know more.

Now, I can't pretend to consider this one of my big flaws. I have many of those. But an insatiable appetite and passion to explore and grow has not, as of yet, proven to be a weakness. It is a character annoyance if anything, that the unsettled thirst for knowledge and experience will not be quenched. Whether I water it with history, literature, social justice, or dare I even say science, I cannot beat back the longing to learn and through learning, transforming.

This past week or so has been an especially "hungry" week for my heart. Being in discussion with a variety of people, I am craving more knowledge of Christianity in particular. I revel in the amount there is to learn of the history of my faith, the different doctrines and practices, and individuals' amazing testaments to a God that woos my very being. This is the seeking that I rejoice in, the happy frenzy of acknowledging my own ignorance and breaking down barriers of blindness that hinder me from being more.

However, a life of learning cannot mean I collect knowledge and merely sit on it, as a dragon hoards away gold for the sole purpose of reflecting on its wealth. I believe that to be someone who is passionate about learning means to be someone who is passionate about sharing. About teaching. About helping. And therefor, someone who is passionate about loving. There's a line from a song we occasionally sing at my university, a plea to God that He may

"fill us up and send us out"

What a perfect way to describe just what I want to be in the world: a sincere believer sharing out of an overflow of God's love, a well-informed wooer of hearts to the author of all stories, the rescuer of all sinners, and the creator of all souls. It would seem I have much to learn.