Reformed blogging

At the beginning of the school year I purchased a book by College Church member Collin Hansen called Young, Restless, Reformed.  As I imagined would probably happen, I didn't get around to reading it until Christmas break.  The book is about how many Christian young adults in North America are rediscovering reformed theology, many in reaction to the seeker-sensitive mega-churches they grew up in.  I found the book interesting, especially as I'm a part of College Church's college group whose members passionately believe and teach the doctrines of grace.   I also thought it pretty cool that five of the men quoted or mentioned as influential, I've heard speak - John Piper, D.A. Carson, Bruce Ware, Tom Schreiner, and Josh Moody (soon to be senior pastor at College Church).  

Hansen writes in an easy, conversational style.  The book reads like a very long magazine article which isn't particularly surprising since he is editor-at-large for Christianity Today.  I found this a little wearing in a hundred-fifty page book, but I might be alone in this complaint.  

Here's a short review, and here's an article in Christianity Today by the author of the book.  I think he mentions most of the topics covered in the book.  I didn't bother to read the whole article.  

The book mentioned briefly the influence of the blogosphere.  One leading Reformed blogger, Tim Challies, writes, "If you look at the Christian blogosphere, most of the well-known and highly regarded blogs are Reformed.  The Reformed blogs tend to center around theology.  They are more of a teaching tool than a talking tool."  I am now one of the thousands of people who follow his blog.   I follow some other as well.  This post from John Piper's blog brought a smile, and I often enjoy his son Abraham Piper's blog (which thus far seems to be of a slightly less intensely theological bent).   A few days ago there was this post entitled "Three words I use that most other people I talk with don't" with an invitation for readers to share their favorite unusual words.  What a gold mine of new words!  I have yet to sift through all the comments (some are but dross) for the true gems.  Some will soon be showing up in my "cool new vocab words" list, I'm sure.  

Incidentally, this past Saturday was the two year anniversary of Scattered Wits (formerly called Ramblings.)  This is the 208th post.  Thank you again, Kate.  You told me it would be fun, so I had nothing to do but believe you and follow your leading.  

Christmas with the Zubas

Ruthie and Wills.  He turned six months just before Christmas.  He now weighs a little more than J.T. weighed at a year.  I know it doesn't take much, but I noticed my bicep to be a little more pronounced after a few days of holding him regularly. 

I'm pretty fond of this guy. 

 

Ruthie got J.T. a handsome ranger hat so he can match his grandpa.  

My dad gave J.T. a gift to unwrap that was for the family from a couple at church.   It was a lovely box of chocolates and somehow we all forgot to pay attention to J.T. once he'd gotten it open.  We turned back to find him with the box upside-down and open, one chocolate in mouth and another in hand.  

Ruth knit a harvest, if you will, of cute little fruit caps for her children and their cousins/second cousins.  This one's a pumpkin; J.T. has a tomato.  You can't tell in this picture, but there's a green stem at the top of the hat.  

Wills has been teething and got very fussy.  We got him to sleep finally by a nice long walk through the neighborhood before we left on Saturday.  

Ashley in Chicago?!

During finals week I counted down until exams were done, not just because I'd be going home but because I would get to see Ashley on Thursday!  Ashley and her future mother-in-law and sister-in-law flew up to Chicago for a few days together.  On Thursday morning I scurried around the Wheaton campus taking care of stuff at the last minute.  I got a ride with my suitcase to the train station.  We pulled in just as the 9:57 train arrived.  I collapsed into a seat and paid my fair to Chicago with a few bills, coins, and five pennies.  The conductor who had greeted me when I got on the train said, "I knew there was something about you I didn't like."  Every time he walked by he asked if I had a nickel for five pennies.  

In the train station, I borrowed the cell phone of another Wheaton student to call Ashley and get the address of the her hotel. (Incidentally, this Wheaton student is a conservie who is singing for the Lyric Opera this semester in Porgy and Bess.  He had two more shows before break.)  It was a beautiful, clear today so I didn't at all mind the 12-15 block walk to her hotel on North Michigan Avenue.  

The four of us enjoyed an extravagant lunch together at the Grand Lux and a few hours together.  I took these pictures of the Chicago skyline on my walk to the L which I took to Midway Airport.  Is there anything more touristy than taking pictures of the skyline while wearing a backpack and pulling a suitcase?

Ashley is getting married this summer.  We spent Dec. 19 together - exactly six months from that date I'll see her again, a few days before the wedding!

Some day I'd like to walk across that.

 

There were giant chunks of ice in the river, fitting together almost like a mosaic.  

I got to the airport in time to stand in lots of long lines and fly standby on an earlier flight to Baltimore that ended up being delayed until about the time my original flight was to take off.  I don't understand why they delayed it since the weather wasn't bad yet.  Waiting is only going to make conditions worse I would think.  Radu picked me up and got to their house a quarter hour before my parents arrived from NJ.  Hugs, food, hot tub, and bed.  Life is good.  

Christmas break begins

I flew into Maryland on Thursday night and Friday at noon, the van full of seven people and baby paraphernalia, we drove down to Durham just in time for Rachel and Craig's rehearsal dinner which included family and out-of-town guests.  It was so nice to see family again, including my cousin's young children that I'd only seen in pictures.  I relied on everyone else to take pictures, which I rather regret now.  I only took this one of J.T.   I couldn't resist his leg resting on his knee - what a little man.  He did very well on road trip, as did baby Wills, generally.  Unfortunately all Wills wants for Christmas is his two front teeth.  This is painful for all of us as he's developed a very shrill, loud squeal.  Radu said we'd be fighting over these on the way down.   

The weekend was a great success.  Rachel Hawkins is now Mrs. Craig Frey.  

I came back to New Jersey yesterday for the first time since August, though it doesn't feel that it's been so long.  The ground is covered in snow and ice.  It was cold today, but it'll be warming soon.  I've set up a weather widget for West Orange next to the one for Wheaton on my mac's dashboard so if I grow weary of cold I'll be encouraged that it could be worse.  And will be for me, soon. 

Tomorrow night after the Christmas Eve service we'll be driving back down to Maryland to spend Christmas with the Zubas.  I'm thankful for skype - perhaps we'll get to see Elizabeth, Milan, Daniel, Anna, Mark, Mary, David, Jodie, Kate, and Garrett too.  

Ugly Christmas Sweater Sunday. . .

The white spots on my sweater are three-dimensional. I think no further explanation is needed.

I really like birthdays.

It was my twentieth birthday last Monday. I'm no longer a teenager. I'm pretty excited about that.

Susanna and I walked together to Starbucks in the fresh snow (the first real snow was on my birthday last year too!). We returned to the floor to find this interesting blue gown I'm wearing in the pictures and the gold crown lying outside the closed dorm door with instructions to put it on, no questions asked. The roommates, dressed in their own finery, had prepared a high tea for us all, with cake too. There were dramatic poetry recitations. It was a festive affair.

On black Friday in Louisville, Clara, Mrs. Stam, visited Good Will and a particularly nice consignment shop looking for gaudy Christmas sweaters. I ended up with a nice sweater and $3 pair of ice skates, which I would call a partial success. (One of these days I'll make it to Chicago.) Clara got an absolutely incredible turquoise sequinned dress. I wish I had a picture. Mrs. Stam considered the Christmas sweater quest a worthy challenge and spent the rest of the afternoon while Clara and I studied ransacking Good Wills and thrift shops across Louisville. She came back with this blue gown and a terrible gold sequinned dress for me as well as ugly Christmas sweaters for both of us. The roommates found the dresses resting on a chair and were inspired. This explains the costumes.





Erin took great pleasure in informing every girl who walked past the room that the gold sequined dress belongs to me. I've never actually tried it on.

Thanksgiving Break

I spent Thanksgiving break with the Stam Family in Kentucky. Marty enjoyed the Thanksgiving meal with my family some years ago while he was in grad school in NYC. It was neat to be with his family and remember that.

"Resolved" or "Quest for Grace and Poise"

Resolutions are just as good in December as January.

I have developed a bad habit of slouching forward, weighed down with my backpack, while walking very fast around campus. I've decided that I resemble a roadrunner and this must cease. It's probably not healthy, it looks absolutely ridiculous, and I've heard reports that certain roommates have mocked and mimicked.

I'm a little disappointed that better posture makes me walk slower, but I'm fairly determined to look more like a lady and less like a neanderthal or a bird.

Keep me accountable. It won't be easy.

The paper bag costume

This was also written for my creative writing class. It seems timely to post it now.

The fateful day was November 22, 1995, the day before Thanksgiving when I was in first grade. Tradition at my little Christian school dictated that students dress as Pilgrims or Indians on the half day before break. The morning culminated in a program in which Pilgrims and Indians and a few turkeys performed skits and sang Thanksgiving songs before an audience of proud parents. All of us students looked forward to that Wednesday with great anticipation, our excitement about a holiday heightened by the fact that we could wear costumes instead of following the strict dress code. I especially was looking forward to the day because I had just come to the school in March of kindergarten so this was to be my first Thanksgiving program.

I was excited about my costume on Tuesday night. My mother had created it out of a few old brown paper shopping bags turned inside out to hide the ShopRite logo. She trimmed the hem of the costume into fringes, and I think I remember coloring patterns of beads on it with crayons. I probably had a headdress of drooping paper feathers taped to a headband, my wispy blonde hair in two thin braids. My first qualms about my costume came when my mother drove into the parking lot to drop me off at school. Other minivans were disgorging little Indians bedecked in what appeared to be genuine buckskin decorated with hundreds of little colorful beads. They carried bows and arrows and crept noiselessly down hallways. I crinkled as I walked.

Much of the misery of that day is mercifully forgotten. I do remember sitting on the edge of the stage trying to keep as still as possible so as to avoid crinkling. The rest of my classmates were off playing Pilgrim and Indian games, admiring costumes, and comparing the authenticity of each others' headdresses and moccasins. First graders are experts on all things. If my mother had been such an expert as my classmates in proper Indian garb, I might not have found myself covering my face with my hands to hide my tears of embarrassment and self-pity. As it was, the well-intentioned fifth and sixth grade girls could do little comfort me. It is no good being cute, when one only wants to look like an Indian.

Is this what it's all about?

My roommate found this when she was writing an annotated bibliography for her Shakespeare class:

The following is from the Washington Post Style Invitational contest that asked readers to submit "instructions" for something (anything), but written in the style of a famous person. the winning entry was The Hokey Pokey (as written by William Shakespeare).

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinstral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke - banish now thy doubt
Verily I say, 'tis what it's all about.
-- by "William Shakespeare"

written by Jeff Brechlin, Potomac Falls, Maryland, and submitted by Katherine St. John

I'm thankful for the substitutionary atonement.

My Heart is Filled with Thankfulness
by Keith Getty and Stuart Townsend

My heart is filled with thankfulness
To Him who bore my pain;
Who plumbed the depths of my disgrace
And gave me life again;
Who crushed my curse of sinfulness
And clothed me in His light
And wrote His law of righteousness
With pow'r upon my heart.

My heart is filled with thankfulness
To Him who walks beside;
Who floods my weaknesses with strength
And causes fears to fly;
Whose ev'ry promise is enough
For ev'ry step I take,
Sustaining me with arms of love
And crowning me with grace.

My heart is filled with thankfulness
To him who reigns above,
Whose wisdom is my perfect peace,
Whose ev'ry thought is love.
For ev'ry day I have on earth
Is given by the King;
So I will give my life, my all,
To love and follow him.

I'm spending Thanksgiving this year with the Stam family in Kentucky. After the feast, we gathered to sing some thanksgiving hymns (I got to lead on the piano!) including this one by Keith Getty and Stuart Townsend. Chip said they wrote it in response to their observation that expressions of thankfulness overwhelmingly tend to be about temporal things.

I'm thankful that since the very beginning of freshman year I've been a member of a body of believers where the truth of the gospel is preached faithfully. I am reminded in church, in Bible study, in small group, with friends, to be filled with thankfulness that Jesus Christ took my sins on the cross and gave me His perfect righteousness. My God is a prodigal God - a reckless spendthrift extending grace and love. (Tim Keller)

I'm thankful for more temporal things too (such as but not limited to) . . .
Telly's graduation
Wheaton College
dogs, specifically Digby, Barnabas, and Paton
the families of those dogs
tea
mechanical pencils
J.S. Bach
ipods
mittens
seasons
dark chocolate
my roommates who love me in spite of my foibles
friends that help me with computer troubles without complaint
professors that write me into full classes
that my Grandpa married Jane Stam
family
skype
gmail
blogger
the red Trinity hymnal
I'm thankful that I accidentally left my Bible at church last year at Thanksgiving so that I had to buy a little one that slips really easily into my backpack.

And I'm thankful that this list can never be complete.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
His mercies never come to an end;
They are new every morning;
Great is your faithfulness.
"The Lord is my portion," says my soul,
"therefore I will hope in Him."
Lamentations 3:22-24

A confession

I like to eat alone.

Let me qualify that by adding that I always love meals with my roommates, I do enjoy the saga dates I have (sharing a meal is usually the best way to catch up with friends), and eating every meal alone every day would be depressing. But the truth remains, I like to eat alone. It doesn't bother me when every one else in saga is eating dinner with friends. And while I appreciate the gesture, I don't always want to join people.

I really like being alone in my thoughts, free to muse without the guilt of knowing I should be studying or paying attention. There's not enough time alone at college. Studying doesn't count. I look at the few moments of peace during a solitary meal the way I looked at my commute in Clyde to high school. I relish it.

Worthy of sharing

In September, poet Marilyn Nelson came to Wheaton for the literature and writing conference and read some of her poetry in chapel. This poem came from her reflections on the way we sometimes pray. I couldn't find it online or in any anthologies, so I went back to the chapel archives and transcribed it. I wish I knew where the line breaks are supposed to be.

In Complete Renunciation
Please let me have
a ten room house
adjacent to campus.
Six bed rooms
two and a half baths
formal dining room
fireplace
family room
screen porch
two car garage
well maintained.
And let it pass through the eye of a needle.

It's better.

I find myself quite busy this semester, but a little pause and reflection is a cheering thing.

On a Wednesday a year ago at this time I would probably be at saga, enjoying a bro-sis dinner, but dreading the rest of the evening of attempting aural skills dictation. Wednesday nights were agonizing. We'd have to listen to say, twelve to twenty measures of music, and then notate it. Prof Leigh wouldn't so much as tell us what key it was in, much less what note it started on until I went to his office to beg his reconsideration. I'd stay up far into the wee hours of the morning. It makes me shudder just to remember. (Some people found dictation easy, perhaps even fun. I consider this further proof that being an English major is a good idea for me.)

Yesterday was Tuesday. I'm pretty sure I had piano lessons with Mr. Zimmerman on Tuesdays last year, making that a rough day too. (Incidentally, I also had piano lessons on Tuesday in high school, but that made Tuesday a very good day back then.) This year I have organ lessons with Dr. Zimmerman (a totally different man) on the Edman Chapel organ, way up by the pipes. (If I were a good organist, I'd remember what that place is called.) It's pretty sweet.

Today was a beautiful day in the low seventies. I went for a long walk with Barnabas, happily kicking up fallen leaves, and hung out with him on Blanchard lawn for longer than I probably should have. I wouldn't have enjoyed that so much on November 5 last year, when temperatures were the lowest they had been in seven months. (Seriously. I looked it up here.)

In a little under an hour, I'll be headed to Bible Study, but when I get back I'll be facing another terrifying creative writing assignment due tomorrow at 8:30 am. I'm just glad it's not dictation.

Craziness

There's a guy who was on my brother floor last year who calls me "Crazy." We see each other every few days, and our conversation goes something like this:
me: Hey, Caleb.
him: What'sup, Crazy.

I'm not sure how I earned this nickname. I may be odd, but I'm not particularly crazy. I like it anyway.

College students are supposed to do crazy things. I have a sister who tried to spend a night on Pierce Chapel and a father who drove his Morris Mini Miner around the gymnasium. My roommate and a friend took the 5:47 am train into Chicago to buy intelligentsia coffee and a muffin and were back before their 9:15 class.

My craziness for the month of October was to observe "Octofu" with a few friends. We were vegetarians for the month, though I broke it by necessity over fall break and for a couple meals off campus. Be not concerned, we were all careful to get plenty of protein, and frankly we were probably more healthy than usual.

Humorously, half a week into Octofu it was my organ teacher's birthday, and as is tradition the studio took him out to his favorite restaurant, Famous Dave's. Famous Daves is a barbecue place. But I managed. I'm pretty proud of that.

Now it's November, and I can eat meat again, so this morning when my friend Susanna and I walked to the French Market in downtown Wheaton I sampled buffalo meat without compunction. It tastes like beef, as well as I can remember. :)

Reformation Polka

This was performed before Bible Study today in anticipation of Reformation day this Friday. Luther would have been proud:

When I was just ein junger Mann I studied canon law;
While Erfurt was a challenge, it was just to please my Pa.
Then came the storm, the lightning struck, I called upon Saint Anne,
I shaved my head, I took my vows, an Augustinian! Oh…

Chorus:
Papal bulls, indulgences, and transubstantiation
Speak your mind against them and face excommunication!
Nail your theses to the door, let’s start a Reformation!
Papal bulls, indulgences, and transubstantiation!

When Tetzel came near Wittenberg, St. Peter’s profits soared,
I wrote a little notice for the All Saints’ Bull’tin board:
“You cannot purchase merits, for we’re justified by grace!
Here’s 95 more reasons, Brother Tetzel, in your face!” Oh…

[Chorus]

They loved my tracts, adored my wit, all were exempleror;
The Pope, however, hauled me up before the Emperor.
“Are these your books? Do you recant?” King Charles did demand,
“I will not change my Diet, Sir, God help me here I stand!” Oh…

[Chorus]

Duke Frederick took the Wise approach, responding to my words,
By knighting “George” as hostage in the Kingdom of the Birds.
Use Brother Martin’s model if the languages you seek,
Stay locked inside a castle with your Hebrew and your Greek! Oh…

[Chorus]

Let’s raise our steins and Concord Books while gathered in this place,
And spread the word that ‘catholic’ is spelled with lower case;
The Word remains unfettered when the Spirit gets his chance,
So come on, Katy, drop your lute, and join us in our dance! Oh…

Chorus:
Papal bulls, indulgences, and transubstantiation -
Speak your mind against them and face excommunication!
Nail your theses to the door, let’s start a Reformation!
Papal bulls, indulgences, and transubstantiation!

Not of the lunchroom elite

I wrote these sketches of creative non-fiction for my creative writing course.

I liked my lunch box when I first saw it. It was a square, metal lunch box with a red plaid design. My mother told me it was the same lunch box that my oldest sister Elizabeth had brought to kindergarten sixteen years before, and I was proud of that. Looking back, I wouldn't be too surprised if it were the same one my mother herself had used. It was vintage fifties - the kind that Beaver Cleaver took to school. But this was the nineties, and I didn't have it because it was cool. I had it because it was practical. That was the lunch box we had, so that was the lunch box I would use.

All was fine until I brought it to school and discovered that I couldn't open it. The old, stiff metal clasp defied my little fingers. Frustrated and embarrassed, I timidly enlisted the help of my classmates. I still remember the shame I felt when one of them, as unsuccessful as myself, informed me that it was an old fashioned lunch box - the kind one could only buy in an antiques store. It's strange to me now the alienation that lunch box inflicted on me for the days, or weeks that I used it. It wouldn't now. Little children are cruel. And I was insecure.

My mother bought me a new lunch box. It wasn't practical to have one I couldn't open.

It's a rough draft still. I don't think I've successfully communicated the alienation I felt in kindergarten at Washington - the lunch box was to be, in a way, symbolic of that. But then again, that falls apart because getting a new lunch box didn't improve my social situation much.

I'm not very pleased with the last four or five sentences of the last paragraph, but I'll worry about working through that later.

I'm not sure the last couple sentences are entirely just. I'm sure the fact that I couldn't open the lunch box wasn't the only reason my mother bought me a new one.

I perused google for vintage 1950s tin lunch boxes and found this which made me laugh:

In the grade school lunchrooms of the fifties and sixties, a lunch box carried more than the weight of a tuna fish sandwich and a carton of milk. A box adorned with Barbie, the Beatles, or Hopalong Cassidy placed the child squarely with the lunchroom elite, while a dull red plaid revealed a child who was obviously not in control of his or her parents.

And then there's this one, even less polished:

I switched schools six months into kindergarten. I had friends then and a new lunchbox, but lunchroom elitism wasn't over.

Heather's mom almost always closed her thermos too tightly. Heather was the strongest of us girls, and when she couldn't open it she'd pass it to the boys. They usually faired little better. Heather would raise her hand, and the teachers, who tired of this far sooner than the rest of us, would come to try their hand at opening the thermos. All of us students watched in eager anticipation of what would usually follow. Almost inevitably, they'd have to excuse her to take the thermos down to our principal, Mr. Prol, to open. We all watched her leave, enviously. I'm quite sure now that Heather never told her mom the thermos was closed too tightly. The prestige she gained among her peers was worth the cost of our teachers' disapprobation.

My mother, however unaware she was of the miseries a strange lunchbox gave me, was unfailingly conscientious about not closing my thermos too tightly whenever she packed me a hot lunch. The affliction that brought me alienation and embarrassment at Washington Elementary School never blessed me with distinction or prestige at my new school. I was not of the lunchroom elite.

I was hoping this excerpt were a little funnier - bring out the absurdity of what brings social status and distinction even among children. It could use work.

I'm finding this creative writing class increasingly difficult. Affirmation or criticism is always greatly appreciated!

For the Record

When I was twelve or so, there was one summer in British Columbia where the cousins played ultimate frisbee many evenings, and I was actually quite good at it. This was apparently some sort of fluke for it was short-lived. Except for a few wonderful moments in high school gym class once, it has been clear that my glory days began and ended on that field in Duncan. (Being short is not an advantage in this game, I might add.)

So I was greatly delighted and amused to find myself tagged in this picture taken during the College Group Fall Break Retreat ultimate frisbee game. I'm such an athlete. Pictures can't lie, right?

Cheap and Tawdry

Susanna put together the Noah's Ark puzzle. Erin remarked, "Oh, I'm so interested in religious evangelical iconography!" I was greatly amused.

Oriental Trading catalog brought much-needed levity to an exhausted suite last night.

There are four pages of "Happy Birthday Jesus!" materials (Without a comma. It kills me.)
including party hats, rubber duckies, and a six foot tall vinyl jumbo inflatable birthday cake.

Two pages of "joyful gifts with a resounding message of faith". Sound the Horn, He is Born!

Here's a favorite: Nativity magic cubes. Huh?

Angel Rubber Duckies.
Nativity Rubber Duckies.
Jingle for Jesus Bell Pins - These jolly resin and metal pins are a fun way to wish your Bible group "Merry Christmas"
"Jesus Loves You Snow Much Jingle Bell Ornaments"
Religious candy.

Wow.

It covers my next-best alternative.

This might be my least favorite place on campus. I face this stairway every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 11:35 on the way to my microeconomics class. My body, weighed down by a heavy backpack and weak, especially this week, with sleep deprivation, starts hurting by the fifteenth step, and then I've still got ten to go. But I've decided that the marginal benefits of taking this class far outweigh this marginal cost. I'm not sure what I did before I could throw terms into conversation like "opportunity costs" and "next-best alternative" and "weighing the marginal costs and benefits" and "trade-offs" and "substitutes" and "comparative advantage." It's fun. I must be a nerd.

I was wait-listed for this class, but Dr. P.J. Hill was willing to write me in after I visited him in his office. I admitted I didn't "need" the class. There are "substitutes", you see, but I'm so glad he let me in anyway. He's such an interesting, engaging professor. I'm really grateful to be having this class at this time. He's spent a few class periods talking about the economic crisis. I'm not as clueless as I would be if I weren't in that class.

He's also just plain cool. He owns a ranch out in Montana that he will shortly be retiring to. Last week came to class dressed in carhartts, flannel shirt, cow-boy boots, and hat and lassoed the late comers. Then we learned about why a rancher and a farmer would benefit most from trade with each other if they specialized, thereby making the most of their comparative advantage.

The opportunity cost of writing more is growing too high as there are reading assignments I should get to.

Free Delivery! See page 2 for details.

I seem to have gotten on a Christian mailing list for parents of small children. I don't know how this happened.

A few weeks ago I got a little package in CPO that claimed "Great Bible Adventures for Kids!" Inside was a puzzle of Noah's Ark with a few sentences of the story on the back of each square puzzle piece. Fun.

On Tuesday it was a catalog for some Christian publishing company.

Today it was "Highlights Puzzle Buzz - Keeps your Child Happy, Busy, and Feeling Proud!" and "Oriental Trading: Celebrating 75 years of fun. Inspirations: A Celebration of Faith." This last catalog boasts "Heaven-sent Values to Celebrate and Inspire!" I kid you not. Do you think I should buy Mini "Happy Birthday Jesus" Bubble Bottles? They'll make great stocking stuffers. Or perhaps a classic executive pen with cross medallions for a "thoughtful gift."

I see my CPO box is full and I think I have letters and pack slips galore. Alas.
But this is fun too.

This is new.

Sometimes I'm a klutz. I don't have the best depth perception, so I not infrequently hit the wall as I walk around a corner or knock my elbows on a doorknobs. And sometimes I trip over myself, and my fingers aren't always very nimble. But yesterday was the first time I ever mixed my hands up with my feet. I'm taking organ lessons and just started using the pedals. All is well with my right hand, but, for some reason, my left hand and my feet get all scrambled. I start playing with my hand what my feet should be doing, and the feet run off and doing something else.
It's humbling.

Psalm 90:17

On Thursday I learned that Telly has graduated and is working with a blind woman in Massachusetts! It had been nearly seven weeks since I heard at Family Day that I should be learning within a couple weeks of her graduation - long enough to have another nightmare about her rejection. Apparently the instructor I talked to in August was mistaken, or that match didn't end up working out. I guess I'll never know, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that she is now the eyes of a blind woman in Boston!

Here are the letters and a picture of Telly in harness. The first is a form letter, the second from her instructor.


Dear Carol,

I am happy to inform you that Telly has completed her training at The Seeing Eye. She has had many hours of instruction to become a dog guide and I know how proud you are of her.

A month prior to leaving The Seeing Eye, Telly was placed with a 58 year old woman from Massachusetts, who is self-employed. Telly is her second dog guide from The Seeing Eye and I know she will succeed in the challenging life ahead as a working guide and companion for her new owner.

Enclosed is a picture of Telly in harness taken at The Seeing Eye. I know that you will be delighted to have the snapshot as a memento of the time you shared together.

On behalf of all of us at the Seeing Eye, I want to thank you for raising Telly. Your role in The Seeing Eye Puppy Raising Program is essential to the success of our school, and the patience, love and devotion that you provided established the background upon which her skills as a dog guide were built.

Again, we thank you for the outstanding job that you have done in preparing Telly for a career as a dog guide. Through your work with her, you have brought independence, mobility, and joy into another blind person's life.

Sincerely,
Douglas S. Roberts
Director of Programs


Dear Carol,

I am very proud to inform you that Telly has been placed with a woman in Boston. Telly's new owner is retired, but still lives a very active lifestyle with her family, and within her community. She is thrilled with Telly and her guide work.

Telly was an absolute pleasure to train. She was always eager and willing to work and learn. She understood the importance of the work, which she went about in her own cautious and caring way. I greatly appreciated both her sensitive and gentle nature, and the trust she showed me. Telly was always up for whatever the daily challenge may have been in training. I enjoyed every day with this special girl.

I would like to thank you and your family for all of the time and love you dedicated to raising Telly. You should be extremely proud of your efforts and of Telly. She has worked very hard to become a great Seeing Eye Dog.

Sincerely,
Brian McKenna

Son of Encouragement

I'm making up for lost time.

I have another canine friend. This five month old Goldendoodle puppy belongs to the Giesers. They're paying me to do a little walking and training. His name is Barnabas, though most everyone but me calls him Barney. He's the sweetest thing.

This is so cool!

This morning in my Creative Writing class, we read this poem by George Herbert.

A Wreath

A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who are more farre above deceit,
Then deceit seems above simplicitie.
Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know, thy wayes,
Know them and practise them: then shall I give
For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.


Notice the way the form meets the subject matter. The end of each line is repeated at the beginning of the next to bring to mind the way boughs would be overlapped and bent into the form of a wreath. And (this is so cool!) the last line parallels the first line. The poem comes full circle, like a wreath, so to speak.

Wow.

I like this one too.

Alexander Graham Bell
has shuffled off this mobile cell.
He's not talking any more,
but he has a lot to answer for.
~ Henry Taylor

"shuffled off this mobile cell" is, of course, an allusion to the line in Hamlet's famous soliloquy, "when we have shuffled off this mortal coil."

Oh yeah, I do have a blog.

It's been too long since I last posted. Strange how easy it is to get out of the habit. Thanks for the friendly reminder, Jim and Jul!

The computer is in fine shape. I now have an external hard drive, and you should have one too. And even better than getting that, was being surprised with Burt's Bees chapstick in CPO from a friend in New Jersey. Thanks so much, Karen!

Life has been full. There just doesn't seem to be enough time to do all I want to and need to. I wish the bare minimum of getting assignments complete didn't take so much time. I'd get more out of Creative Writing class if I wrote and read more. I'd learn more from Old Testament Survey if I did a little extra reading. The class is wonderful, but I'm quite sure Dr. Walton's not always right. . .

And there are always yearbook responsibilities and organ practicing too often neglected. (Yes, I'm taking organ lessons!)

There have been some fun things too - a Phil Keaggy concert; ushering for first artist series concert; a pig roast; a visit with Jonathan, Craig, and Rachel; an organ concert; small group starting up again; long walks with three lovely dogs; a required, but interesting lecture on Messiaen last night; a phone call from Ashley a few minutes ago.

This was a fairly bland post, but perhaps it'll get me over the hump, and I'll have dozens of intelligent, provocative, or humorous things to write about. Here's hoping. I keep telling people I like creative non-fiction writing.

It's kinda been a rough week.

On Monday, my macbook's hard drive crashed suddenly and inexplicably. I didn't have anything backed up except for an outdated list of supporters on a flash drive. Ironically, a couple days before it died, I had been thinking that I ought to ask a friend about external hard drives and such stuff that I know nothing about. Alas.

But the friend that I didn't speak to soon enough was quick to try various methods to get the information off the hard drive (albeit unsuccessfully) and equip me with a hard drive for use until the new one came in the mail. Now the new hard drive is installed, and I've learned my lesson about backing stuff up.

This was a bit of a traumatic experience, but the more I think about it, the less I can complain. I've had awfully good help and in losing all this I'm reminded that it's all earthly, fleeting stuff anyway. Granted I'm not always good at remembering that, so I'm also comforted that lots of my pictures are online, some papers are in my e-mail, and my music is back in NJ.

In other sad news, I lost my Burt's Bees chapstick a few days ago.

Meet the Suite

I have three wonderful suitemates whom I love dearly. We're super-suiting, meaning we've put all our beds and dressers in one room, and we have the second room for a couple desks, couch, bookshelves, table, and chairs. It's looking quite good.

Three of us are English majors. We actually met in Dr. Ryken's brit lit class fall semester last year. This can be rather amusing sometimes.

Erin Lynch, me, Sarah Kennedy, Robin Floch

We're a serious bunch.

Well, not always.

It's a good place to live.

But exhausting sometimes.

An excursion on exertion

I have creative writing class twice a week.  Each day of class we are to come with a written "excursion" - 3-5 rough pages of thoughts and responses to a prompt.  Once a week we are to write a somewhat polished paragraph of non-fiction, fiction, and a poem that springs from something covered in the free-write.  I am resolved to post these "excursions" weekly, before I get back a grade and lose my nerve.  Feedback is always appreciated.  :)

Today I wrote almost five pages on gym class.  And I could have written more.  There are many memories.  Please be warned that I may have taken some liberties with the non-fiction, and I am by no means pleased with the fiction.   And I'm not a poet.

Poetry - catalogue poem

Gym Class

Sweatpants and sneakers,

balls and bats,

ropes and cones,

whistles and shrieks,

gasping breaths and screams of glee.

But not for me.

Fear

Embarrassment

Misery

Not everyone loves gym class. 

Nonfiction

Mrs. A

Everyone in the school called her Mrs. A and had since elementary school when Abrahamsen was too hard to say.  Looking back, I feel like surviving Mrs. A's gym class was some sort of rite of initiation. Proof that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  But this may be just my opinion, for I was among the minority - one of the timid, unathletic students for whom Mrs. A had little patience and less understanding.  Or at least, that is what I remember.  She was big and loud and never seemed to enjoy what she was doing, which makes a lasting impression on a child. Gym class always lasted a short eternity for me.  Every moment, I was consumed with fear, not just of the balls flying around me, but of suddenly earning a sharp reprimand from Mrs. A for some unintentional misdemeanor.  Though it's been years since she was last my gym teacher, whenever I see her, or hear her voice, or come close enough to smell her familiar scent, the old fears come back and I feel like a trembling six year old again.  

Fiction

It'll make you stronger

Deborah Johnson taught elementary school gym class at a little Christian school once a week. The principal had asked if she would be willing.  It wasn't for pay, but he didn't often ask favors and she had been looking for a way to serve.  Teaching a gym class fit her well.   Although she sent her children to the school, she was always vaguely distrustful of the strong emphasis the school put on the importance of academics even for such young students.  That wasn't the way she was raised.  So although teaching gym once a week wasn't a huge commitment, she was proud of her service because it gave the children a chance to let loose.  She couldn't begin to understand the children who would rather be back in the classroom, or behind a book somewhere.  Her four boys thrived on athletics.  Children need a little aggressive competition sometimes.  It won't kill them; it'll make them stronger.  She believed that, and she acted on it.  

The Return of the Student

I've been at Wheaton nearly a week now, but my muse is apparently still in New Jersey or vacationing somewhere.  I've nothing to write, but it's been too long so I've copied down this hymn by Dietrich Bonhoffer that the choir sang in church this morning.  

By gracious powers so wonderfully sheltered,

and confidently waiting come what may,

we know that God is with us night and morning,

and never fails to greet us each new day.

Yet is this heart by its old foe tormented,

still evil days bring burdens hard to bear;

oh, give our frightened souls the sure salvation,

for which, O Lord, You taught us to prepare.

And when this cup You give is filled to brimming

with bitter suff'ring, hard to understand,

we take it thankfully and without trembling

out of so good and so beloved a hand.

Yet when again in this same world You give us

the joy we had, the brightness of Your sun,

we shall remember all the days we lived through

and our whole life shall then be Yours alone.

By gracious powers so faithfully protected,

so quietly, so wonderfully near,

I'll live each day in hope, with You beside me,

and go with You through ev'ry coming year.  

I'm taking a creative writing course this semester which frightens and excites me excessively. My teacher says that "inspiration occurs more often from disciplined writing than waiting for a muse."   Here's hoping that's true, since my muse is particularly MIA when assigned writing is at hand.  Maybe I'll post some of the writing that comes from self-discipline.  I resolve now not to give up in hopeless despair.  

Found. . .

. . . my old glasses.  But I haven't exactly been missing them.  

In the midst of cleaning and sorting in my room, I stumbled upon the eye glasses I haven't worn for a few years.  I got glasses when I wasn't yet three.  And I loved them.  I remember thinking I would always want them.  This is no longer true.  

But if I should ever want to look five years younger I know where they are.  

Now That's Class

Four days from now I will be in Wheaton, and I will never see Clyde again.  While I was in Mexico, someone saw my dad driving Clyde and asked if he was willing to sell him.  This afternoon I drove to Frank's Foreign Auto to ask Frank how much we should ask for Clyde.  

Clyde may not seem so stylish - he has some rust, one tail light is permanently out, the front doors always fall shut, his odometer has read 172, 040 miles for over a year, the floor of the car has dog hairs that resist vacuuming, and the driver's seat is so sunken I need to sit on a pillow to see over the steering wheel.  But I think he's classy.  

Hearing about Telly again has brought back some memories.  I remember the first time I drove with Telly in Clyde.  Like most old, used volvos Clyde's glove compartment falls open unpredictably.  Telly was sitting on the floor in the front like a good Seeing Eye puppy when it fell open on top of her.  She startled so badly that she leaped between the front two seats into the back.  It was months before she was even willing to consider riding in the front again.    She used to lie in the back with her head resting on the console.  Sometimes she would nuzzle me to remind me of her faithful presence.  

Frank doesn't think Clyde is worth as much as I do.  

These last few days with Clyde are precious.  

It will be a sorrowful parting.  

Style and Class

This afternoon over tea I reread the poetry of Sietze Buning in Style and Class.  These two are a couple of my favorites.  

Sietze Sees Dominie about a Sermon

Ja, Dominie,

on Sunday you said officialdom, elected and appointed,

has style,

but that anointed kings and queens

have class.

To me they sound the same.

Well Sietze,

style needs to be noticed to get votes.

Class is the same, noticed or unnoticed.

Style you imitate from friends or radio

(television wasn't around yet)

but class you're born with or adopted into.

You like my tie, you buy one like it

(he would have said T-shirt today),

you fix up your kitchen like Kitchen Clatter Magazine

(he would have said House Beautiful today),

you sing "Tangerine" this week

(he would have said "My Sharona" today -

always a little out of it) - 

that's style.

And style is good.

You need some of it.

But style is not required by the Catechism

(he would have said "laid on us" today),

You learn to do what's right

like it or not

or learn to like it.

When in the right

you're royally indifferent

to being different.

You like what is best

or try to like what's best

whether the best is old or new - 

that's class.

Style reads its history in the newspaper,

and history starts with the Titanic

(he would have said Watergate today),

Class is curious about Alexander and Julius Caesar,

about King Floris and his five dogs,

about the myths surrounding King Arthur and Tintagel.

Class remembers what kings and queens are like.

Ja, Dominie,

but I don't feel like a king

and you don't look much like one either.

Tell me one time when you were a king.

(The pause was so long that Sietze thought

Dominie had started on argument inside

against Arminians on the one side

or Herman Hoeksema on the other.)

Ja, Sietze,

one time I know I was a king.

Twenty-two of us were in the courthouse

being naturalized:

one Dane, two Norwegians, a dozen Poles,

and seven of us Dutch.

Time came for each of us to renounce our countries.

I could not bring myself to renounce Queen Wilhelmina.

I got behind the Dane who said,

"I hereby renounce allegiance to King Frederick of Denmark."

I also renounced allegiance to King Frederick of Denmark.

Nobody noticed.

I vote here, but I never renounced the House of Orange.

That day, maybe I had some class.

That day, I was a little like a king.  

Bells

It was the style in my church for Dominie,

as catechism teacher, to treat the pupils

after the last lesson in spring.

It was useful for making up.

The custom said,

"Next year hostilities will set in again,

but now we're friends."

One May,

when we had devoured Dominie's treat,

he asked whether I had ever seen the bell.

I hadn't, so he showed me.

Up to the balcony,

through a trapdoor,

up a winding stair,

up a ladder, and there was the bell,

bigger than I had expected even.

Why me?

I had been no better than the others

and deserved no special prize.

I had been no worse than the others

so the cookies should have done for making up.

And as for a bribe,

he might have known it wouldn't stick over the summer.

He did it because all love is election.

Somebody from the next generation

would need to be interested in bells

or bells would go the way of tails.

As bells have.

I moved away and attend a church without a bell.

Bells are out of style.

But ever since that day

it has been my style

to choose guided tours of belfries -

in Chichester, Groningen, and Geneva - 

but no guided tour of a belfry ever has had as much class.

I was called.

kind of like My Cousin Vinny

"Third time's the charm?"  "Not for me it wasn't.  For me, six times was the charm."*

Today, on the slim hope of learning news about Telly, I went to Family Day at the Seeing Eye.  I ran into Janet Keeler, my club leader, and she told me which instructor might be able to provide some information about Telly.  So I tracked down Kris, and learned that . . .

Telly is in Mississippi!  She is a "home placement" which means she has been matched with an older, experienced blind person who doesn't want to travel all the way to NJ for class.  An instructor is still down there in Mississippi working with Telly and her new owner, but Kris reports that things so far are going "swimmingly."  I should be getting a letter in a couple weeks. 

I got all weepy and had to walk off.  I shouldn't write anything more.  It'll sound too melodramatic, and then I'll be embarrassed if I come back later and read it.  I've been waiting ten years for this.  I don't know whether to laugh or cry.   

I also learned that Telly is the German Shepherd pictured on the Seeing Eye's holiday card this year!  I have always said she is the most gorgeous German Shepherd I've ever seen.  

My dear puppy.  I miss her all over again.

*I've also been waiting several years for the perfect opportunity to quote this.

I can't resist sharing

When I get the chance, I tend to read gluttonously.  I haven't had much chance to read for pleasure during the school year, so I tend to go on binges on holiday.  Less than twenty four hours ago I began Gilead (by Marilynne Robinson), and now I'm left with that odd sad satisfied feeling you get when you finish a book that held you enthralled.  It was the narrator's candor, humor, and tenderness - his humanness, really - that captivated me.  

I hope these excerpts whet your appetite.  

Now this might seem a trivial thing to mention, considering the gravity of the subject, but I truly don't feel it is.  We were very pious children from pious households in a fairly pious town, and this affected our behavior considerably.  Once, we baptized a litter of cats.  They were dusty little barn cats just steady on their legs, the kind of waifish creatures that live their anonymous lives keeping the mice down and have no interest in humans at all, except to avoid them.  But the animals all seem to start out sociable, so we were always pleased to find new kittens prowling out of whatever cranny their mother had tried to hide them in, as ready to play as we were.  It occurred to one of the girls to swaddle them up in a doll's dress - there was only one dress, which was just as well since the cats could hardly tolerate a moment in it and would have to have been unswaddled as soon as they were christened in any case.  I myself moistened their brows, repeating the full Trinitarian formula.

Their grim old crooked-tailed mother found us baptizing away by the creek and began carrying her babies off by the napes of their necks, one and then another.  We lost track of which was which but we were fairly sure that some of the creatures had been borne away still in the darkness of paganism, and that worried us a good deal.  So finally I asked my father in the most offhand way imaginable what exactly would happen to a cat if one were to, say, baptize it.  He replied that the Sacraments must always be treated and regarded with the greatest respect.  That wasn't really an answer to my question. We did respect the Sacraments, but we thought the whole world of those cats.  I got his meaning, though, and I did no more baptizing until I was ordained.  (21-22)

I had an interesting talk this morning with Mr. Schmidt, T's father.  It seems he overheard some inappropriate language.  I'd overheard it, too, in fact, since it has been the favorite joke between the two of you for the last week.  I'll admit I didn't see the need to object.  We said the same thing when we were children and emerged unscathed, I believe.  One of you asks, in a naive and fluting voice, AB, CD goldfish?  And the other replies in the deepest voice he can muster, a voice full of worldliness and scorn, L, MNO goldfish!  And then outrageous and extravagant laughter.  (It is the L, need I say, that has disturbed Mr. Schmidt.)  That young man was very earnest, and I had a terrible time keeping a straight face.  I said gravely that, in my experience, it is better not to attempt too strict an isolation of children, that prohibition loses its force if it is invoked too generally.  He finally deferred to my white hair and my vocation, though he did ask me twice if I was a Unitarian.  

I told Mr. Boughton about this, and he said, "I have ong fet that etter ought to be excuded from the aphabet."  Then he laughed, tickled with himself.  (68)

This following excerpt fascinated me.  I love his precision with words, his understanding of language.  Each word is exact; no phrase is ill turned.  It's a pleasure to read.  

In writing this, I notice the care it costs me not to use certain words more than I ought to.  I am thinking about the word "just."  I almost wish I could have written that the sun just shone and the tree just glistened, and the water just poured out of it and the girl just laughed - when it's used that way it does indicate a stress on the word that follows it, and a particular pitch of the voice.  People talk that way when they want to call attention to a thing existing in excess of itself, so to speak, a sort of purity or lavishness, at any rate something ordinary in kind but exceptional in degree.  So it seems to me at the moment. There is something real signified by that word "just" that proper language won't acknowledge. . . 

I am also inclined to overuse the word "old," which actually has less to do with age, as it seems to me, than it does with familiarity.  It sets a thing apart as something regarded with a modest, habitual affection.  Sometimes it suggests haplessness or vulnerability.  I say "old Boughton," I say "this shabby old town," and I mean that they are very near my heart.  (28)

Unfortunate but true

I remembered another thing that amused me. Every week we bought huge quantities of bread for sandwiches at the work site. We bought the bread in Mexico. The brand? Bimbo. And apparently bimbo sponsors the Mexican soccer team because I'd often see guys in jerseys with "BIMBO" printed across the front.

The Zuba Boys

Kate and Garrett and I drove down to Maryland on Wednesday to visit the Zubas.  I hadn't seen them in two and half months.  J.T. is speaking in sentences now - albeit sometimes unintelligibly.  He still calls me Auntie Torah.  (I'm sympathetic - I struggled to say my own name for many years.)  Of course, the highlight of the trip was meeting my new nephew William, whom J.T. calls "Ba' Nayum."  He's going to be so big the next time I see him.  

 Aunthood has taught me that it's a precious feeling to hold a sleeping baby against your chest - especially if you are the one who calmed him from fussing to sleeping. 

Ruthie let J.T. pick his own outfit on Saturday morning.  Incidentally, he's sitting in the same high chair that I remember sitting in some years ago.  

A few things that amused me

• Each Friday evening we had share night.  One such time a 5 year old girl took the mike.  She said that she cried when it was time to leave home, but she ended up enjoying the week because it "wasn't as sad as I imagined it would be".  I hope she didn't mind that we were all laughing.  The staff wants to add a new shirt to the t-shirt shack:  "Isaiah 55 - not as sad as you imagined."  

• Just before reaching the Mexican border each week I saw a huge billboard advertising Burger King with this slogan:  "Banos limpios - hasta para un rey"  (clean bathrooms - fit for a king)  Only in the valley.  

• In Mexico, bathrooms are marked with "W.C." which of course has no meaning in Spanish.  

• The Spanish word for "espresso" is "expresso."  But "x" is pronounced like an "s" in Spanish.  I don't know when the word entered their vocabulary, but I can't help but wonder if this bizarre spelling is based on some American's mangled pronunciation.  

Also

I forgot to add that I uploaded some more pictures from Guanajuato to picasa.  You can view them here.  

An Idyllic Holiday

We reached Guanajuato at dusk on Sunday. To get to the main part of the city you have to drive through a maze of narrow, underground stone tunnels that I regret I don't have a picture of. They're quite impressive. When we got to the end of the tunnel, we faced a myriad of one-way, cobblestone streets, but we didn't know exactly where the hotel was so we asked directions from one of the locals.  It was a bit complicated, so he jumped on the bumper of the van and called out instructions from there. 

The hotel we stayed in is incredible. Its narrow front facing the street is not particularly impressive, but inside it is lovely and unique. There are squeaky tile hallways lined with rooms, each slightly different.   A turn around the corner and a few stairs leads to a new level.  It was easy to get lost. Some of the rooms had a balcony or patio area.   The roof had benches and tables and a view of the city to which this picture does no justice.  It was breathtaking.  All 16 of us staff spent an evening there talking and laughing about the past ten weeks.  

During the day, we were each free to wander as we wished; in the evenings we all gathered for dinner together. Even though it got chilly in the evenings, we almost always ate outside on the plaza lined with trees and restaurants.  In the center of the plaza there was a gazebo where a band was playing.  As soon as the music began, half a dozen older couples came out of the crowds and started to dance. Crowds gathered to watch this old man put on quite a show - he turned and kicked his feet and dipped.  We didn't care that our food was slow in coming because we just wanted to watch them dance.   When the band took a break, the mariachi came to play and sing.  

We did venture a few places together as a team.  On Tuesday we walked a few blocks from the hotel to the old house of Mexican artist Diego Rivera which has been made into a museum.  The image of his wife Frida, famous for her unibrow, is all over Guanajuato.  It's most peculiar.   

This is a picture of the fortress that Miguel Hidalgo and his cohorts held during the war for Mexican independence in 1810.  Hidalgo is a Mexican hero - one of the main drags in Reynosa is named after him.  He was actually a Spaniard, but he defended the indigenous people that the Spaniards were treating barbarously.  Mexico's history is a bloody one - he, in turn, defended the indigenous people by treating the Spaniards barbarously and ended up being killed by firing squad.  But he's still lauded as a hero.  This fortress/museum might have been a good deal more interesting to me if all the explanations had been in English too.  

It seemed like every third car in Guanajuato was an old Volkswagen beetle.  I was told that in the '90s, Mexico City was the only place outside of Germany that they were manufactured. Guanajuato is only about 230 miles north of Mexico City, so this explains their prevalence.  

I think they're very cute. 

I had the most fun when Ashley and I wandered to our hearts' content around the city. Guanajuato is such a charming, quaint, romantic city.   We were giddy with ecstasy.  Rising up on every side are hills covered with colorful houses; each bend in the road leads to a new alluring alley way to discover.   We marveled at each new view, sometimes stopping to try to soak it all in. The camera can't capture it, it really can't - though I did try, and I'm admittedly proud of this picture below. 

There were beautiful flowers all over the city - some for sale in the market, others in pots along the streets or cascading out of window boxes.  We often remarked at how much better Guatajuato smelled than Reynosa, though I suppose it wasn't for this reason.  

We ambled in and out of shops buying gifts for friends . . . and ourselves.  I have a weakness for pottery, scarves, and jewelry that I fell for more than once.  I took this picture one afternoon and later that evening, on an impulse, bought a magnet that turned out to be of the same view.  I feel like quite the artist.  

Ashley and I did a little sightseeing too.  A sweet little old lady like this one asked us if we were looking for the mummy museum and brought us there.  The museum is full of bodies that were naturally mummified, though no one really knows how.  It was morbid.  I don't understand why people are so fascinated by something so macabre; Ashley and I didn't particularly enjoy it.  We also visited the Teatro Juarez which is very impressive, inside and out.  

Ashley and I bought our last Mexican coke-in-a-glass-bottle which, of course, tastes so much better than coke any other way.  We enjoyed buying food impetuously off the street like churros and fresh mangoes  - I even tried a bite of mango with chili powder on it. Mexicans put chili on everything.  And nothing could quench our thirst better than limeade in a bag as we shared a crepe from a little cafe off the square in the picture above.  I remembered throughout the day that is important to be well stocked with chocolate and bubbles.  You never know when you might need them.

And one last picture since I'm especially fond of it. . . mostly because of the lovely, new scarf.