A conversation between Sara and the rational thinking fairy:

Rational thinking fairy: "Hi, Sara! Boy, we sure haven't talked in awhile. How are things going lately?"

Sara: "Rational thinking fairy, you are a bitch! Life is terrible! Everything is meaningless and no one cares about anyone and my hair looks bad today! Also, I saw a boy mowing the lawn, and it frankly just ruined my whole month because clearly that boy has no meaning in life and probably eats little debbie snack cakes and thinks racist thoughts about Dora the Explorer."

Rational thinking fairy: "Wow, Sara. Those are some extreme words you're using. 'Terrible.' 'Meaningless.' You speak about meaning a lot. Why do you think that is?"

Sara: "Hmm, what a fine question. Let me take a minute to gather my thoughts. oh. IT'S PROBABLY BECAUSE I HAVE NONE."

Rational thinking fairy: "Sara, what are you preaching on tomorrow?"

Sara: "I'm preaching about how everything is terrible and everyone hates everyone."

Rational thinking fairy: "That sounds like a very inspirational message."

Sara: I say it again! Rational thinking fairy, you are a bitch!"

Rational thinking fairy: "What are you really preaching about?"

Sara: "I'm preaching on Psalm 13 -- 'how long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?" I've been walking through the cemetery and trying to think as many depressing thoughts as possible. I've been trying to gather up all the world's pain and store it in my heart."

Rational thinking fairy: "How is that helpful?"

Sara: "It's not. It's a terrible way to live life. But I think my spiritual gift is to be morose. I think that God calls me to see through the lens of brokenness. I think that pastors should be happy no more than 40% of the time. If they're happy any more than that, they're probably not doing their job well."

Rational thinking fairy: "So, you think God wants us to be unhappy?"

Sara: "No."

Rational thinking fairy: "I believe you just said as much."

Sara: "Of course I did. I do believe that as an internal reality. But our conversation is in the realm of external reality. ALSO YOU'RE THE RATIONAL THINKING FAIRY. You're helping me see more clearly."

Rational thinking fairy: "Maybe you should say something about Jesus during your sermon."

Sara: "I do. I say that sometimes it feels like Jesus body slams us into a wall and walks away laughing."

Rational thinking fairy: "Sara. Sara! Don't say that. Do you understand me? Don't tell people that Jesus hates them."

Sara: "Why not?

Rational thinking fairy: "Because that's not what you believe. Listen to me. I'm the rational thinking fairy, and I'm here to speak truth into your life. Make an outline. Make some goals. Get your work done. And then move on. Stop thinking that your sermon is going to make everyone lose their faith. That is a false reality. Also, your hair looks fine today. It really does. People really do care for one another, and if you would open your eyes, you'd see that the human condition is outrageously beautiful."

Sara: "Rational thinking fairy, it's like you are rubbing cold cream on my soul. I mean, it feels really good. Your words. Your help."

Rational thinking fairy: "It's not me. It's God working through me."

Sara: "You say that, but I know you secretly want the affirmation. Just accept it. You are a good fairy. You are good at what you do."

Rational thinking fairy: "Fine. Thank you. I appreciate that. A final word of advice, though? Don't begin your sermon with the sentence: "I'm not particularly fond of human beings." Remember, people are not THAT comfortable with your neuroses when they don't know you."

Sara: "Good advice. I will instead start with a hilarious story about Hitler."

"Intrusion"

Scene: 3 young hipster wannabes sit upstairs in a coffee shop. A jock is in the corner. His presence creates an uncomfortable tension. Mesh shorts and Powerade? Really? Nobody knows why he is there. Summer school, probably. It is clear he has read no Foucault in the recent months.

An elderly man walks up the stairs. He surveys the room and sees that he does not belong. He trudges over to the corner, sits down, and unwraps his turkey sandwich on wheat. The hipster wannabes decide this is okay. After all, ageism is not trendy.

A woman walks up the stairs with clacky heels. The hipsters are appalled. "Did she not see the sign?!? -- "handmade moccasins ONLY?!?" The woman is oblivious to any of the rules. She enters into the dead silence and shouts across the room to the elderly man.

Clacky heel woman: "FOR THE RECORD, I'M NOT LATE! Geoffrey, you know, my little dachshund, Geoffrey?? Well, we were just at the vet. Can you believe he's 12 pounds overweight? He never eats ANYTHING!"

Elderly man: (boisterous, insincere laughter)

Clacky heel woman: "Oh my, it's completely silent in here! Oh good! That means I can talk as loudly as I want and no one will care! Would you like to hear the funniest story about the bath I took last night?! Hahahaha, Geoffrey climbed right up into the tub!"

Hipster girl wearing brightly patterned dress: (begins directing passive-aggressive glances at the oblivious couple)

Hipster boy with floppy hair and a poetry anthology: (begins directing passive-aggressive glances at the oblivious couple)

Jock: (Oblivious; continues work on laptop)

Clacky heel woman: "WELL LET'S GET STARTED. I have such a great plan for selling cupcakes to dogs! Healthy cupcakes, mind you! OBESE DOGS ARE VERY SUSCEPTIBLE TO DEPRESSION. Geoffrey has been on Prozac for 10 months now, and I can tell that he is still morose!"

Hipster Girl: (increased passive-aggressive glances, coupled with drawn-out sighs)

Hipster Boy: (increased passive-aggressive glances, coupled with a showy exit to express his exasperation)

Clacky Heel woman: "HAHA! HAHA! RUINING EVERYONE'S DAY IS MY FAVORITE!"

Elderly man: "HAHA! HAHA! We're the only ones talking! Our ideas are so good! I bet everyone loves listening to them! I am so wise! These young hipsters must think I am so wise!"

The hipsters are disgusted. Unable to control the obtrusive man and woman, they insert their earbuds into their Macbooks and begin loudly listening to Sigur Ros. They will later write witty stories about this in their moleskine notebooks and then transfer them to their tumblr. Life is pain.

Dear perfectionism,

I thoroughly loathe you. I want to cut off your appendages and eat them while you watch me and weep. I want to destroy you. I hate you I hate you I hate you.

You are an evil lover. You seduce me with your sweet success, and then you beat me late into the night. I want to murder you. My hate for you is so strong.

You know, though, that I will come back to you. You know that even as I write this, I won't leave you. I will return to you. I will always return.

But I hate you. I so throughly hate you.

Sara

"A Letter from my Professor"

Hi Sara,

This is Professor ______. I was just writing to tell you that you don't have to write your final paper for me!

For the last two months, you've had that "I-don't-give-a-shit" look on your face, and I totally understand because, let's face it, I don't give a shit either.

Although you almost never spoke in class, I could just really tell that you are brilliant, and so I am giving you an A. I'd also like to break down the walls of our student-teacher relationship--would you like to hang out sometime? Maybe go dress shopping and grab some drinks?

Hell, since you don't have to write your final paper, are you free tonight? I just find you to be a fascinating person, and I would be so honored to keep company with you.

Eagerly anticipating our friendship,

Professor ______

Dear friends,

For my morning devotional, I read Katy Perry lyrics. She raises some good questions:

"Do you ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?"

Every day, Katy, every day. I need your help.

"You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine. Just own the night like the Fourth of July. Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!" You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own."

Morning devotional brought to you by Katy Perry. Praise the Lord!

[In regard to the King James Version]

"To all the women who read the Sacred Scriptures: We have left the male gender where the original text called for it. Please give yourself a special spiritual treat, substitute the word woman for man when you read these pages. Together we will feel that the Book was written just for ourselves."

-- Robert Schuller, Possibility Thinkers Bible

"How to ask for an extension in seminary"

Dear Dr. Portier-Young,

He is risen! He is risen, indeed! I hope your journey to the cross was meaningful. This cross, this death, this resurrection--what wondrous love is this? Oh, my soul.

Anyway, I was writing to see if you would consider granting me an extension. I got so caught up in the death our Savior (He is risen! He is risen, indeed!) that I did not have enough time to work on my final paper (It seemed wrong to research while grieving the death of my Lord).

Let me know your thoughts,

Sara

Dear Dr. Bowler,

When I was reading your dissertation, which was so, so good, you referenced The Art of Counseling by Rollo May (1967). As your writing about this book was so lively and altogether wonderful, I excitedly picked up a copy and found this treasure:

"The teacher without empathy is like a motor car with the gears unmeshed--the motor races, making a noise as ineffectual as 'sounding brass and a clanging cymbal.'"

I have decided not to write my final paper.

Best!

Sara

Dear Dr. Wacker,

I sat down for my morning devotionals the other day and before I knew it, it was 10 pm! I guess I got caught up in an ecstatic vision of my Lord.

Anyway, I'm running behind on my work now. Would you consider granting me an extension?

Best!

Sara

1 Thessalonians 5:17 -- "Pray Continually"

Dear Dr. Wirzba,

How good is our Lord. Oh, that we might fall before our God and praise Him!

I am writing to thank you for teaching me to see the world. You have enlivened my vision, teaching me to see Christ in apple blossoms, robins, and soil. Your advice to take a break from school and walk through Duke Gardens has changed my life. Thank you for teaching me to pause and taste the world.

I have decided to continue pausing. I will not be writing my final paper.

Thanks for teaching me to see Christ!

Sara

Mini Homily: Eucharist

God invites us to the table to eat Jesus, invites us to bite down on grace, invites us to swallow grace and feel it sliding down our esophagus.

God invites every single one of his people to gather at the table and be fed, no matter whether his people smell that day or are tired and distracted or are confused as to why they’re sitting at the table at all. God invites us because he knows that his smelly, tired, confused children need nourishment, and so God invites us to feed on him—to slurp down eternal life that he’s flavored with the juice of grapes.

God teaches us what it’s like to sit together at the table so that we might invite smelly, tired, and confused people to our own kitchen tables. God feeds us so that we might feed others.

God invites us to have supper in the morning, and in so doing, scrambles all of our expectations for eating. God teaches us that unity is nonsensical and beautiful. God teaches us that inclusion is nonsensical and beautiful. God’s guest list includes the lady who wears cat vests, the man who chews like a drunken bear, and the child who cusses in the line at the grocery store. God says: “They are beautiful. They are mine. They are invited to the table.”

Mini Homily #2: Confession

It may be new for us to think about how our eating implicates us in patterns of injustice. We must eat to live—how can it be wrong?

Eating is never wrong. Food is a grand, delicious gift to be celebrated. The trouble is, we fail to celebrate it. We have forgotten where our food comes from. We have abstracted our bacon from pigs. We have abstracted our corn from fields. We have abstracted our strawberries from the Chilean workers who picked the plump, red fruit with their fingers. We care not about the Chilean worker or his fingers but rather we care about whether or not we’ll have strawberries all year long.

When we become disconnected from our food, we become disconnected from the lives that make our eating possible. We want cheap chicken. We want cheap tomatoes. We get upset when tasting is costly. We come to confess today because tasting is costly, and we have squandered the earth’s resources with our reckless tasting.

In our tasting, we must learn to ask: “whose blood is in this food?” How were the animals treated? How were the workers treated? What is the yearly income of the lady who raises chickens? How is the land being treated? Are we leaving gashes in the earth? Can they be sewn together or are we sowing permanent destruction?

Our insatiable desire for food that is cheap and convenient is tearing holes in God’s Creation. English poet, John Drinkwater, wrote that “when you defile the pleasant streams and the wild bird’s abiding place, you massacre a million dreams and cast your spittle in God’s face.”

Do we stand before God and spit in his face?

We do. For this reason, we must confess.

Mini Homily

Think of the last time you read the Creation story in Genesis. Did it blow your mind and leave you panting for a glimpse of this world? Did you yearn to put your hands in the dirt and feel what God put there? Did you find yourself wanting to lie down in a garden so you could smell God?

The last time I read the Creation story, I found myself unimpressed. It’s all that redundancy, really, that causes my eyes to glaze over: “And God saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning, the third day. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning, the fourth day.” It all seems so effortless, like God is pointing at products in a Pier 1 catalogue to furnish his living room.

God, we find ourselves unimpressed with the way you describe the furnishings of your world: vegetation, birds, wild animals—God show us the platypus! Show us the redwoods and the panther and the Pacific Ocean. Show us the gladiolus; lift it to our noses. The hawk, God, show us the hawk; we will study it and praise you. The colors must have been vibrant, and the textures! How did the world feel leaving your fingertips? What tasks did you delegate to Jesus? Did the Spirit scatter seeds and feed the animals? Tell us, God, impress us! Show us the hawk.

But there is nothing wrong with God’s imagination.

There is something wrong with our imagination.

Have we lost our ability to wonder? Can our eyes see that the world is soaked with God? Loss of astonishment is not a new phenomenon—St. Basil the Great wrote in the 4^th century: “I want creation to penetrate you with so much admiration that wherever you go, the least plant may bring you the clear remembrance of the Creator…One blade of grass or one speck of dust is enough to occupy your entire mind in beholding the art with which it has been made.”

There is something wrong with our imagination. God is not picking out the world from a catalogue—trees are not products; chickens are not products; nitrogen is not a product. Rather, God imagined the earth, and it was so, and it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, every day.

God says: “Go outside, and within you I will cultivate astonishment. I only ask that you learn to see.”

Seminary Fail

Seminary student #1: “hey! what is a good bible verse about grace that i can memorize like a mantra? (not john 3:16)”

Seminary student #2: mmmm, that's a question for [seminarian who likes grace a lot]

Seminary student #1: haha. duly noted.

Seminary student #2: or pick up your copy of Brennan Manning

Seminary student #1: good point.

Seminary student #2: I'm making such good suggestions.

Seminary student #1: you are.

Seminary student #2: but yet can't think of a verse...

Seminary student #1: well, i mean other than the one about you are saved by grace, not by works, that is somehow the only one i can think of

Seminary student #2: yeah, other than that one, I don't think the Bible says much about it.

Seminary student #1: interesting. i should have noticed this before now. hahaha.

Seminary student #2: wait, is that true? I was being an ass

Seminary student #1: hahahaha.

man, i am just in an accept-everything-state-of-mind.

how can i not think of any verses with grace!

ok, i'm doing a computer search

ok, there are like a million hits

you are never to speak of this conversation with anyone

OH NO, DISASTER

hahaha

my grace is sufficient for you!

how could i have forgotten that one?

Thank God for our vulnerability.

There is a crack in everything, and that's how the light gets through.

"Time for Bed"

How many pints of Ben & Jerry's will it take to become a good pastor?

Is empathy really a good thing?

Who will be our pastor when we need one?

When will everyone live into their vulnerability?

When will God make it all right?

Maranatha.

"Shitty First Drafts"

(Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life)

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."

Thanks for your contribution, Anne. I appreciate it. I agree heartily, and I felt moved enough to write these words into my fake-moleskine notebook (which, since I got it at Target, is probably made out of beavers); http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2009/02/24/122-moleskine-notebooks/

However, although your words are nice, I don't quite know how to stop looking at my feet. Have you seen the stepping stones at Duke Divinity School? They are not stones. They are jutting, jagged rocks, like the ones on Tom Hanks's Castaway island. They would kill me if I fell.

But alas, I know you are right, Anne. I know that writing a paragraph should not take me 4 hours. I know that I should not write one sentence and then yell at the dog, "This is too impossible. I am the worst sentence writer in the world!" The dog doesn't understand why I'm yelling anyway, and the people that I'm dog-sitting for probably have one of those teddy-bear-nanny-cams that is filming me as I sit at the kitchen table and yell neurotically at their canine therapist. I know that writing one sentence and then leaving the house to go buy chocolate is ultimately impeding me from creativity and insight and joy. The idea of stepping carefully on all of those stones is just too incredibly hard, and so instead I find a canoe and paddle erratically in no fruitful direction. All I want to do is walk leisurely on the stones, but I cannot. It is too hard.

Writing is too hard for me. I am writing a spiritual memoir for one of my classes, and I cannot do it. It is personally taxing, and besides that fact, the words that I try to put on the page are vapid. I try to cure my writing affliction with chocolate and with warm soup, but the words still will not come. I have been in an informal, non-graded writing class this semester. The others write so easily. In the time it takes them to write 200 beautiful sentences, I have written 10 sentences that contain no good in them at all. They read their writing, and I feel as though we're on Writing Survivor: Outwit, Outcharm, Outlast. I persistently lose the competition and have to go back to the island, cold and unfed.

However, it has actually never even been a competition. It's a spiritual formation class, for goodness' sake. I am there to grow in and by the presence of others. I am there to relish the presence of these women of God. I am not there to walk the stones carefully and to outperform. It is wrong for me to be a competitive monster. It is wrong for me to want to Gladiator-fight the other girls off the stones and to run triumphantly and alone to the other side.

I know that you must struggle in the same way sometimes, Anne. Has it become easy for you to write shitty first drafts? I can't seem to do it without the aid of gin. And so I languish, yelling my feelings at dogs and eating too many chocolates, and then after many, many wasted hours of self-pity, I finally produce a shitty first draft that happens to be my only and final draft.

Perfectionism is leaving me cramped and insane, but I frankly don't how to get off the train. I think that my professor, for whom I'm writing this paper, sensed that we might struggle with the pressure to write well for him. As such, he sent us an email with this quote from Flannery O'Connor: "You do not write the best you can for the sake of art but for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he sees fit."

In writing, my telos ought not be personal success. My telos ought not to be to Outwit, Outcharm, and Outlast. Frankly, my telos in life ought never be any of these things. I do not exist in God's world to outperform. As a friend of mine wisely says: "That's not the Gospel."

It's not the Gospel.
I still don't know how to stop looking at my feet.
I still don't know how to rejoice in my walking.
I still don't know how to run freely across the stepping stones.
But I know that it's not the Gospel.

Dear (Extroverted) Ministers and Future Ministers: (Or Why I Struggle with Going to Church)

Dear (extroverted) ministers and future ministers of the Word of our God and Savior Jesus Christ,

I have something that I need to tell you.

I need to tell you what going to church is like for an introvert.

Going to church is terrible.

I need to tell you this, (extroverted) ministers and future ministers, because of this state of affairs, I find you disastrously unaware.

I will now demonstrate this truth with an anecdote:

Last year, one of "your kind," with what I found to be utmost insensitivity, said to me: "Sara, it's not that hard to go to church."

I was appalled. APPALLED. "Has he ever been in a church parking lot?" I thought, indignantly. "Has he ever passed the peace?"

"Clearly this man (and of course he is a man) knows nothing of the extreme anguish that church attendance produces inside of me. And if he knows nothing of my acute distress, then he clearly knows nothing of the acute distress of the entire world. And if he knows not of the acute distress of the entire world, then he ought not be a minister of the Word of our God and Savior Jesus Christ. It is settled," I thought. "This man is not equipped for ministry."

Allow me to clarify for you, ministers and future ministers, what this extreme anguish is like. For ease of imagery, I will play the role of the distressed parishioner in the following scenarios:

Scenario #1: "The parking lot"

Perhaps unbeknownst to you, ministers and future ministers, navigating the church parking lot is one of the most harrowing experiences an introverted church visitor can have.

"What if I turn wrongly into the church parking lot, indicating to everyone that I am a visitor who knows nothing of the story of redemption?"

"How am I to greet the nice-looking couples I walk by in the parking lot? Am I to greet them with a holy kiss, as Paul instructed? Must I say something trite and bouncy, like: "Grace and peace, brothers and sisters!"? Do I shake hands? Hug? Elbow-bump? For the love of everything that is good and holy, can't I just pretend to text?!?"

"What door do I go in? Oh dear God, what door do I go in? God, show me the damn door that I'm supposed to go in!"

To be sure, a visiting introvert's experience in the church parking lot before the service has begun is 100x less distressing than her experience after the service.

After the service, otherwise reserved churchgoers spill into the parking lot, all jacked up on grace and Eucharistic elements, eager to pounce on any newcomer they see and force them to feel welcome.

"I'M SO GLAD THAT YOU CAME. WE WELCOME YOU. I HOPE THAT YOU FEEL SUFFICIENTLY WELCOMED. PLEASE COME BACK TO OUR WELCOMING CHURCH."

Ministers and future ministers, I want you to know that introverts leave encounters such as these, panting and groaning anxiously, for a full 3-5 minutes. The experience alone is enough to prompt someone to order one of these: http://www.amazon.com/Hidden-Bible-4-oz-Flask/dp/B001T3YC2E

Suffice it to say, the church parking lot is an introvert's hell. It is one of the foremost obstacles that introverts face in trying to get themselves to church. This is something that I want you to be aware of, ministers and future ministers, for your present or future ministry.

Scenario #2: "Pew selection"

Once the visiting introvert has braved the horrors of the parking lot, she then faces the equally horrifying horrors of the "greeters' spirit tunnel" and then, the horror of all horrors, the moment of pew selection.

Ministers and future ministers, I will have you know that walking through the tunnel of forced Christian hospitality upon entering the church doors is, emphatically, not a good time. This is especially true for young-looking female introverts who attend church without male companions. Truly, for the single introvert, church is inordinately harrowing because churchgoers, suffice it to say, have absolutely no idea how to talk to young, single females who are joining them for worship. Typically, their response it to think silently, "Hmmm, I wonder how this nice, 15-year old lesbian found our church?" The introvert finds this to be stressful. Ministers and future ministers, perhaps you could train your parishioners to accept and embrace singlehood in the church and to not assume that all single females are lesbians.

Having received her bulletin, the introvert is once more overcome with extreme anguish, because she now faces the horror of all horrors: pew selection.

I will demonstrate this extreme anguish with another anecdote:

Earlier this year, when attending a new church, I decided to make my pew selection choice with confidence. This, as it turned out, was a terrible decision. I had just sat down, confidently, and had just confidently given a faint-smiling-head-bob to the young, blonde woman next to me when she turned to her spouse and began frantically whispering. They deliberated--I could feel them deliberating--and then they pew-shuffled 6 feet away from me. "Oh God," I thought frantically, "am I supposed to pew-shuffle with them? Maybe they could tell that I couldn't really see over the head of that tall man ahead of me." It was the worst 5 seconds of my life. Upon confidently giving the woman the faint-smiling-head-bob, I had envisioned myself, 4 weeks later, sitting jubilantly on this beautiful couple's sofa, nursing a hot toddy and playing a rousing game of Cranium. Now, however, it couldn't be more clear that I was being rejected. Another adorable couple appeared at the side of the pew. They wanted to sit by the first adorable couple. I was in their spot. I had broken the rules of church visitor pew selection.

Ministers and future ministers, pew selection is right up there with the parking lot in terms of fostering anguish. The introvert must decide not only where she is allowed to sit, but she must also apply great strategy to her decision so that she will have easy access to the sanctuary doors, come the moment of the benediction (more on this next week). The anguish of pew selection is one more obstacle introverts face in trying to get themselves to church. I think it necessary for you to know this for your ministry, ministers and future ministers.

Going to church is ridiculously hard for introverts, and I haven't even begun to describe what happens when the service actually begins and when it ends. Next week, ministers and future ministers, I will take up Scenario #3: Passing the Peace and Scenario #4: The Fellowship Hall. Sweet Jesus, the horrors of the fellowship hall...

I am glad we have begun to communicate about this, extroverted ministers and future ministers, and I hope to find you next week to be more sensitive to this state of affairs.

Best,

An Introverted Churchgoer

"Thanksgiving"

Dear friends,

Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you ate lots of mayonnaise and cream cheese-based foods.

I had a good day. I ate Thanksgiving foods and smiled Thanksgiving smiles and wore a Thanksgiving blazer. All in all, what a success.

Last year at this time, though, was quite different. Last year at this time included no Thanksgiving foods, smiles, or blazers. Last year at this time was, in fact, an abysmal sort of day.

I guess I'd say that drinking blueberry lager on the floor of my closet, alone, was the low point of Thanksgiving last year. Or maybe it was when I studied Church History notes in the mall parking garage in between the two movies that I went to see by myself. Or maybe it was when I went home and saw all the gladware containers stuffed with delicious turkey and potatoes and gravy that I could not eat. Suffice it to say, I would be unable to point to one of these events as the worst part of the day.

You see, my roommate had wanted me to be in attendance for a Thanksgiving meal in our house attended by her, her military boyfriend whom I once caught cleaning a gun in the room just opposite mine, and our older, hippie neighbor who had promised to bring a free-range turkey and to abstain from the bad energy contained within carbs.

"Hellz no," I said.

She cried, or at least got excessively weepy, and I retreated stubbornly to my bedroom. "I do not do things out of a sense of obligation," I thought. "Her excessive weepiness makes me feel obligated to change my mind, and thus I will not."

"I refuse to attend your Thanksgiving," I told her.

She looked at me like I had just taken an electric carving knife to one of the neighborhood cats.

"For the love of God, come to my Thanksgiving!" she exclaimed.

"I will not come to your Thanksgiving," I proclaimed.

It was not until later that I realized that not only did I now have nowhere to go for Thanksgiving, but I would also be unable to stay in my own house.

WHY WAS I NOT GOING TO HER THANKSGIVING?

I wanted to take it back. I so badly wanted to take it back. I could not take it back.

So I decided to go to movies about oppressed, black teenagers.

I got the large popcorn with extra butter. I trust you will understand.

The man taking my ticket judged me, of course, when I presented my ticket for The Blind Side, but I have to imagine he judged me even more when I presented my ticket three hours later for Precious. (I told this story to a friend the other day, and she exclaimed, "You saw Precious alone on Thanksgiving?!? That's like watching Schindler's List!") This is what the ticket-taking man thought as well. I knew this to be true when he coughed "Loser" into his hand and then pushed me into a wall.

All in all, though, it wasn't a terrible experience. I mean, besides the fact that I was horribly depressed. I actually found going to the movies alone to be kind of empowering. Plus, I was able to spend quality time in the parking garage, coming to terms with the intricacies of a Trinitarian God.

And yet, it was also not the greatest day I have ever had. When I felt as though I had waited an appropriate amount of time, I returned home. My roommate cheerfully asked me where I had been, to which I replied, "Out."

"Did you have a great Thanksgiving?"

"I reckon so."

Well, I reckon that I had a greater one this year. Probably because I had the Trinity all figured out this go-around. Oh, and like I said, I was wearing a Thanksgiving blazer.

"There are no words"

Dear friends,

I have had some loud roommates before, but their level of obtrusion is never so apparent to me as when I am involuntarily waking from a nap:

The sound of her heels crashing upon the hardwood floor is as loud as a mother antelope rushing home to get the KFC on the table for the kids.

The sound of her voice is as if an aproned housewife is standing at the threshold, screen door half open, yelling "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY."

The doors slam. All of them in the house at once. How does this even happen? It's as if our house has become the set of that last scene in Grease, where Danny and Sandy prance around the "Shake Shack" singing to one another, "You're the one that I want." The only difference is that if my roommate had on black leather and was singing seductively, I would not dance lustily after her but would rather fashion a bayonet out of my possessions and yield it against her. Several times.

Stomping. Slamming. Smashing. Crashing. How could one human being be so impossibly loud? It's as if SNL is filming a comedy sketch, EXCEPT IT IS REAL LIFE, AND I AM THE ONE LIVING IT.

The only way one can defend oneself against the galloping antelopes and screaming housewives is to grumble. Cuss unabashedly. Listen to Sigur Ros on pandora as loudly as possible. Tell God you'll stop sinning if he'll just make the antelope-footed roommate wear slippers.

God doesn't usually answer curse filled prayers with a pair of slippers, though, which is probably an indication that it's time to get up from my nap.

"Because Saying No to Neuroticism Was a Lie"

Dear friends,

Two years ago, when I was the TA for the biblical Greek class at Northwestern, the professor began class on the first day by reciting a passage in Greek, flawlessly and ominously. Although he did not translate the Greek for the class, he set the stage for fear (and later revealed to me that the passage was about death and the coming day of doom). Then, he asked the students what they had heard from others about the reputation of the class.

Without hesitation, a student spoke up: "I heard that at the beginning of the year, you put our soul in a jar, and if we fail the class, you smash the jar."

Hilarity ensued. Are you kidding me, student? Please say that at the beginning of every class for the rest of your life.

All laughter aside, though, this student's comment was exactly the way I had approached the Greek class. I had spent every day of my sophomore year, whilst taking Greek, studying desperately so that my soul-in-the-jar-that-is-Greek-class would not be smashed because of my failure. I printed off my quiz and test grades and hung them next to my pillow so that I could measure my success and/or failure every day before sleeping and upon waking. I stopped looking at the sky while walking, as my flashcards were ever before me. I woke up thinking about Greek. I went to bed thinking about Greek. I was obsessed. I was obsessed because the language was something that I could control and master, and I would control it and I would master it. I told my friends that if I did not get an A on the final, I would be so humiliated that I would just start walking to Mexico, scattering my flashcards in the wind as I went.

I was neurotic. I mean, a really, seriously crazy person. I had to be the best in the class. If I missed the extra credit points on the quizzes, then I had failed. My friend made me a sign to hang in my room that read: "I must beat Ben! Ben is weak! I will be first!" I thought Ben to be my competition in the class. I eyed him warily during class. I had to beat him.

I did not want to disappoint my professor with my failure. I did not want him to smash my soul. Missed points on quizzes would be a personal affront to him. He would lose all respect for me as a human being.

I get the hint, though, that not everyone approaches their academic endeavors in this way.

I still do, though.

Looking an instructor or professor of mine in the eye is ultimately a bad idea. This means that I am bound to him or her. With eye contact comes the need to impress. After eye contact, carelessness is egregious. Perfection is encouraged. After eye contact, poorly constructed sentences and leaps in logic and missed vocabulary words are a personal affront to my instructors. They no longer care for me as a person. I am nothing in their eyes.

Anxiety, not hilarity, ensues.

My tutor in Oxford, Albus Andrew, wrote in his comments on my transcript: "Sara makes very high demands of herself, but has achieved much more than she gives herself credit for." (Ha, Albus Andrew ended a sentence with a preposition).

How, though, does one give herself credit for the work she does? How does one evaluate the presentation that he gave without wanting to jump through the 3rd floor classroom windows? When is a paper something that she can be proud of writing?

As a student, I put my soul in a jar and wait for it to be smashed. Expect it to be smashed. Envision it being smashed.

The truth of the matter, though, is that I am the one smashing it.

If I had my way, I'd stop smashing my soul-jar and instead live my life being the person in this quote by Mary Oliver: "Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight."

This is my hope. To be sure, I think that I will never be the person in this quote, but that is because of my still persistent smashing.

The prophets, Isaiah and Micah point to a vision of justice in which the world's people "will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore" (2:4 and 4:3, respectively).

May this vision extend also to those who take up their swords and their spears and yield them daily against themselves. May this vision extend to those for whom daily anxiety ensues. May this vision extend to those who put their souls in a jar and wait expectantly for them to be smashed.

Take your soul out of the jar. Love your soul. Love yourself.

God, grant us the courage.

Sara

"Gender Battles on the Sidewalk"

Scenario:

Sara is walking carefully on the right side of the sidewalk, keeping to herself and showing (outward) respect for humanity. All of a sudden, she spots a Duke undergraduate walking in the opposite direction as her, walking very carefully on the left side of the sidewalk. [This means that Sara and the man were heading directly toward one another and would soon dramatically collide.] The undergraduate is wearing hip shades and a t-shirt that bears the word "Capital" with an arrow pointing to his penis. Sara walks dramatically on. Capital-penis undergraduate walks dramatically on. Tension grew. WHO WAS GOING TO MOVE? It was becoming a serious issue. Sara and the undergraduate were just very much about to dramatically collide. 5 steps away from collision. 4 steps away from collision. 3 steps. Sara thinks to herself calmly, but with increasing concern: "Why is he not moving? It strikes me that if I am walking on the right side of the sidewalk, then I should not have to move." 2 steps. The undergraduate with the offensive t-shirt will not budge. He will win this battle. He will not lose. Sara will lose. Dramatic collision only seconds away, Sara makes a tricky little turn with the direction of her body and heads toward the left side of the sidewalk. She has lost the battle. He has won the battle. As the undergraduate's t-shirt had made known, it was he who had the biggest penis. Sara thinks: "I hate you penis-man. I hate you. I hate every man. I hate every person. God, please forgive me for hating that man and for hating every person." End scene.

Later, Sara had a chance to interview the undergraduate about this experience that they had shared; their conversation is recorded here:

Sara: "I'm glad we are able to come together for a time of reconciliation. I'm sorry, though, I don't know your name. What is your name?"

Undergraduate: "You have not earned the right to know my name. You are wearing a hoodie and jeans, and as such, I neither want to sleep with you nor tell you my name. What I will tell you is that I am entitled to a lot, and I don't respect you."

Sara: "Very well, then. Can you talk for awhile about the significance of your t-shirt? Why is it that your shirt has the word 'capital' and an arrow pointing to your penis?"

Undergraduate: "I don't know why I'm talking to you. I am very powerful, you see. Largely, my t-shirt is an indicator that you have no right to speak with me. If I choose to walk on a particular side of the sidewalk, then you should no longer find yourself welcome on that side. I am powerful and rich. Why are you commenting on my t-shirt and not my sunglasses? My sunglasses were very expensive, and you should know many things about me just by looking at them."

Sara: "That is my mistake. I am incorrigible, am I not? Is there anything else you would like to say?"

Undergraduate: "Yes, I am a Son of Entitlement, and I do not understand why you feel like you deserve a place on the sidewalk. You think that you deserve to at least be walking on the right side because it is proper to do so, but let me tell you that if I decide that women do not belong on the sidewalk, then they don't belong."

Sara: "Truly, your logic is impeccable. Anything else?"

Undergraduate: "Yes, you are the inferior gender, and my penis is still very large."

Sara: "Thank you. May the road rise to meet you and the sun be always at your back."

Acknowledgements: To the young man who would not allow me to keep my place on the sidewalk, many thanks.

"Saying No to Neuroticism"

Saying no to neuroticism is not something that I do frequently.

For instance, back in the day when I was either more crazy or less crazy (it's hard to tell), I so badly wanted to be a TA for the Greek class at Northwestern that I composed a list of all the people the professor might pick for the job instead of me, and I gave reasons for why he should not pick any of those persons and should instead pick me.

His emailed response read as follows:

"Yes, your unbridled neuroticism and raving paranoia make it very clear that you are truly the SENSIBLE choice."

I will have you know that he did, in fact, pick me.

However, his description of my neuroticism as "unbridled" often tends to be more true than not.

It is for this reason that I do not belong in the academy.

It is for this reason that I want to instead do the following:

I want to live in a house that is accessed by means of a gravel road.

I want to hang my clothes on a clothesline and attend to the water level in the bird bath.

I want to become really, really good at folding sheets.

I want to cook things in a slow cooker.

I want to buy suet from a butcher and hang it from a tree branch.

I want to spend full weeks vigorously canning pickles and dilly beans.

I want to play gin rummy while drinking gin and rum.

I want to eat oatmeal for breakfast; I want to eat breakfast, period.

I want to keep the Sabbath.

I want to read a novel.

I want to make cookies and watch Love Actually and Titanic.

I want someone to care for me.

I want a backyard,

and I want to belong.

I want life to be the best thing ever.

The heart wants what it wants. At least, that's what I told myself when I just went and bought a diet mountain dew.

Best,

Sara