Summer Solstice

It has been a busy week or so with some big events--life events for some of my friends.

My mind has been reeling with so many different thoughts and feelings. There are things that have a hard time taking shape in my mind and so I have a hard time even beginning to express them. It seemed appropriate that on this day, the longest day of the year and first official day of summer, that I try to sort through some of these things.

This past weekend I went to Wisconsin for the wedding of two good friends. The entire trip felt surreal. I now know people who are going to be living in Wisconsin. I know people living in Illinois and I know people all over the place now--even as far as China. At one point during the reception, I was standing towards the back of the tent, watching the dance floor, with a glass (mason jar) of wine in one hand and the other hand firmly planted on my hip in the traditional Schuett stance. It was like I was watching myself, and saw more than felt myself sway a little. I was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. This would be the last time I would see some of these people for a very long time, and all I could find myself dwelling on was how I wished a certain boy was there with me. So I was having a moment with myself, reflecting on the places life takes us and the turns we don't expect, when a friend caught me--and I'm sure it looked like I was having a moment with the wine...but it was really just a moment of introspection. The spell broke and I was left giggling, despite the serious overtures of my heart moments before.

This boy I was wishing had been there, he's probably the one you were expecting, the one who writes me letter, wasn't the one I was expecting to miss. This last year has been interesting to say the least, and while a part of me still clings to hope that we, the letter writers, will find a way to be near one another, there is still enormous room for doubt. It would be a lie to say there was no one else this year that interested me. I wish I knew the reason behind the unsent letter in my notebook...the one dated June 1, 2013. I wish I knew why it was still there, why I haven't sent it. It's not like it's full of embarrassing things, honestly it's quite hum-drum. But maybe that's why. Because I feel like I'm telling half-truths.

But then I also feel like I'm telling myself half-truths. A friend asked me this week if I was finding a way to be spiritually fed--despite my ever-present loneliness. I told her yes. A half-truth. Some days I do feel incredibly blessed and like I can feel the Hand of God in my life. But most days I feel aimless. It's almost like I'm the small child who desperately wants to be tickled, but doesn't want to be too obvious about that desire. I want that connection, that passion, that drive to learn more, but I don't want to be obvious about the search...and I have a hard time asking for help because I feel like I should be strong enough to push myself. [Lord, give me the grace to realize I am in need of shepherding.]

A couple weekends ago, one of the older gentlemen I work with at the dealership approached my desk. This particular salesman is one of my favorites, he's funny and smart and incredibly nerdy. We have a lot of common interests, and he listens to me babble on about (girly) things. He even asks me questions about how my love-life is going. In fact, he's known all along about the boy who writes me letters...and he knows about the boy I work with. Anyhow, he approached my desk and instead of asking the usual question of who things were going with the young men in my life, he blatantly asked, "Anna, what is wrong with all the men in your life? Are they all idiots that not one of them would be dating you?" I was shocked. I didn't know how to respond...so I laughed and said that I doubted that was the case. I'm still in shock over that situation...and I still don't know how to respond. It's still taking form and shape.

I've also realized that it has been nearly a year since I wrote any poetry. Why is that? Poetry has always been my form of non-fiction, of autobiography. Why am I letting this portion of my life go unmapped? This is a time of discovery, of hope, of new ground. Why am I letting it slip away?

We had writing workshop this week, and it went well. We spent quite a bit of time on my piece, but we had a lot of ground to cover there. I am excited about the story, about the things that are developing and the way characters are revealing themselves to me while I am doing mundane chores (like dishes and laundry and showering and walking the dog).

When did I become a reluctant reader? I have so many books that I want to be reading, but I'm not...I look at them and wonder what they're about, but I'm not actually reading them. I need to be in the structured setting of school again--good thing grad school is just around the corner!

That's all for tonight...there are still uncertainties, and I don't feel like I've answered any questions or resolved any inner turmoil, but at least I've laid them out.



My chest hurts when I breathe tonight...it's wasting me away...wasting me away. [Anberlin, Symphony of Blase]

What can men do against such reckless hate?

This may be a little late in coming, nearly a week after the fact. Forgive me for the delay, but I've been mulling over the shooting that took place in Aurora, Colorado. Mulling and chewing and praying and...and wishing for peace.

Events like this always seems so far away from my home, the heartland of this nation.

When 9/11 happened I was safely tucked away in my fifth grade class at a rural school--it wasn't until later that I found out President Bush had taken refuge in Omaha.

The Von Maur shooting was closer to home, my cousin worked in that Omaha mall, and I believe she was working when it happened. Even that wasn't home though, and my head keeps saying that this kind of tragedy would never happen in my center of the heartland.

Aurora though... that should feel far away, but it doesn't. My brother is moving down there in less than a month now to go to school. There were kids from the school he will be attending in the Theater that night. A friend from college calls Aurora home and she knew one of the victims well. One of my dad's cousin's sons was in the theater that night. I know people who were there. People who know people who died.

And all I can think is, "How could this happen?" I have a hard time understanding how a man can come to the conclusion that the only way to fix whatever pain he is experiencing is to shoot down people--to fire over 70 rounds into an unsuspecting crowd of late-night movie-goers. How am I supposed to react to such "reckless hate?" I find myself wondering what I would have done had I been there...how would I have reacted? Would I have tried to save those around me with my body as a shield like so many mothers, brothers, and friends?

It's funny, I had almost let it go--the worry and self-questioning. I was on the phone last night with my German-praying friend when he asked, "How is the Colorado situation? Are you still thinking about going out there? I just didn't know how your parents would feel about everything with your brother moving out." I had long made my decision to not to move to Aurora with Josef, and I knew that Mom and Dad were worried. But we can't let things like this keep us from moving forward. (Now I don't know if this friend was concerned beyond the general niceties, but it was sweet of him to ask how my parents were feeling about everything.)

So, I guess to answer the question of "What can men do against such reckless hate?" we just keep moving forward. We can't let the hate keep us from doing what we know is right and true and just. We push forward.

"By all you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand!" [Aragorn, Return of the King (movie adaptation)]

Never would I ever...

I've been struck by the irony in my life this year. Everywhere I turn, and every time I think I've finally turned the bend to leave it behind, irony is right there. And I must admit, we're not really friends. When I'm reading or watching a movie or tv show I don't mind the situational irony because it's funny. That's the thing about irony, it's funny when it isn't you.

Now, I don't want to rehash all of it, but if you read my post about February you have an idea of the kind of thing I'm talking about. I think it's even more frustrating to realize the irony because then you dwell on it...  Sometimes I wonder if God finds irony amusing.

Last semester, Claire and I started regularly attending the local E-Free church, I've mentioned this before. One of the congregation members really likes working with the college group, and so she hosts these meals once a month after the second service. The food she provides is always delicious, and it's just a good ministry to us--the poor and hungry college students.

It is kind of a wonder I ever went back though. The first time meeting these people, and the lady that helps Dawn asked us what we were majoring in. A standard question, easy to answer. When I told her I was an English major with a Creative Writing emphasis, she asked me second question, "What do you plan to do with that?" I explained to her my graduate school plans and that I want to be a professor. She actually, and I kid you not, scoffed and said, "Yeah, that's what my daughter said, she put all her eggs in on basket, and now she works at a car dealership. What a waste."

....

I was shocked and offended and just said that I wasn't going to do that. Wasn't going to do that.

Here I sit this morning, at one of the largest car dealerships in my town, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the phone to ring and praying that I get the full time position.

Maybe this is at the root of my frustration with not getting into graduate school. I'm afraid of getting stuck here, afraid of losing my will to go back to school. Then I remember that there's nothing wrong with this part of life. There's nothing wrong with taking some time to stretch your wings and allow some things to heal--the wounds that can only come from academia and dorm life and loans.

It's not a sin to work at a car dealership, like this lady made it sound. The people here are nice. The days are always interesting. The customers sometimes bring their kids, and they are adorable. I see people here. I talk to people. For once I feel like a semi-normal person. (Usually I say that normalcy is overrated, but it's really not.)

So, here's to a standard job. And irony.

"Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding." [Agnes Repplier]

Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast

I remember the day Daddy came into the kitchen when I was maybe five years old. There is fuzz around the edges of the memory, but it's there--standing out proudly as one of landmarks in my childhood, a moment that would change the way I prayed every day. It was lunch time and Mommy had set the table when Daddy came to take his seat. He folded his hands and said, "We're going to learn a new prayer today." Gently, patiently, he taught his small children how to say The Common Table Prayer in German. A tradition that would shape every meal to come.

The only time I didn't utter the words vocally in the following years was when we would eat at other people's homes and school cafeterias. But always with my family it was those words that had become an integral part of home. If home is where the heart is, then my home is laced with German prayers.

College was a place where you prayed silently before each meal--words internalized, but no less real. One of the things I would miss most from Pfeifenhof (the name of our home, meaning whistle home) was the fellowship in praying simultaneously in German with three other people. Each time summer would roll around I would become eager to sit around the table and offer up blessings.

I did not expect to feel Home during Dead Week and Finals Weeks my last semester of school. There it was though, amongst everything I had never dreamed of.

We sat, two nervous individuals, at a public restaurant with steaming food before us. I hadn't thought of the prayer in my preparations for the meal, but there it was when he asked,

"Do you pray before you eat?"  

Yes.

"Is the Common Table Prayer okay? That's what we normally do."  

Yes, you go ahead and pray, we normally say it in German, so I'll just listen. I don't know what made me say that, normally I just go with the flow.

"Oh, you mean, Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du..."  

...Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I can hardly find the words.

"Well, we can pray in German. You had better lead though, because I don't know if I remember the last part."

And I can't believe that we're praying together over our food in German, and part of my heart is singing at how homey it all feels. It's a good thing the German comes as second nature because I don't know if English would have come so easily in that moment.

Less than a week later we're sitting at a different table, with different food, but a look passes between us and he bows his head and starts saying the words. My Daddy's words, and the words of past years long gone. He's leading this time, confidant and sure. And as we pray for Christ's blessings on our food I'm praying a silent prayer that His blessings be on this, whatever this is.

And that second prayer continues to grow.

"Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast, und segna, was Du uns bescheret hast. Amen."

Why are you so far from me?

As usual, it's been a while since I last posted and a lot has happened in that time period. I do promise to be more diligent in posting this summer and this next year. I forget how therapeutic blogging can be--and for me, always is.

Instead of going into long details about what has happened, I think a list is in order. This list won't necessarily be in any particular order beside that which they come to me in.

1. I graduated from college with my B.A. in English. I walked across the stage afraid that my cap would tumble off my head, but made it to the president's hand, shook it firmly, and went on my merry way.

2. The Civil Wars have been on repeat since I bought their CD last week. I can't get enough, but wish they had another CD out. There's something about the organic sound and soulful lyrics that speaks to me...

3. My brother graduated from high school. This was huge because his graduation means that my parents could be empty nesters (an idea that I have ruined, but I'll get to that in a bit). I was responsible for the cake at his party, and it was a big success.

4. I did some house sitting for my cousin over this last weekend. She has a new dog (it's actually her boyfriend's, but the basset hound stays are her house), Oliver is a slime monster--cute, but drools a lot. And he's definitely a social eater.

5. I received four rejection letters. And that means that graduate school as not as near as I had hoped. This is why my parents are not going to be empty nesters quite yet. I'm taking the year off and just working, assuming I can find a job in town.

6. There's a possibility that I could be moving to Colorado to live with my brother while he goes to film school and I work. It's a possibility, but also a kind of last option. We'll see what happens.

7. I went on a date (or two). That was exciting, and the highlight of the last two weeks of school. I could go into this, but I think I'll leave it fairly simple. We're keeping in touch, but since we both graduated and are 13 hours from each other we're not "in a relationship." Letter writing is nice.

8. Goodbyes are hard.

9. My God-lesson right now is definitely Trust--and it's written on my wrist as a reminder. Trust. Trust. Trust.

That's about all I've got for an update right now. I'll see you around though, for sure.

"How long will you make me wait? I don't know how much more I can take. I miss you, but I haven't met you. Oh, but I want to. How I do." [The Civil Wars, To Whom It May Concern]

Says She's Got Hope...

The month of February was a rough one. I wish I could say it was just me, but it isn't. If I were the only one struggling it would have been more bearable, but nearly everyone I interact with was having some kind of problem too.

Really, it all started to unravel the week of Valentine's Day. Please don't take this as a single hating on the holiday devoted to couples--it's not. I really have no problem with Valentine's Day, except that it means there is way too much chocolate just floating around. In fact, I was even determined to have a good February 14th because, honestly, the week before had been awful for some people and I didn't want the trend to continue.

I went to bed that Monday praying I would get a letter from a graduate program. In my dreams I would be accepted into the Literature program at my top choice of school. It would be a day to write home about.

Well. I did call home, several times that day, but it had nothing to do with grad school letters. I was having some chest pain that was worrisome. I spent Valentine's Day morning in and out of various medical locations. Alone. (And I wasn't pining for a special someone, I just wanted my momma.)

A couple days later (Thursday) I had mail. An envelope from my preferred school. It was small, average letter size. Why do we put so much of our fate into the seals of envelopes? Inside was a perfectly creased rejection letter. My heart sank, and all through my British Literature class I was distracted. At one point, my professor called on me, and I scrambled to find the answer to a question I hardly heard. When I apologized after class for being distracted I cried. In front of a professor, whom I love but have no emotional connection with, I cried.

Since that day I've been riddled with thoughts of rejection, and in the back of my mind I can hear Professor Reek chanting, "They don't know what they're missing!" But as the days go on, his voice fades away and I'm left alone with the self doubt. What if I didn't get into the literature program because I'm not ready? I'm not passionate enough? I don't have what it takes?

This last week I found out I didn't get into one of the Creative Writing programs I applied to...and the questions started up again. (It was even the program that I was least interested in, and I still got upset about it.) Maybe this is all God's way of telling me that I picked the wrong career path.

That's just my stuff. And my stuff this month seems pretty lame compared to every thing else that my friends are going through.

I've started drinking tea again--like, every night and day. I also turned on some Anberlin. I don't know why I forget that they are one of the few bands that lets me wallow for a little while before convincing me it's time to get back up again. I need to put that in a hubby letter, something like this: "When I'm upset or depressed, put on some Anberlin and it will probably be okay in a few hours." (This rut is taking longer than a few hours to work myself out of.)

This will be a better month. March means spring is coming, and spring means there is hope.

"You're so brilliant. Don't soon forget. You're so brilliant. Grace marks your heart." [Anberlin, The Unwinding Cable Car]

There's still good in this world, and it's worth fighting for...

Well. You've all noticed this already, I'm sure, but I kind of fell off the blogsphere... and after a weekend of feeling wretched (for several reasons, but partially because I wasn't writing--and when I tried it flopped) I decided I needed to pick myself up and get with it. I found a partially started entry that I think I should still share with you...and then finish the thought. 

What was already said:

Oh, where to begin...as I have mentioned before, this semester has been crazy busy. It's been a good and bad kind of busy (I'm getting a lot done, and I don't feel like I'm drowning, but I'm also super behind on letter writing, sorry Danielle). It's been a challenge, that is for sure.

One of the largest challenges I've faced is filling out graduate school applications. Now, because I'm going into writing I have to send in a writing sample. Initially I didn't think this would be an issue at all. I've been working on this story (Morning Star) and feel pretty confident about the first couple chapters. A professor (my boss at the Writing Center) looked over what I thought I would be submitting and told me that grad schools may not even consider an applicant who submits genre fiction. (This is where things got hectic.) After emailing the school I'm looking at, this fear was confirmed. So I frantically found something "literary fiction" that I can submit, but it needs revisions.

While talking to my professor about what the writing workshop world is like, I realized that I was entering in to one of the hardest fights of my life--my academic life. I'm going to have to fight for "my thing." Honestly, the mere idea of this kind of potential confrontation has me shaking with nerves.

And the rest:

This isn't as much of an issue anymore because my applications are all in and I'm just waiting. Waiting, hopefully with some patience, for the word. I'm still nervous, sure. Maybe even a little scared about what the future may hold. But isn't that always the way when turning to a new chapter?

I did something unexpected in the middle of the application process. It didn't occur to me until one night when I was sipping at coffee with Lisa, she asked if I had thought about applying to any literature programs. I hadn't, not really. And then I just did it. I applied for a program that I hadn't really even thought about.

Creative Writing has always been my thing, just as genre fiction has always been my thing. But I can still write (genre fiction) without a Master's degree in it... and if I enter into the literary world maybe I'll be better equipped to fight for it. I only applied to the one literature program. One chance.

So don't think I'm going to stop fighting. I'm not. But I'm maybe going to take the Hobbit position for a while and just see how it all pans out. Then I'll walk to Mordor. And fly back with the Eagles.

Love you all, and I promise I'll post more frequently. :)

I fear what is to come, and what will become of me...

It's been one of those semesters when I just feel like I'm always one step behind where I need to be. I'm so close, and then I just barely get a hold of that final foothold. It's like Frodo and Sam, you know? Except that my Sam isn't yelling, "Don't you let go. Reach!" ...or is he? Have I just been to deaf to listen?

For church this last Sunday, Claire and I went to the local E-Free church instead of going into Lincoln. Their regular pastor was gone this week so they had the associate speak. In general, the message was fairly repetitive...which bothered me then, but now I am thankful for it. These last two days I've had his words, the words of the psalmist ringing in my ears, "It is good to be near God." I've heard it said that repetition is the best way to learn...but now I truly believe it.

What does this have to do with my inability to listen? The pastor also mentioned that when we feel distant from the Lord it isn't because He has moved--He's waiting for us to come back to Him. We're the one's moving away. I'm the one that's been moving away, and that is why I have been falling behind in everything.

I've been filling out grad school apps and am just generally concerned about that whole process. What if I don't get in to the school I want to? What if I don't get in at all? It is good to be near God. I should stop worrying about these things and remember that regardless of where I end up, it will not be alone and it will not be without God.

These are things I am hearing tonight. So I'll reach out for that hand that never stopped wanting to hold me. It is good to be near God. It is good.

"Will You please hold me? And sing me a love song again, say the words that heal my heart. Sing me a love song and then, let Your words remind me who I am. You never failed me before..."

I could never save myself...

There's an itch inside me. (I mean this both literally and figuratively.)

Many (if not all) of you know that I was badly sunburned a few weeks ago. Well, it's mostly "faded" now, and the pealing is mostly all gone.... but the itching. The itching will not go away. I'm lucky I have any skin left with how itchy I've been. People will comment on my sunburn (still) and I don't know if it's actually residual red from the burn or from my constant scratching. Maybe both.

Just as the itch on my skin is irritating, so is the itch in my soul. The difference is that I have not been able to scratch away the discomfort therein. Instead, it goes on bothering, becoming more incessant and more irksome everyday. Everyday, another part itches.

I would like to say that the answer to this itchiness would be to write....and I do believe it would help. As I told a dear friend in a note the other day: I have not had time to write, and therefore have not been writing everyday. Perhaps the stagnant waters of my soul started here. I was not moving the waters, becoming still in the routine of the day-to-day. Even now, I think to myself that I should be reading for a class instead of engaging in this potentially cathartic activity.

There are other things.

How do you swallow the words of nights past? Take it all back, let things play out the way they were meant to. Why did you ever open your mouth to begin with? I lack the grace to take these things in stride.

How do you console a friend that has just told you her dad in terminal? That he cannot speak to her the way he used to? She tells you not to cry for her, but these tears have been pushing for days, and this is just the news that wants to send them over the brink. You can spend all the time in the world working on homework for your Death, Dying, and Trauma class, but when those hard questions come up you just may not have the answers. I don't know if my arms are brave enough to help you carry this. 

How do you carry a friend's secret? Carry it wrapped up in your heart, tucked away. Let everything that is negative bounce off your shield, leaving dings and scratches. I don't know if I'm strong to hold up forever.

A friend once told me I had strong arms. Arms that could help one bear their burdens with a simply hug. All I want is for someone with strong arms to hold me. Tonight I couldn't stand the silence of my dorm room, so I slept. I went to work. I got back to the dorm, knowing I would be alone again. So, I decided to go for a drive, thinking it would make my heart feel less heavy in my chest.

I was in a wedding this last weekend. My friend now has a strong set of arms that will hold her through all things--in their vows he mentioned that he would be her shield. It gave me chills.

Now, I sit here, thinking of all the things I need to do, just wishing, praying, for some strong arms. For someone to be my shield. Because in that car ride I realized that when I am in need is when I give the most. I asked the Walmart lady if she was having a better night...only to get a long explanation about how it was worse than the other day. And even though I felt like my heart would burst, I gave her a smile anyway and told her that I hoped things would start looking up soon. I need someone to protect me for this emotional fatigue.

I am so itchy. And I just want it to go away.

"Hold fast, help is on the way." [Casting Crowns]

I'm preparing you for something great...

So, I've been thinking a lot about the character Eowyn this semester... and I have a post I've been working on. But I want to "prime" you for that post because it's going to be kind of a lot if I try to prime as I write it... uh. That makes it sound really daunting. Basically, I want to share with you a paper I wrote last semester on Eowyn as a character. So that's what this is. After you've read this, the next post will make more sense because this is a character analysis--I could write a book on her, for the record, so just know that this is the reigned in version. (ha) I hope you enjoy it...I know it's long, but there are some great quotes sprinkled throughout.

A Character Expose: Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan

            Tolkien deals with several issues throughout “The Lord of the Rings,” but one that seems out of place in this trilogy about men saving the world is the role of women in society. The reader meets female characters like Goldberry, Arwen, and Galadriel—and they are beautiful and each commanding of respect—but they are all very different from Eowyn. Tolkien devotes special attention to this mortal woman that he did not necessarily pay to those that are ageless. She gets more action time than the other women. Eowyn desires honor, valor and renown mainly—and she is willing to do nearly anything to obtain them. She longs to fight in battle with the men of her household—she does not like being idle. When men come into her life that possess the things she seeks they enthrall her. 

            It is no wonder why Eowyn feels trapped by her situation—she has been living in a house that is corrupted and there is nothing she can do to change it. When we first meet her, she is almost missed in the midst of the “exorcism” of King Theoden, the uncle she has been watching after while he fell deeper and deeper into despair. She gets one paragraph devoted to her, which seems to punctuate that she is forgotten or ignored to a certain extent.

“Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the king with cool pity in her eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings.” (The King of the Golden Hall)

The first impression we get is that she is beautiful, but full of sorrow and pity. One wonders why she pities the King. There are a few possible reasons for this. Either, she pities him that he has been so disabled or she is looking at him in pity because he has lost some of his honor and dignity. I think that both of these would cause her glance to be grave and thoughtful. Aragorn notices her disposition. He sees her as fair, but cold, “like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood.” (The King of the Golden Hall) She is a young woman, and she is trapped in the winter of despair. Because of this observation, Eowyn appears to be the quintessential damsel-in-distress and Aragorn is the hero that must save her. One could argue that she notices this as well when she sees him.

“And she now was suddenly aware of him: tall heir of kings, wise and with many winters, greycloaked, hiding a power that yet she felt. For a moment still as stone she stood, then turning swiftly she was gone.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

She has identified that he is everything that she wants to be. In real-time, this exchange would have only happened in a few seconds. There is so much energy built up in that one look, it has to be significant. And it is important, but not in the way that I had originally imagined. When I was younger, I read it as a direct sign that they would fall in love, but rather it harkens to the fact that she feels trapped and will do anything to get out of that entrapment. 

            It doesn’t take long for Aragorn to realize that he enamors her, and he is concerned by this quick turn of events, whether that is because he will not love her in return or because he sees something dark in her. Eowyn is presenting a cup of wine to him when he first seems to recognize this phenomenon.

“As she stood before Aragorn she paused suddenly and looked upon him, and her eyes were shining. And he looked down upon her fair face and smiled; but as he took the cup, his hand met hers, and he knew that she trembled at the touch. […] his face now was troubled and he did not smile.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

Now, this could be interpreted in a couple different ways. Aragorn could be concerned that her heart will be broken when he does not love her back. Or, he could have recognized something else that dwells deep within her—he is a man of wisdom and so it is possible to think that he saw the despair and desire for honor in her. It is interesting to me that it is in the touch of a hand that he could have potentially realized so much in her and later we learn that he has the hands of a healer—perhaps he sensed that there was something that needed healing. She seems to become obsessed with him. When she is dubbed Shieldmaiden of Rohan, she says, “’A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return.’ But as she spoke her eyes went to Aragorn who stood nearby.” (The King of the Golden Hall) This is not a very subtle hint, she’s going to miss him and she doesn’t even know him. But then, she doesn’t want to be left behind, she wants to fight beside these men of renown. As the group leaves Edoras,

“Aragorn looked back as they passed towards the gate. Alone Eowyn stood before the doors of the house at the stair’s head; the sword was set upright before her, and her hands were laid upon the hilt. She was clad now in mail and shone like silver in the sun.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

She is longing to join them, why else would she don the garments of war?  He sees her as a solitary woman, left behind as the last defense Edoras. “Far over the plain Eowyn saw the glitter of their spears, as she stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house.” (The King of the Golden Hall) She is left to be alone and surrounded in silence. This image doesn’t seem to be too terrible at first, but then, when one looks into her future in the books, you see that this could be the start of something else—something far worse. Or maybe, it’s the first sign of life from a seed that has been lying dormant for far too long. 

            The return of Aragorn from the Battle of Helm’s Deep with the Dunedain in “The Return of the King” is the first time the reader sees Eowyn in a long time, and she is all the more eager to join the war after that victory—she wants to be able to take part in that esteem. It is written, “for no mightier men had she seen than the Dunedain and the fair sons of Elrond; but on Aragorn most of all her eyes rested.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) The time and distance did not change her attitude towards him. She absorbs everything they will tell her of the battle with great eagerness. When Aragorn tells her that they will not be staying longer than one night because their road is an urgent one, at first she believes that they came to Edoras because he wanted to see her. He has to tell her, albeit gently, that he has not come to see her, but that his road brings him her way. She is appalled that he means to take the Paths of the Dead. She says to him, “I beg you to remain and ride with my brother; for then all our hearts will be gladdened, and our hope be the brighter.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) She doesn’t seem to understand his path has been appointed, and that he must go by the Paths of the Dead to Minas Tirith. It is interesting, she is concerned that he is riding to his death, but she seems more concerned that he is not riding to an honorable death in battle. She finally lets her desire to fight come to light.

“You are a stern lord and resolute and thus do men win renown. Lord, if you must go, then let me ride in your following. For I am weary of skulking in the hills, and wish to face peril and battle.”(Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

She wants to ride to battle so she can prove her worth. Aragorn reminds her that she has a duty to her people—a responsibility that must be upheld. She finally admits that she does not want to be left behind any longer, she doesn’t want to be protected from war, she grows weary of waiting for the return of the men.

“A time may come soon, when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”(Aragorn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

 He basically tells her that her place in Edoras is just as noble as one on the battlefield, because when it comes right down to it she will be the one that picks up the pieces should all the warriors fall. He wants her to realize her place in the world is important too. 

            Eowyn’s “place” in the world is her biggest fear—she is a strong woman, but there is one thing that causes her fear.

“All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.”(Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

She is not afraid to fight, she is not afraid to die. This is quite possibly the strongest voice in “The Lord of the Rings” against the oppression of women. It is interesting that it even comes up in such a “boys book.” Tolkien does seem to be saying that it is wrong to just expect women to stay home and do nothing—but he also says that there is honor in that role. Aragorn seems perplexed, or at least curious, by this and asks what she does fear. “A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)              

          This proclamation finally circles back to her disapproval of Aragorn’s quest to the Paths of the Dead. She says that she only did not wish to see “a thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) Aragorn tells her that he does not want to see that either, and that is why he implores her to stay. He even tells her she has no errand in the South—which, when you think about it, she really did, it just wasn’t something he could recognize or see at the time. She tells him that the others that go with him have no errand in the South either but that, “They go only because they would not be parted from thee—because they love thee.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) And then she’s gone for the night. All along it has been a combination of her wanting to earn renown and also in loving him. 

            In the morning, she begs him yet again to let her ride with him, and it is with pain that he tells her she cannot. He did not look back as he rode away, “and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) Aragorn wants to let her come with him, he understands what she wants, but it is not something he can give to her. She is traumatized at this dismissal. Perhaps she thought that he would be the one to give her a chance to earn her title because he is a man of action. “When they were lost to view, she turned, stumbling as one that is blind, and went back to her lodging.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) She is devastated to be left behind again. 

            The arrival of King Theoden and Eomer shows her ready for battle again, perhaps an attempt to cover up how she is really feeling, or perhaps a statement that she will not be left behind again. When Theoden asks her how she is, she says that she is well. Merry gets a different impression though. “…yet it seemed to Merry that her voice belied her, and he would have thought that she had been weeping, if that could be believed of one so stern of face.” (The Muster of Rohan) He isn’t the only one to notice, Theoden mentions that she seems grieved at Aragorn’s passing into the Paths of the Dead. Merry has become an esquire of Rohan, and Aragorn has requested to Eowyn that he be clad for battle. She provides him with all that he will need, and tells him, “Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I.” (Eowyn, The Muster of Rohan) When Merry is told that he will be left behind he too is distraught—he and Eowyn have that in common. She approaches him in the guise of a man, and offers to take him on her horse. Together, they ride to Minas Tirith in secret. For both of them, all of their friends have gone to war and they would not be left behind. 

            Both Merry and Eowyn were doubted, but they were both destined to do something great. Merry doesn’t realize that it is Eowyn he is riding with until they come up against the Witch King. Eowyn is defending King Theoden’s fallen body—she will do anything to prevent the winged-beast from feasting on his flesh—when the Witch King tells her that no living man can hinder him.

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”(Eowyn, The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

 At this speech, Merry realizes that the man he was riding with was in fact the Shieldmaiden, “But the helm of her secrecy had fallen from her, and her bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders. Her eyes grey as the sea were hard and fell, and yet tears were on her cheek.” (The Battle of the Pelennor Fields) She is finally doing what she has always desired—to die in honor and in battle. Merry rises up to help her, for he does not think that one so beautiful should die alone or unaided. Eowyn manages to kill the winged-beast, and a blow from the Witch King breaks her arm. Merry stabs him in the back of the “leg.” In his moment of distraction, she is able to plunge her sword into what would be his head. And so, Eowyn and Merry slay the Witch King, a mighty foe that no man could kill. She lies near death on the field of battle while Merry is able to talk to Theoden before he dies as well. 

            If one had any doubt of Eomer’s love for his sister, it is put to rest swiftly when he finds her “dead.” As a reader, I felt my heart break for him in that moment. I cannot imagine what I would do if my brother was killed in battle, and I didn’t even know he was there…much stronger would that pain be, I think, for a brother who lost a sister.

“He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.”(The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

He does not take the loss lightly, and rides off into the thick of battle again, perhaps seeking his own death because of the loss of everything he loved. It is fortunate for him that another looked to his sister and saw that she was not dead, but only near death. 

            Eowyn’s wounds were far deeper than just the bodily wounds she suffered at the hand of the Witch King—there were preexisting wounds. The healers at the Houses of Healing were not able to revive her, though her physical wounds were fairly simple. Gandalf says, “For it is only in the coming of Aragorn that any hope remains for the sick that lie in the House.” (The Houses of Healing) Even Aragorn was troubled by her illness, “Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow.” (Aragorn, The Houses of Healing) It is here that Aragorn tries to identify what the deep-rooted problem is with the help of Gandalf and Eomer. He begins musing over what he had already perceived from her as he spoke to her in the earlier chapters.

“When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not Eomer?”(Aragorn, The Houses of Healing)

Eomer seems to be oblivious to this winter that she was dwelling in. He tells Aragorn and Gandalf that he had not perceived any frost until she saw Aragorn—the man that she wanted to be, essentially. He says that yes, she was distressed about the state of the King, but it was nothing serious enough to cause this kind of malady. Gandalf reminds him that he had other things to do to take his mind off of his uncle,

“…you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on. […] But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?”(Gandalf, The Houses of Healing)

She did not having anything in which to channel her energy. There was nothing for her to distract herself with. Her own self-view was so low that she didn’t think she was worth more than a piece of wood…how sad is that? Gandalf suspects that she felt she was something wild that needed to be caged in, and that all the men around her were causing her to believe this. Aragorn admits to thinking it was more related to himself, “Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man’s heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned.” (Aragorn, The Houses of Healing) He was deeply saddened that he could not give her what she sought. He tells Eomer that he pitied her, and feared for her more than anything while he traveled the Paths of the Dead.

“And yet, Eomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me; for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan. […] But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. And if to despair, then she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown.”(Aragorn, the Houses of Healing)

Eowyn was in love with him because of what he was and what he stood for, not because of who he was. She is finally what she has always wanted to be—remembered for some great deed. It isn’t until Eomer calls to her that she awakens. They all wait with bated breath to see what she is like now that she is no longer slumbering. Gandalf tells her, “But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are made whole again. Great gladness it is to see you awake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!” (The Houses of Healing) Eowyn admits that she is “healthy” again, “But to hope? I do not know.” (Eowyn, The Houses of Healing)  

            It is not until she meets Faramir that she is truly healed from all her maladies. They are both being kept in the Houses of Healing until they are well, and while she thinks that she is well, she is not. Her heart still longs to be doing great deeds. Faramir remarks that they have both been under the Shadow and that the same hand, Aragorn’s, drew them from it. To which she replies, “Shadow lies on me still.” (The Steward and the King) So it seems that she did wake to despair, and waits for other healing. It becomes very obvious right away that Faramir is taken by her. He knows that she is waiting for the return of Aragorn—she has been waiting seven days.

“But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Eowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.”(Faramir, The Steward and the King)

 Eowyn is able to be completely honest with him, though she pretends to be baffled by his statement—the reader knows that he has found her and does not wish to lose her. She is able to admit, “I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.” (Eowyn, The Steward and The King) Finally the stroke falls, and it does not seem as though darkness will be able to hold much more of a grip on Middle Earth—Faramir expresses this before kissing her brow. And in that moment the Shadow departs and the Sun is able to shine again. During this time together we learn that she does seek pity, though pity is what she receives from many but not Faramir. He understands her better than she seems to understand herself.

“You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now it. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. […] Do not scorn pity that is a gift of a gentle heart, Eowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful […] And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you.”(Faramir, The Steward and the King)

What a speech. Now, if Eowyn had not had a change of heart after that, I doubt she would be one of my personal favorite characters. In that moment, she throws off the Shadow that surrounded her, and she is once again in the Sun. They agree to be married, and Faramir is able to say, “Here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, and now she is healed.” (The Steward and the King) She decides to stay in the Houses of Healing for a time and help those that must still remain there, for she finally has hope again. 

            Eowyn is able to be happy, and she has found herself. Tolkien speaks to feminism in an interesting way. Really, he presents both sides. The reader is able to understand why she is the way she is—seeking for something more than to be just a woman of the house. On the other hand, I am also able to see where Aragorn is coming from. No matter what her lot in life, she is important—for all things must be done. In a way, Tolkien is also speaking to the issue of identity crisis. Eowyn didn’t really know who she was, or what she was supposed to be doing. She knew what she wanted, but she didn’t see her own worth. The last thing Aragorn says to Eowyn is, “I have wished you joy ever since I first saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss.” (Many Partings) And so the reader watches this transformation of a woman so utterly lost to a woman of complete bliss. She is probably my favorite character because she does overcome her own self-doubts, and in the end she is able to live in peace. 

I hope you all enjoyed it... There are enough quotes throughout, you probably don't need another one at the end of the post.

I don't want your sympathy or pity...

It's time to talk about this thing that I've been carrying around for a while. A thing that I have not addressed because it hurt. And no matter how many times I sang, Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place... I still felt the sting.

A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)

November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.

"Anna boo?"

"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"

"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."

Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"

"Mom wants to talk to you."

I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.

I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.

When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.

The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.

A mentor.


He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.

It's strange, the memories we hang on to.

I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.


Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.)  But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.

I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.


When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.

While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.

I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.

I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.

He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.

Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.

Life is a funny thing.

Like butter scraped over too much bread...

What am I doing tonight?

On the floor, on my stomach, typing away at Morning Star -- there's an engagement! I'm excited that such an emotional scene last night could evolve into something so expected, but not at that moment. It's all about timing. I'm sipping coffee, writing, and yes, half watching Magnum PI.

And you know what? I have a headache. Normally I'm pretty decent at multitasking, but I'm not tonight. My brain isn't keeping up with what I want to be doing. Part of that is from lack of sleep--I was up rather late last night, writing. The night is still young though, and so I'm looking for ways to keep myself awake. (Hence the decaf coffee. I know, it's decaf, but it's hot.)

I started a new workout program this week, and I'm really excited about it. But it's way more intense than what I had been doing, and so I'm a little sore in the shoulders. And I've been having chronic stomach pain every evening. (Just a general ickyness.)

Then there's the upcoming GRE. That's got me more than just a little stressed out. Last night, a friend reminded me that not all colleges care about this test. In fact, the school I'm most interested in said that it wasn't a requirement, but what recommended. Why am I taking it then? Hopefully I'll do well on it. I need to study. I mean, I really need to buckle down and study. There are so many other things that occupy my mind though... I know that while I'm testing I'll start thinking about Elves and Fantasy worlds... but I should study anyway, and put forth a strong effort.

I also didn't get a letter in the mail on time today. And that upsets me. When did I start slacking with putting letters in the mailbox? That's not even the worst of it, I have letters backed up waiting for responses from the end of June. I should do that. I really should, and I know I should. So why haven't I?

There are pictures that need to be taken. I need to get my Etsy account all squared away with product pictures. Maybe my cousin will be a bag model for me...I'll have to call her sometime soon.

And now I am indescribably thankful that I did not get a job this summer.

Nerd factor of the night: I'm drinking coffee from a Lord of the Rings mug...that I designed. It's pretty sweet, not going to lie.

"You don't even have to talk about what you're talking about. If you know what I mean." [Magnum PI]

Were hearts made whole just to break?

Rejection. It's been the tune of my summer. And believe me when I say that this has nothing to do with romance, again. No, it's something a little more shallow, but still a bit painful.

I've been filling out job applications like no one's business. To no avail. Either I don't meet the requirements (how do I not make the requirements at a bookstore?) or they aren't hiring (even though they're handing out applications like cheap candy).

Now, I suspect the requirements I'm not making having something to do with going back to school in the Fall. Who would have thought that going to college would cost me job opportunities? Didn't think of that negative. 

Who would have a big sign when you walk into their store: "Pick up your application today!" if they weren't actually hiring? Talk about false hope...

As bitter as I am about this this morning, it has given me a lot to think about. How could the constant "no" be teaching me? What should I be learning from this experience?

Well, when I get to graduate school applications I probably (and by "probably" I mean "definitely wont") get into every school I apply to. And when I am in grad school not everyone will like my writing style or subject matters. When I get to the publishing world, not every agent will like my stuff. And when I have an agent, not every publisher will like my story. When I get a publisher, not every editor will be helpful. When I'm done editing and book is published, not every reader will enjoy my fantasy either. There will always be disappointments.

Perhaps this summer I am learning to handle those issues. I am preparing for my life. Why didn't anyone tell me the start pistol had fired?

I'm going to leave you with a short poem I wrote last night, when I was trying to work out the next seen in Morning Star. It's just a ditty, really, it needs work. But it's a start.


It is not for lack of paper,
That I do not write.
I have drawer upon drawer
Of books waiting to be written.

It is not for lack of heart,
That my voice is silent.
I have tear after tear,
Of love and pain to be heard.

It is for lack of courage,
That I shrivel in fear.

But stand up,
Silent poet,
Be strong.

Proud to be an American...

Sometimes I hate Facebook. It can be a great tool to communicate and organize group events, but generally it's just a nuisance. Especially lately. Part of that is because it is so good at distracting me from writing my final papers. (Which is a personal problem, and I don't blame Facebook, it just proves I have a weak will.)

Last night, however, it nearly made me sick.

I was driving back to college with a friend after going to a concert in my home town--which is what I was planning on blogging about, but won't for now--when she said, "My sister just texted me, Osama bin Laden is dead. We won the war."

My first reaction? "Well... I'm glad we caught the man, but I don't think that his death will necessarily mark the end of the war, it will certainly be a turning point of sorts."

And then I didn't really think about it until I got back to my room and checked my Facebook. I wish I hadn't. It was riddled with three different kinds of reactions, here are the paraphrases:

"Yeah! Osama's dead! AMERICA!"

"Are we celebrating? Really? What's wrong with our country."

"I don't really know how to feel..."

Now, I take a deep breath before I jumped into the rest of this blog because I know that I am bound to offend someone--such is the way of America.

If you don't like rants, stop reading here. I will try to keep it fairly contained.

I will admit, I was relieved to hear that he was dead. Some of my thoughts included, but were not limited to: Maybe some of my friends that have been serving to keep us safe will be able to come home sooner now. Maybe some of the movement of the terrorist groups with be slowed--though I'm sure another leader will take his place. Maybe Americans can finally stand united again.

I guess I can't count on the last one.

The comments on Facebook that bothered me the most? The ones that railed on those that were excited about bin Laden's death. The ones that had this holier-than-thou attitude because they had overcome the human reaction and decided to "love." Last I checked, calling all of the other Facebook users "inhumane" isn't loving. And what kind of image does that promote to the non-Christians? "You're celebrating? You heathens. We should have shown mercy."

Have we forgotten where this all began? Sometimes I wonder if America remember the 9-11-01 attacks. I wonder if they remember how united we were right after that tragedy. I'm sure no one thought this war would go on for close to 10 years, but I wonder if we remember this attacked came from a deep-rooted hate for Christians?

Now, we could have put bin Laden to trial I suppose, but it still would have ended with a death sentence, I'm sure.

It just kills me that it's a lot of the same people that wanted the war to end that are condemning those that see this as the light at the end of the tunnel.

It makes me wonder how people reacted to the death of Hitler. In my mind, bin Laden is the Hitler of my generation. Granted, Hitler took his own life, but I'm sure there was celebration state-side. If there had been Facebook would I have had to sift through the same kind of messages I did last night?

Now, should we rejoice in another's death? Probably not. But I understand the celebration. And a part of me joins in on the "party." I do think justice has been served. I am glad that another Hitler has been removed.

I respect the most those that say they don't know how to feel. "Torn between two kingdoms," as one of my friends put it.

Do I think it's appropriate to say things like, "Burn in Hell?" No. Of course not. Frankly, if we said that every time a sinner died, we would be saying it all the time--every time. (Thank God that with Christ we are forgiven.)

So, I say, "Thanks to our troops for keeping us safe, even when Americans doesn't seem to appreciate your sacrifice for our freedom. Thanks be to God for being a just God. And God bless America, because there are Christians here, and God bless the Middle East, because there are Christians there too. Let His kingdom come, His will be done. May the Christians be able to unite and help restore those that are in need. And please, America, stop trying to destroy yourself from the inside."

I got my memories always inside of me...

Well, it's almost the end of the semester. Crazy. So. A list of things I am going to miss in each class is needed.

1. Poetry Writing. I'm going to miss Lisa, and the awkward pauses right after I would finish reading a poem. While they were uncomfortable, but I'm glad she let the rest and settle in before speaking, they allowed for growth in me--silence is more than okay. I'm going to miss sitting in the "dungeon" listening to poetry for hours...and seeing how everyone's style is different, but it's still poetry. And I'm going to miss Daniel Brown--because he is an old soul in a young body and tried to write to the style of Tolkien, and that just made me happy. I'll never forget him telling me, "The chinese don't capitalize 'I' either...they use characters, they don't capitalize any words," and then hearing him laugh. That was a good day. And I'm never going to forget Lisa telling me on the last day while I hugged her, "You have strong arms." For a minute I thought maybe I had squeezed her too hard, but really I think she meant that they can hold a lot--she was speaking metaphorically, really I'm a whimp. Poetry was the class that soothed me back into a sense of calm (most days, when I was arguing poetic devices with one of my classmates). I'm even going to miss that bickering...mostly because I "won" nearly everytime, and the times I didn't it just wasn't concluded and neither of us "won."

2. British Literature III. I'm going to miss Dr. Ashby. She's a tough professor, but I appreciate the way she pushed us to learn more and see more than just the surface of the material. And I will miss walking over to Jesse with her after class occasionally. I will never forget the day she told me she didn't like James Joyce either...and that the modernists were all arrogant. She was one of the most helpful professors when I was preparing to present at that theology conference. "Remember to breathe." A simple instruction, but crucial. And I feel like I owe her something, but I'm not sure what it is. I really should sit down and just talk to her sometime.

3. Ling and Lang. Dr. Gernant. I could probably leave it at that, because how does one describe her? Not easily, that's for sure. I'm going to miss how much she pushed us as a class, and myself as an individual. I learned so much that sometimes it made my head hurt--and in a good way. There are so many wonderful people in that class, it's going to be weird not seeing them so much, especially those that are graduating. Mostly, I'm going to miss talking about language being nerdy about linguistics in a safe environment.

4. Global Issues. Well... I'm going to miss doing homework for other classes in that class. Ha. Oh, and I'll miss talking to Austin and my other table-mates. They're all pretty much awesome.

5. Reading Interests of the Adolescents. I'm going to miss my table-mates in that class too... it's been so great to be able to talk with all of them. I'm going to miss Dylan's singing terribly, it always made me smile. There were so many silly things said in that room... I'll miss those quirks.

6. Independent Study on "The Lord of the Rings." Wow. Mostly, I'm going to miss having meetings with Dr. Thurber. Sitting in his office, talking about one of my favorite series of all time, was simply put: epic. He and I connect when trying to communicate, and that makes me happy. I'll miss reading Tolkien for homework. I'll miss being totally submerged in super-nerdom.

I had some great classes this semester. And I've had some wonderful times with friends. I'm going to miss Monday nights with Andrew, Tuesday afternoons with Heather and Heidi, Tuesday evenings with Claire, Wednesday evenings with Claire, Thursday evenings with the Office-watching crew, and Friday nights with my roommate. And all my other friends too.

Yes, I will even miss my dorm room.

"But I can't go back to how it was. I believe now I've come too far, now I can't go back, back to how it was. Created for a place I've never known--this is home." [Switchfoot]

If my heart says I'm sorry, can we leave it at that?

So... I called to talk to my mom today. It wasn't anything big. I just wanted to run some plans by her for next Monday.

The next thing I know, she's defensive and crying. Now, I can be snarky sometimes when talking to my mom, but I wasn't this time. I was very calm and explained it all to the best of my ability. I was completely reasonable.

I finally told her, "Mom, you have to tell me what you're thinking. I don't understand why you're upset. Or why you're angry."

"I'm not angry."

"You sound angry."

Then there was more blubbering. Something about a bad day and not understanding why I would want to carry through on these plans....

"Mom, can I please talk to Dad?"

Now, Dads are generally more reasonable than Moms, at least in my experience. He asked me to explain what was going on, so I did, this time I was on the brink of tears because I didn't understand what the big deal was. I don't think Dad did either. He talked me through it and then explained what was going on with Mom.

She did have a bad day. Her medical mystery is still a mystery, she had physical therapy this morning, and her first day back to work in a month was today. Yes. She had a bad day.

And I'm sorry that I made her cry, even if I don't understand. I'm sorry that our communication is so strained sometimes. I pray we "grow" out of this phase sooner than later.

I was able to have a good conversation with my Dad about the theology conference. I love talking to my daddy about God and where I'm at with my literary analysis of "The Lord of the Rings." He is the one person that I know will understand what I'm trying to say and will push me to develop it further. Now, professors do that too, of course, and so do my friends, but there's something about Dad...it's a part of home. He calls them my "Anna rants" and whenever I'm home he asks me what's new, and I know that he's looking for a "rant." Normally, I can lay one out pretty good. I think he just likes to know how I'm growing. I always know what Dad wants to hear about.

I don't know what Mom wants to know about. She's not on the same page as me as far as world view. She's far more... feminine than I am, in a sense. She's more apt to cry than I am. I always feel like she's one step behind me, like she's settled. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm just learning that Dad is willing to grow with me.

I think my experience on campus as one of the few that aren't Lutheran has been a cause for him to grow as much as it has been for me. I used to call home all the time and say things like: Daddy, they think I'm less Christian...we need to make sure we don't do this to them, it hurts. Daddy, why can't we all just say that Jesus is all that matters and forget about our denominations? Daddy, why does the body fight so violently against itself? Daddy...why, Daddy?


"Mommy paints the sky." [Danny Oertli]

I will move ahead bold and confident...

Well, it's Monday night (or Tuesday morning) and in approximately three days I will be presenting my paper on Tolkien's Middle Earth at a theology conference. Let me fill you in on what exactly I'm going to be talking about:

"In this presentation, I will be exploring the idea of hope versus despair. This exploration will take place in the context of Middle Earth, a fantastical land created by Professor J.R.R. Tolkien. In “The Lord of the Rings” there is a group of unlikely companions that are sent to destroy evil. I will be discussing predestination and how it impacts the hope versus despair theme that comes up in Tolkien’s literary works. I will focus primarily on “The Lord of the Rings” and possibly include other books by Tolkien. With this presentation I will have a power point to show the text to the audience, so they can follow along as I discuss."

 Yeah, so that's the gist of it. And I have a lot of work ahead of myself. 


Now, I have had more presentations in the last two weeks then I have had in the last three semesters (not including this one, that math would be impossible). It seems a bit excessive, honestly. Something you need to understand: I don't do well in front of people. I get nervous, my face turns red (or so it feels), and my hands get shaky. It's kind of obvious.


One of my professors commented to me on blackboard, "Nice job! Continue building you speaking confidence. You are INCREDIBLY bright so you need not be timid about presenting." (Gernant) Now, all that emphasis is hers, not mine. I say that because I don't think I would call myself "INCREDIBLY bright" but I must admit that my confidence, when it comes to presenting, is seriously lacking. It's bad.


So, this Friday I get to present in front of a bunch of people I don't know. Yeah, it's going to be great... *heavy sarcasm*


Now, my friend Andrew suggested that I just pick one person out at the conference and "talk" to them. We both agreed that it would be kind of creepy, but that it would probably work. 


Any speaking tips out there?


Praying for the nerves to go away.


"Yet it is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have a clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule." [Gandalf, The Return of the King]

Why do I do the things I do?

In my Language and Linguistics class we have started talking about grammar. (This is where most people tell me I'm crazy for being and English major. Who likes grammar?) Well, we've been discussing the difference between writing and usage. Most of the time, when someone says, "They have really bad writing skills," they mean the usage, not the writing itself. Someone can be an excellent writer--usually characterized by complete and original thoughts and ideas--but then their usage can be sour--comma use is poor, spelling is bad, sentence structure is lacking, ect.

Now, I've always regarded myself as a decent writer. (Can you see a bit of that confidence coming into play? Really, if you're writing and you think it's worth reading, you have a least a little bit of an ego.) In the middle of class though, I started to have a mental break-down. Am I doing what I'm supposed to be doing? Do my usage skills suck? Should I switch my major? Do all of my colleagues cringed when they read my papers? Did I proof-read that paper for Dr. Ashby very well? What about the one for Dr. Gernant? What would I do if I didn't write? That's the basic idea of what this internal melt-down looked like.

Then I had to go to Poetry Writing. Now, I love that class, it is one of my favorites. I'm normally fairly vocal about my opinions in that class...but yesterday I just couldn't do it. Those feelings of self-doubt, that Ling and Lang instilled in me, were leaking over into my poetry. Now, I did speak a little, but not nearly as much as I normally do...at least it felt like less.

After that I had to work. While I was working I needed to finish a paper for Dr. Thurber, before our meeting. The entire time I was stressing out about how I wasn't using perfect MLA formatting... (I hate formatting, by the way.)

Once I got into his office though, a deep calm seem to rush over me. There's just something about that man that soothes the frayed nerves. We had an excellent conversation about my independent study. He would read to me little bits of what I had written in previous papers and then he would tell me how well I articulated it and would ask me to expound upon what I had said. These are papers I had written at least a month ago, so it was kind of hard to recall exactly I had meant when typing them.

The meeting lasted a half an hour. And when it was all done, Dr. Thurber told me he was very glad to see where I was going with this research into Tolkien's Middle Earth. Deep sigh of relief. I am where I am supposed to be. This is at least part of what I was meant to do. Praise God for gentle reminders.


"If you're a ship and you're lost in the ocean, I'll be the wind in your sails, give you motion. I will guide you home. If you're too far out that you can't see the shore line, I'll be the lighthouse shining in the night time. I will guide you home. I will guide you home. When the night is long, when the storm is strong, I will guide you, I will guide you home." [Remedy Drive]

One of us is big and brave...

I was thinking tonight about how we stereotype people. And in my context, specifically college majors. Or rather, not so much stereotypes, but allowances.

Let's look at the jocks first. (I am not trying to pick on any one group, don't worry, I'll get around to almost all of them.) The jocks are generally allowed to be less motivated at academics. As a society we don't expect them to be super intelligent. If they were, in the case of football, we wouldn't necessarily let them go out and run the risk of having their brains beat out. So, the jocks are allowed to be "stupid meatheads."

The science major. Well, I have a lot of friends in the science department. They are totally allowed to be complete and utter nerds. (To them, that was a compliment.) In fact, society expects them to geek out about the most obscure things at the most random times, look at "Big Bang Theory" for goodness sake. I would say that society takes great entertainment from their intelligence. It's okay for them to be socially awkward at times. "Oh, he's a science major...that explains a lot."

Math majors kind of have the same allowances as the science people.

Art majors. Both of my parents were art majors. ...yeah. Well, artists are allowed to be eccentric and mostly just really weird. They also get pegged as high hippies a lot of the time too. (That is not always the case.) It's okay for an art student to dress different from everyone else. It's okay for them to look like they're totally in their own little world.

Music majors are similar to artists. Only, they get the allowance for huge egos as well. Or, we'll call it confidence.


And then we get to the English major.

{insert awkward pause}

Well, they're kind of the culmination of all the things listed above. The most common response to "I'm an English major" is that glazed look that just screams, "Oh...you're one of those stupid kids that didn't know what they wanted, so you picked the dead-end major with no real options after graduation." It always comes from the grocery store employees too. (I just wonder what they think art majors are going to do, seriously.)

They're also allowed to be nerdy and geek out about literary allusions in pop culture. I always love when that happens, it's like I have an inside joke with the writer. (Half the time, I wonder if the writer actually understands that we made a connection...maybe it was an accident.)

And we're also allowed to be a little weird, a little "high" as it were. And if the English major is going into writing, there comes the ego.

But you know? Just once, I would like to have my own little niche that I fit into instead of having one foot in all of them. You know? I want someone to be able to look at me, without noticing my books or journals, and think, "English major," the way I can do with just about any other major on campus. 

"And one of us is tender-hearted. One of us is tempting fate. And the last, but not least of us, has faith enough for each of us. And I know that I could never go it alone, cause I believe I'd be lost without You here beside me." [Nichole Nordeman]

Lay down your sweet and weary head...

I helped a friend move to Lincoln yesterday. It was hard to leave her after we had gotten all the boxes inside and a good bit of unpacking done.

She was nervous. It is her first time really being out on her own. 

We'll be much closer now when I'm in school... but breaks are going to be weird without her. She's like a sister to me. (She calls us "soul-sisters.")

She told me that her dad wanted to have an official goodbye with her, and that it was weird for him that he wasn't helping her move because of work. She told her mom that she didn't want a "goodbye" she just wanted a "see ya later" and that this plan to move her was better for that purpose.

I understand what she was feeling. There's more finality in a "goodbye" then in a "see ya." I still think I would have wanted my family with me to move.

When I first started college I remember being homesick and crying myself to sleep a couple nights because I had become a "recurring character" in my parents' lives. That didn't mean that my character ceased to exist, it just started existing in a different bubble that sometime overlapped with theirs.

She has now become a recurring character in the lives of almost everyone she knows now. It's time for her to go off and make her own bubble.

Part of me hopes that she didn't cry herself to sleep last night. But, if that helped her release some nerves then I hope she did. 

"I will not say, 'do not weep,' for not all tears are an evil." [Gandalf]