Sun Wars

One of the unique things about going to a small college is that you have small classes (Wow, that didn’t really wind up sounding very brilliant). Small classes can be a disadvantage when you’ve just read some crazy poetry that made absolutely zero sense to you and your professor opens up his book and looks expectantly at your whopping class of four, waiting for some mind-numbingly brilliant comments. It’s moments like these you wish you were in a class of four hundred and could just shrink into the background and not have to pretend your brain actually works. On the other hand, a small class means you are forced to talk (as I just mentioned), more individual attention (*shudder* expectant stare-downs), and better relationships with your professors (depending on how well you can pretend your brain works). Best of all, though, it means flexibility. And flexibility means Starbucks time!

Today my Contemporary Poetics class headed over to Starbucks to sip coffee, discuss poetry, and enjoy the ridiculously warm weather. I was pretty excited until about fifteen minutes into class when I realized ‘enjoying the ridiculously warm weather’ also meant bake. I was sitting there attempting to make sense of the words on the page in front of me when I felt a strange sensation on my arm. My pale, white skin cells were shrieking “Help us, Rachel Fleeman; you’re our only hope!” Since I typically pay great attention to any part of my body that takes the time to shriek at me, I tried to subtly shift my body. Unfortunately, I was sitting perpendicular to the sun, so this simply meant the sun was now hitting the back of my left arm rather than the front of it. Once this strip of my skin joined in the protesting, I did a little more adjusting, trying to somehow make it so the sun could bake my right arm instead of my left arm, but I could still see my professor. I think I finally accomplished this by some awkward twisting and careful positioning of my arms and head, but by then it was too late. I was forced to resign myself to being half-lobster…now with a back ache and neck crick.

If you’re wondering what the moral of this story is, welcome to the club. I think it might have something to do with wonderful sunny California, awesome small classes, and needing to remember sunscreen the next time our flexible class relocates. On the other hand, it might have to do with hallucinations of screaming skin cells, conveying events completely hyperbolically, and trying to avoid pretending my brain actually works. Take your pick. I’m going to go soothe my hair follicles.

Deep within me lies a creature –
An overwhelming creature
Who is slowly nipping away at my being
I feel myself helpless in its power
Driven mad with its incessant clawing
Rip…Shred…
The parchment of my soul
The fabric of my heart
Torn by that which is so hideously alive
Every so often its claw
Slides its way up my throat
Despite the tight constrictions
It wedges into my fleshy mouth
Awaiting the moment it can flash out
And grasp its prey
I leave a trail of brokenness in my wake
Because within me rages a creature –
A ravenous creature

Just Thinking

Sacrifice is an interesting thing. The Miriam-Webster dictionary defines sacrifice as “destruction or surrender of something for the sake of something else.” We give things up because we think something else is more important – this seems pretty noble. But I wonder if it can also be dangerous. The other day in my Contemporary Poetics class we were talking about Romeo and Juliet. Romeo kills himself because he believes Juliet is dead. Dying for love – what a wonderful sacrifice! But does the fact that he dies make his love real?
Last night almost our whole school headed to Hollywood to see Grease at the Pantages Theatre. If you’ve seen the movie, you probably know that it’s got a lot of fun songs, but a fairly depressing ending. Sandra Dee sacrifices her good-girl nature so she can be with the guy she’s crazy about. My roommate was really upset about this turn-out. She didn’t have gut to stand up for herself and who she really was, I was told.
On the other hand, the whole basis of our Christian faith is sacrifice. Christ sacrificed himself for us and we are to give ourselves as “living sacrifices.” Why isn’t this wrong? Why does it feel so stupid to deny yourself for some guy, but so necessary to deny yourself for Christ? Why do so many of our “sacrifices” feel so shallow and ridiculous? Meaningless.
I wonder if it’s because so often we’re sacrificing “for the sake of something else” but this “something else” doesn’t last. It’s temporary, fleeting, inconsequential. I didn’t feel a sense of satisfaction watching Sandra Dee get her guy, because I didn’t have any real confidence that their relationship would work for more than two months. Romeo is heroic to many because once he and Juliet are dead it seems their love is immortalized. We can’t touch it.
We like the idea of the eternal. Sacrificing for something real. In my Bible class a couple of weeks ago we talked about the resurrection as our reason for sacrifice. We can surrender ourselves to God now because we hope for something greater – namely, the resurrection of the body. It’s hard to sacrifice like Christ wants us to sacrifice. Romantic characters are more appealing because they get immediate benefits. Christians don’t. But in the end, our sacrifice will be rewarded by God himself. Pretty awesome huh?

Juxtapositions

There I was - sitting outside, feeling like the world was about to end. My curly hair was doing a strange frizz job on top of my head; my brain felt like it had been run over by a very large semi-truck; my stomach had a queasy feeling due to containing only coffee; my eyes were welling up with big, bad, angry, stressed, just-want-to-sleep tears. If I ever need a reminder of my desperate need to depend on God’s grace, I just have to transport myself to mid-terms. It seems that every semester, during these days, God paints for me a canvas of contrasts: my helplessness and His grace, my worry and His peace, and my lack of trust and His faithful control.

My Tuesday and Wednesday of this past week felt like two totally opposite days. On Tuesday I had a midterm (which I didn’t feel very confident about) and a test. I also had a paper to finish writing for the next day and I got back a paper on which I did not think I received a very good grade. Now, most people might be able to handle this stuff pretty well (which in all honesty, is hardly anything compared to what some people actually had), but if there are a couple things I have learned about myself they are that a) I deal very poorly with stress, and b) I cannot function on less than 6 hours of sleep. Hence the frizzing and crying scene.

Notice all of my excuses. I often think my life is one big excuse, comprised of all the reasons why it is ok for me to complain. God, however, is constantly reminding me that this does not sit well with Him. Wednesday, He reminded me again, sprinkling my life with completely undeserved blessings. Hair that worked, an enjoyable first class, a time of singing in the chapel, canceled afternoon classes, a refreshing nap, an encouraging professor, and friends that never cease to make me smile. Finally, I reached the dreaded moment – the poetry field trip I had completely forgotten about until it was painted into the picture on that terrible Tuesday. And trust me, it had caused me to mope and complain (excuse: who wants to listen to poetry on their last night before Spring Break?).

The first stop my English professor, Dr. Belz, insisted on making during our field trip was at Laguna Beach to watch the sun set. In all honesty, I don’t know if I can say I had ever seen a sunset on the beach. But take it from me now, it was amazing. And as I was meandering along the beach back to the car, I recalled the Psalm I had read that morning. Psalm 57 says “I am in the midst of lions…Be exalted, O God,” and “They spread a net for my feet…My heart is steadfast, O God.” At the time I read that, I was really struck by the fact that such contrasting thoughts were juxtaposed next to each other. Dire situations, but praise and trust.

D. Martyn Lloyd Jones reminded me that God often uses small trials in our lives to prepare us for large ones. You would think that knowing this, I would hit midterms and just be ready to jump for joy. Instead, God has my history professor tell me that stress is a part of life and I can’t let my life collapse because I’m not in the best mood or I don’t like the way things are working out. College is just the precursor to the rest of life. Then God sends me off on a night of beach walking, Mexican food eating, and poetry listening in order to get me asking myself, “Why are you so willing to praise God only on the good days?”

So here I am telling you that college is crazy. And life is crazy. And I will probably spend many more mornings as a sobbing mess giving myself motivational pep talks. And I have a very strong feeling that I will not be jumping for joy once finals roll around. But thank goodness for professors who are willing to tell you things like they are, for stiff necks from sleeping on patio furniture, and for beach sunsets. May I someday learn to “take refuge in the shadow of [God’s] wings until the disaster has passed (Ps. 57:1).

Beloved

I suppose I just can’t help it. It’s Valentines Day, so my thoughts have turned to love. Sitting here in my dorm room, I can see the potted tulips and bouquet of roses placed precariously on my roommate’s desk – gifts from her boyfriend. A sparkly purple card adorns my other roommate’s desk; it came from her mom in the mail yesterday. As glad as I am for the expressions of love they have received, my thoughts have taken a somewhat different turn.


I attended a funeral this morning. The first funeral I have ever attended for anyone under the age of seventy. It was one of the most heart-wrenching things I’ve probably ever experienced. Jennifer Uwarow was my Resident Director last semester, until tests showed that a ravaging cancer had reappeared in her body and she was physically, emotionally, and spiritually broken. This morning I was reminded once again of the testimony she left behind – a testimony of a great, faithful, and loving Savior. Even as Jen was brought daily closer to that moment of death, this was the hope she clung to. And at this moment, my greatest desire is to do nothing but bask in the sweetness of the love of Christ.


These words have remained a presence in the back of mind since the day I read them: “On the whole, God's love for us is a much safer subject to think about than our love for Him” (C.S. Lewis). I am easily discouraged when I consider the love I have for my God. Over Christmas break, I prayed asking Him, “Why do I love you so little?” When I consider that Yahweh himself marked out His plan of redemption, boldly drawing in the crucifixion of His only Son, that His love might drench wretched sinners such as myself, I cannot answer this question. The answer reverberates through my being, but it is so terrible and wonderful a truth it pierces me to the core. I am, and always have been, devastated by sin – dead – and I have, in and of myself, absolutely no ability to love my God.


We are told to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind” (Matt. 22:37), but our weak attempts to love God as He should be loved are like shooting balloons into the sky and hoping they will reach Neptune: they cover only a few feet of that endless stretch and fall deflated to the ground, failures. In the face of such circumstances I believe we have only two choices: we can despair or we can fix our eyes on that infinitely safer subject.


“Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might perhaps dare to die. But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” The truth of these verses is impossible to wrap my mind around. Try as I might to love God as I should, I lie pitifully at His feet, woefully aware of my ungratefulness and ability to be easily wooed by poor, scrawny lovers. Yet even still, my God poured Himself out for me and continues to unwaveringly love me. He loved me when I did not love Him and He loves me now, though I do not love Him as I should. His love for me at this moment is as free, as full, and as passionate as it was as Christ hung on that cross – gasping for breath, suffering for my sin.


C.S. Lewis says, “[God] will give us feelings of love if He pleases. We cannot create them for ourselves, and we must not demand them as a right. But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.” How beautiful, how precious is this thought!


Let us treasure the love of God. May it quench our thirsting and satisfy our hunger. But may we never cease to wonder that the Creator of this universe – our holy, magnificent, and glorious God – deigns to call us His beloved. He is ours and we are His. May His love be the only love we ever need.

“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God” (Eph. 3:17-19).

LOVE (III)
by George Herbert
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lack'd anything.
"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear, I cannot look on thee.
"Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.""And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.

The Kitchen

On the floor the cold floor

my toes curl I contemplate

bread cookies pie

which smell will fill permeate the air

Comfort this is Comfort

apron strings tightened

dough makes my hands sticky

oil leaves a trail down my arm

puffs of white powder settle on the counter

clinks, slams, whirrs chop the silence

bowls dirtied washed dirtied

worries are poured in with the milk

beaten with the eggs cooked

I don’t know why people need therapy or spas

the kitchen’s got me covered with chocolate that is

Comfort this is Comfort

Words scare me.
They’re like tourists who don’t speak any English
But chatter excitedly in their impenetrable hollow.
Flocking about, but garnering only
Blank stares.
Sometimes they run altogether and are indistinguishable –
One from another –
Blurry.
Sometimes you’re completely unaware of their presence
Until your own squinted eyes reveal
Their staunch presence in the background
Of your tangible memories.
You know they must be important –
The fulcrum of days, music, business procedures, wanderings.
They hang like a fog –
Around.
But when you swing at them,
They slide through the crevices of your fingers.
Unable to be grasped.
Foreign.

Rainy Day

The drops clatter on the
Metal covering above my head
Like large grains of rice
Falling from the sky after a wedding
Bittersweet
Clank, clank, clank
Each drop purposeful until
It pours onto its obstruction
Broken
Dissipating onto the silver sheet
Melding into a solid reflection pool
Singular parts lose their individuality
Lost in their common identity
Gathering, weaving, trickling
Making its way to the ground
Inseparable

The Symphony

Dissonant notes and voices reverberate
Through the metal ducts -
Climbing their way through the vents.
From a small alcove, a deep hum begins.
Whirring, buzzing, settling into an
Uninterrupted stream of rhythm.
Behind the shelves, lips form urgent whispers.
Murmuring –
Cresting into an abrupt exclamation –
Erupting in a shriekish giggle.
Erratic clacking weaves itself in –
Noticeable only in the occasional breaks
Of one “musician” or another.
They all play, but resolutely –
Determined not to match another’s beat.
Yet they cannot be wholly independent –
Forced to mingle among the books
And dance down the library aisles.

Today the clouds look like an egg carton.
One huge sheet comprised of rolls and dips.
Up, down. Up, down.
In between the curves, there are breaks –
Allowing the sky to gaze through.
It seems undecided though.
In some spots the clouds are pulling apart more quickly,
As though the sky were somewhat desperate to make itself known.
Elsewhere, it rests contentedly.
Peeping.