A Brennan Manning prayer
Jesus, Son of the living God, anoint us with fire this day. Let your Word not shine in our hearts, but let it burn. Let there be no division, compromise, or holding back. Separate the mystics from the romantics, and goad us to that daredevil leap into the abyss of your love. (Amen)
July 5, 2011 Leave a comment
Kidnapped: a Marion College (IWU) newspaper staff play
I went to the genealogy center in the Allen County main library on Tuesday. I was doing research for work … but then I got distracted by very old Marion College yearbooks. My favorite discovery was from the 1932 Marion College Journal newspaper, The Sojourn of its day.
I think you’ll enjoy this.
—
EXTRA KIDNAPPED EXTRA
ONE ACT PLAY
Journal Staff Cast
By M. Jones
Forward—This play is entirely imaginary and has no parallel in real life. However, the scenes which will be depicted here are not impossible in this day and age.
SCENE I
This scene takes place in the editorial office of the Marion College Journal. As you enter the door you will see Wm. Fessenden, the editor, scratching his head over a trying editorial. He is seated at a desk littered with papers, and a reading lamp shines down upon him.
Time of this scene is 7:00 P.M. on a Tuesday evening.
Enter Elsie Gibbs. “Say Chief, have you heard the latest Dorm. news?”
Bill: “No what is it?”
Elsie: “Why Mae McCarty has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom!”
Bill: “Oh! At last we have some news, maybe we can put out a “newsy” Journal this time. I’ll have to call a meeting of the staff.”
SCENE II
Journal Office
Time—Wednesday evening 8 o’clock
Characters—Bill Fessenden, Elsie Gibbs, Marie Wilson, Clarence Davidson and Marvin Jones.
As the scene opens we find the chief in earnest conversation with Elsie and Marie.
Bill—“Has anyone discovered any clues about this kidnapping?”
Marie and Elsie together—“Not yet Chief. Why, we’ve looked high and low for her but can’t find her.”
Bill—“This case certainly has me puzzled, and I am just about frantic from all the calls I’ve had. Every five minutes some one runs in and asks, ‘Do you have any news? Is Mae still missing?’ And about eighty-seven other questions. If this keeps up I’ll go crazy.”
There is a sound out side of running feel. The door opens suddenly and Marvin and Clarence both dash in breathlessly.
Bill—“What’s the matter with you fellows now?”
Marvin—“W-W-Wait till we c-c-catch our br-breath.”
Bill—“Well, hurry up—I can’t stand any more suspense.”
Clarence and Marvin in unison—“We’ve found her! We’ve found her!”
Bill—“Where, quick—tell me!!”
Clarence—“Well Chief, Jones and I went up to the Chapel to practice a piano duet. I was the first in the room and there I found Mae asleep in one of the back seats. I yelled to Jones and Mae woke up. Then, we asked her where she had been and then she discovered she had slept there from Chapel yesterday to just now.”
Bill—“What a mystery! What a mystery! Oh! Oh! Well I suppose, we can say ‘All’s well that ends well’.”
June 30, 2011 Leave a comment
If I am / In God’s will, / The lives of others / Will be helped
I’ve read half of Jayber Crow four times. The most recent three times I’ve had this poem/prayer as my bookmark, courtesy of Caitie Merz. I carried this poem with me to Iraq; I read it and ponder it often. (Underlines and <3 by Miss Merz.)
The Master’s Will
For this I pray,
Whatever it may be!
I do not want to miss
Your best; Reveal it,
Lord to me.
My own desires may
Lead me wrong,
I must consult my God.
His counsel will be
Justified, when
All the way I’ve trod.
O soul of mine, delight
In Him! His Word
Discern, obey!
The plan you seek
To know will then
Unfold from day to day.
We do not live our
Lives alone: If I am
In God’s will,
the lives of others
Will be helped, <3
His purpose to fulfill!
My all, O Lord,
I give to You, My
Body, mind and soul;
May all the days
That lie ahead,
be under your control.
— Frances L. Hess
June 29, 2011 Leave a comment
Jayber Crow, p. 133
I am a pilgrim, but my pilgrimage has been wandering and unmarked. Often what has looked like a straight line to me has been a circle or a doubling back. I have been in the Dark Wood of Error any number of times. I have known something of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, but not always in that order. The names of many snares and dangers have been made known to me, but I have seen them only in looking back. Often I have not known where I was going until I was already there. I have had my share of desires and goals, but my life has come to me or I have gone to it mainly by way of mistakes and surprises. Often I have received better than I have deserved. Often my fairest hopes have rested on bad mistakes. I am an ignorant pilgrim, crossing a dark valley. And yet for a long time, looking back, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led–make of that what you will.
June 28, 2011 Leave a comment
The Divorce, part two (a poetry series)
Here’s my attempt at a poetry series. It’s not polished by any means, but I haven’t posted poems on my blog in a while, so I thought I should — whether these poems are worth publishing or not.
So, here’s a series. I have posted the first part on my blog at least once. I wrote two other parts to it. I’m not in love with parts two and three; they seem a little incomplete. But writing is rewriting, right, Dr. King?
—
The Divorce, Part Two
I. Leaving
Step-motherhood has few rules—keep the kids alive
is one and you nearly broke it that time
you picked me and my brother and my best friend
up from youth group drunk and laughing
and you told me to drive
I was fifteen but I did it because you weren’t hitting
the brakes when you should have and
it scared me.
I loved you when I was seven and you always kept your candy
bowl full of Whoppers and you’d convince Dad to take us out
for lunch and you’d let me and my brother go on adventures
whenever you were around
we had fun.
You loved my writing and I let you read it more
than I let my mother which made her cry once but you thought
I was the best and you didn’t know enough to correct
my grammar or call my writing “religious” like my mother
because you knew how much I hated that word—
religious.
I used to sit on your bed and ask you
what the Bible said about dinosaurs or what it said about pride
the good kind like for America
you taught me Christianity was a relationship
when you used the name Jesus so affectionately
(which I later grew to hate because it sounded cheaper
that way but at the time I loved it because it sounded like
he was your best friend and I wanted a Jesus best friend too—
not a religion).
And one of those days you called my sister an atheist
because she was unsure of what she believed and
you told her how our mother is going to hell because she’s
a Jew and God no longer loves Jews the way he used to
so we need to pray for her
and me—I need to pray for my sister
because if she keeps this up she’s going to hell along
with the rest of my friends who don’t go to church anymore
I asked you what grace is and you said
you didn’t know.
I know I should be sad that you’re leaving us but
I’m not really that sad more like relieved
because my dad can drink his beer again
and my sister can be agnostic again
and I can call Jesus affectionate names without feeling like
I’m cheapening him.
II. Having Left
We know that glassy look in her eyes.
It looks familiar, because we’ve had it too
for men who muttered the word “maybe”
to keep us from crying.
“Maybe, maybe we’ll get back together. Someday, but not soon.”
That word is the furniture in your house still.
It’s the invitation to lunch, for salads at her apartment.
It’s the monogrammed coat hook in your garage,
the two-by-three photo in your bathroom.
It’s her last name, our last name.
Dad, you say “maybe” and everything stays the same.
III. The Divorce, Part One
I cry because you are,
but all I care about is the blue frosting flower
on the cake in the kitchen and cartoons
on the TV in your bedroom.
You say Daddy’s leaving and I remember
the first time it happened: his grey suitcase
by the front door; you were crying together
on the couch in the living room.
I could hardly talk I was so young,
but I knew the glue of love, so took
the heart-shaped pillow from the loveseat
and put it between you two.
You both laughed.
Daddy never left for good,
and even now when you call it
divorce, I’m sure he will return
to pour us milk at dinner,
to tuck us in,
to kiss us goodnight.
June 26, 2011 Leave a comment
Living a better story
For the third time in two years, I read Donald Miller’s A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. If you remember the last time I blogged about the book, I was leaving for Iraq. I found a story to fight for.
—
Walter Fisher’s Narrative Paradigm theory states that humans understand life as Story, that in life there are protagonists and antagonists, plot twists, inciting incidents, character arcs, and, most of all, conflict.
Donald Miller realizes this as he begins editing his memoir, Blue Like Jazz, to be made into a movie. He notices that everything that makes stories good, makes life good too.
So, in response, Don decides to write a better story for himself.
—
I found my story last summer. I fought really, really, really hard to live it. It took four months of crying, praying, and arguing before I could get to Slemani, Iraq — but I got there.
But then, then I came home and I forgot about it.
I never forgot about the story — my time in Iraq or the time fighting for it — but I forgot why I should live a better story at all.
I got comfortable. I lived a normal college student’s life.
Now, I’m getting restless. I’m happy with my internship; I’m happy with my work with the Sojourn and my relationship with Nathan — those things that kept me distracted during the school year.
But, I want to live for something more. I want to want something.
I want to endure conflict for the good of a story.
—
I wrote that about two weeks ago. Now, I’m pursuing a bigger story.
For almost two years I’ve been dreaming up a magazine, one that has a social conscious. I started dreaming it once my other dream—working for RELEVANT Magazine—died. I wanted to make a magazine that lived out what RELEVANT preached (because I believed that it wasn’t doing a good job).
I’ve matured since then. Ha, after a heart-to-heart with Mr. Cameron Strang himself, I’ve learned that RELEVANT is doing a lot of good for the world. It’s a voice for the voiceless. I know Cameron cares about social justice; I don’t doubt that anymore.
But, RELEVANT is still not my dream. There are still a lot of things I’d do differently if I ran the magazine … which is why I don’t want to run the magazine. Ha.
I want to create a literary magazine – one with beautifully written prose and poetry, something that inspires people not just through the message, but through the medium. But I don’t want it to publish only stuff that is well-written. Pick up a copy of Zoetrope: All-Story or The Hudson Review and you’ll get that. No, I want a magazine that says something worth saying.
So, if RELEVANT and All-Story had a baby, you’d get Paradigm.
I decided, too, that if I’m going to publish pieces that encourage people to change the world, I should try to change the world in the process. So, all of Paradigm’s profits go to the Preemptive Love Coalition, the organization I interned with in Slemani last summer. Plus, a feature story and an ad go to them as well. Free publicity for them and, hopefully, a lot of money as well.
—
I should mention too that this is my senior project. If I need an excuse to start a magazine, this is it. I put in a hundred-plus hours, write a paper, make a portfolio, give a presentation – then I get a grade and a wonderful prototype for my magazine. Issue 0. This is my pre-issue; this is my planning issue. If all goes well, I’ll create another issue in a year, then work toward going quarterly.
—
I need writers. Desperately. And artists. I’m talking to the people I know—mostly the people I go to school with—but I’m not sure that’ll be enough. I’m shooting for 10 written pieces, and about that much art as well. I want it to be diverse; I want contributors of different ages and backgrounds if possible.
If you know anyone, please link them to my site, paradigmlit.com or have them email me at paradigmlit@gmail.com.
You, my dear reader, are welcome to submit a query as well. In fact, PLEASE DO!
Lauren Deidra
June 21, 2011 Leave a comment
Missing Suly
I want to cry when I think of this:
I preferred to buy groceries in the basement of the mall, Rand Gallery. Sure, there was a market ju
st at the end of our block, but it had less variety. Rand was only a few blocks away, and even in 90 degree weather it was worth the walk. The grocery in Rand Gallery (and its name slips my mind) had everything: aisles of canned food, crackers, cookies, cheese, olive oil, ice cream. It was like a mini Target with cosmetics and DVD sections.
Upstairs was the mall: clothing stores, fast food restaurants, kids’ arcades, and Blue Cafe. When the Internet went out in the office, we walked to Blue Cafe to finish our work. Though it was stuffy and it smelled like cigarette smoke, we dealt with it — if only for their killer kiwi smoothies. We gladly paid 6,000 dinar per smoothie, which was the cost of a full meal most places.
—
I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning longing to be back in Suly. It’s been a full year. My heart aches for that country: for the people, the restaurants, the dirty streets, the culture, the mystique.
I am thankful for this summer’s internship, for getting paid, for being just an hour from my boyfriend — but I want to be back in Iraq. Hopefully, I’ll be able to return. Inshallah.
Lauren
May 28, 2011 1 Comment
Happy Mother’s Day, etc. etc.
It isn’t procrastination. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. I just haven’t had the confidence to sit down and do it.
Here’s the thing about making a gift: if you spend too much time working on it, you’ll realize it was a mistake. You should never make a gift past a certain age, unless you have certain art abilities. I am twenty-one and have few art capabilities.
Still, I am making my mom’s Mother’s Day present.
I only remember doing this once before. I was in late elementary school, I think, and it was the night before Mother’s Day. I don’t know if I had dreamed up this art project months before or the day before the holiday, all I know is I didn’t actually start working on it until late Saturday night.
My vision: a beaded person who was to look like my mother (brown beads for hair, green beads for eyes) would sit in a cardboard box of a house, at a construction paper table, on which a construction paper vase of flowers rested.
I worked late. It was ten or eleven at night. I was in my basement watching reruns of Rocky and Bullwinkle as I slaved away. Before I went to sleep, I put the cardboard box creation on the kitchen island, as was our gift-giving ritual, awaiting my mother’s morning response.
She took it to work with her. That all-in-one-night art project lived in her office for years until she switched jobs. I remember when she took the thing home finally: the construction paper was faded and falling off.
I don’t know what happened to that cardboard box project; I wouldn’t be surprised if it were still tucked away in Mom’s closet.
I love my mom, but I don’t think giving her anything will really suffice. Hullo, she gave me life. Hullo, she’s fed me, loved me, paid my bills. Hullo, she let me run amok overseas last summer. (I didn’t really run amok.)
So, this year, I decided to give back to her my favorite thing she ever gave me: a love for writing (and a knack for it!). I wrote her a poem.
As cheesy and cheap as that may seem, I have a feeling she’ll appreciate this more than the bag of Dove chocolate I gave her last year (at her request, even).
I’ll post the poem only because it’d be rude of me not to after all this yammering:
—
Twenty-one Mother’s Days
For twenty-one years:
Binky, baby doll,
Playskool kitchen,
stuffed Barney, beanie babies,
curly-haired Cabbage Patch cuties,
books you’d never read,
CD’s you’d never heard,
shiny shoes (you hated, I loved),
seven pairs of polka dotted panties.
In twenty-one years
the best gifts you’ve given me:
life and a love
for words.
—
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! I love you.
Happy Mother’s Day to all you other moms and motherly ladies.
Lauren
May 8, 2011 Leave a comment
Life updates, summer 2011
I was going to write about all this Osama bin Laden media, but then I remembered why I don’t write blunt, political posts anymore. I don’t believe in them. I took to heart what Miss Emily Dickinson said: Tell all the truth, but tell it slant–.
So, maybe I’ll write a poem about it one day. Actually, that could be a lot of fun. Till then, how about a life update?
—
What I’m doing this summer: I am working with The League for the Blind and Disabled as a marketing intern. I’m not sure all of what it will entail (I start Monday), but I will be using inDesign.
I’m also doing Sojourn things, like planning for workshops (okay, I haven’t yet. Not much, anyway), reading books, writing articles, and chatting with my staff.
I’m working on my senior project! Finally! I’ve been dreaming about this thing for over a year now. I’m creating a literary magazine based on George Orwell’s essay, “Why I Write.”
Where I’m living this summer: At home. My parents recently moved across town, so that’s where I’ll be. My room as a big glass door in it. That’s kinda cool.
Where I’m “living” this summer: Old Crown Coffee Roasters. I’m there right now. I’ll be there tomorrow too.
What I’ll be reading this summer: Lots of memoirs, I guess. I’ve already read Jesus Land, I’m Down, and am halfway through Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. I’ll also be reading books on managing a newsroom, newspaper design, SEO, poetry, creating magazines, and photography.
May 4, 2011 Leave a comment
Surviving Turkey
A view from my hotel room in Istanbul that first crazy night.
I can’t sleep, so a blog post.
The scariest moment of my life didn’t scare me at all. I don’t understand it, because looking back I’m nervous for myself. I get jittery. I keep myself from falling asleep.
I was in Istanbul. Somehow, somehow my luggage got to me. I got my visa. I was in the country legally. I exchanged dollars for lira and was ready to find my way to the hotel.
Okay, Hertz. Jessica said find a Hertz car to get to the hotel. I did. Forty U.S. dollars later, I got my car. The Hertz guy hit on me — I was flattered — then led me to some guy with a skinny soul patch who didn’t own a Hertz car or Hertz uniform. I got into his car anyway. The way from the airport to the hotel I considered my circumstances and created escape plans. If I just jump out of the moving car….
Then I got to the hotel and no one speaks English. Well, one guy did but he seemed irritated. I guess I made my reservation, but never paid for it. What? I gave him my credit card which, of course, didn’t work. I had cash, though, and luckily he too took U.S. dollars. Eighty of them.
I got my room finally, and I realized that I couldn’t plug my dying computer in because I’m in Turkey. Turks don’t use the same outlets as we do. (Americans like their power — GROWL!) So I called the front desk. They answered in Turkish. When they heard the pathetic Caucasian on the phone, they handed it to the one guy who speaks English. The irritated guy. They brought me up a converter. Only it’s a U.K. converter, not a U.S. one. I went down to the desk. They handed me over to the irritated guy again; he says sorry. That’s all the have.
My phone was dying just like my computer. I emailed my mom and another intern, Lydia, who’s supposed to meet me at the hotel. I just send a hi-I’m-safe-can’t-talk-bye message. Then called it a day.
Because I was too nervous to converse with the irritable English-speaking Turk and the other Turks in the hotel lobby, I spent the rest of the day (evening in Turkey time, early afternoon in Indiana time) reading Jayber Crow, watching episodes of How I Met Your Mother on my iPod, and eating cheese crackers for my one meal of the day. I think I fell asleep at some point.
Lydia came at 1 a.m., Turkey time. We slept for a few hours, then enjoyed a huge breakfast buffet in the hotel lobby. I started cheering up. Then I thought about the Facebook comment I got on the way to Istanbul, from some guy I went to school with. Nate. He told me to try Turkish coffee. I did.
If my computer weren’t dead, I would have messaged him back just then.
—
I am not much of a risk taker. I’m scared of calling people on the phone, of doing things like renewing my driver’s license or returning Christmas gifts. I’d rather keep the expired license and stupid gift.
I don’t know why I didn’t freak out that first night in Istanbul. Maybe I didn’t because I knew it would’ve been useless. I couldn’t call anyone. I only had myself and God to keep me safe. It worked.
I wasn’t scared at all. Nervous, yes. Stressed, oh yeah. But not scared.
To my friends traveling abroad this summer: don’t be afraid. If you’re supposed to go (and I believe all of you are), you’ll be just fine. God’s got your back. Ser chow.
Lauren
April 30, 2011 Leave a comment