This week I took a group of eighteen fourth graders on a hike to a place that is referred to as Ship Rock Meadow. This is a relatively easy hike, however when the majority of your hikers are nine it becomes a little bit more annoying and difficult. But when we arrived at the meadow, all thoughts of death and suffering ended, surprise and utter joy filled the air as big rocks and pretty flowers spread wide before them.

I had the pleasure of walking around with three sets of wide eyes soaking in the glorious wanders of a mountain meadow, we traveled from plant to plant identifying the unique species. One of our favorites was a flower known as the "Glacier Lily," as dorky as this may sound, I learned a lot from this little yellow flower. Rich in color, it stands on a tall stalk high above the meadow grasses, with spindly white tendrils that twist around the petals forming a soft shape that reaches towards its heavenly creator.

Here is a flower that is so simply magnificent, in complete ease it spends its days praising our Papa in its mere existence. Yet it does not bloom in the mountains until the summer is in full sun shining swing. The mountain meadows gleam with morning dew announcing the unveiling of all the glory of our God, our Boet, our Creator, our Alpha, our Omega, our YHWH, our Breath, our Shelter, our Potter.

"He is Jealous for Me. Loves like a hurricane I am a tree, bending beneath the weight of his wind and mercy. Oh how he loves us, how he loves us so." John McMillan

Summer 06 inspiration

Krisi Johnson
Dr. Armstrong
PR Writing II

Church of St. George

When we talk of traveling to Europe, there is a romanticism that seems to be presumably attached. Where as if I was to tell you I was going to Cancun or South Padre to taste aged wines and century old delicacies such as fermented canary eggs or curdled blood pudding, and to par ooze through local markets and first century churches you would surly gawk and think me insane. One square mile of any European metropolis can offer a dose of culture and class that the spring break vacation destinations can not even dream of representing.

Sofia, Bulgaria is an archetypal example of this classic Europe. Like many other cities, one of its most fascinating features is the synagogue, mosques and towering churches of stone, oak, marble and gold. However, the most precious house of worship in the city is also the oldest and most poorly built. Known as the Church of St. George, “it was built [in the fourth century] when Sofia was under the name of Serdica. It was then destroyed by the Huns, rebuilt and turned into a mosque by the Ottomans” Says, a writer for Sofiatravel.uk. Although most European architecture is admired for its splendor and structural integrity, St. Georges “frescos were made by amateurs, [they] had been hidden by plaster since the sixteenth century.”

The Rotunda is dripping with religious history and ancient relics. “According to the historians and archeologists [the] frescoes date to the middle of 10th century and portray 22 prophets.” One cannot avoid being fascinated by the age of the structure; or the fact that as the iron curtain fell so did the lack of technology and modernization. As the city has grown with its freshly accepted freedom, St. George has remained right in the center, reminding its people of their faith and heritage. “It is located behind the presidency” as though a symbol of the past to flank its bright independent future. One may run right into its outer ruins if they were to stroll through the sleek mall that wraps itself around the Rotunda, an example of ageless symmetry.

There is another side to the Church of St. George, it represents the faith that its country has abandoned with their modern cafés and sky rise corporations. The orthodox churches are tourist attractions and souvenir shops for the worship regulars and visitors who just haven’t managed to find St. Peter or St. Mary to add to their holy prayer card collection. True genuine faith was washed out with hate and during the communist reign and is only beginning to bud again in a few tender hearts of the Bulgarian people.

Their lives are very similar to the rest of metropolitan Europe, and although they are not a third world country, their hearts are just as starved as the children’s stomachs of Mozambique and Zimbabwe. St. George is a symbol as it crumbles from a poor foundation and continues to erode. As the Rotunda falls to its knees, it is waiting for its country to do the same.

In many ways, Europeans class is just as corrupted as the beaches of Ft. Lauderdale, all over the world there are bleeding hearts and starving souls.

Reduse...Reuse...Reve heard it all before

I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, everyday until I we moved when I was six; I remember my mom would let me watch one hour of television. I had to choose wisely, and usually ended up picking Sesame Street since channel 18 was the only one I knew how to get to. I think the slogan "go green" is a recent fashion and the in-style trend when it comes to our environment. But I don't think that this campaign is a new effort to any extent, I can remember in all those hours of Sesame Street, being exposed to the constant footage of recycling our paper, oh the warm memories I have eating my pb&j while humming along to the catchy tune that brought you through the paper plant. "Old Paper, New Paper"




I will be forever reminded to turn the sink off while I brush my teeth, or the catchy tune "The Wasteroon" will pop into my head and I will be reminded of that little fish at the bottom of the pond who will run out of water and end up in my bathtub (Sort of disturbing).



This semester I took a class called "Outdoor Leadership" and have spent three weekends is the dense wilderness of Texas and Oklahoma sharpening my skills of orienteering, kayaking, "team building", knot tying, climbing, rappelling, hiking, cooking ECT. On our most recent trip this past weekend, we went to the Wichita Mountains of the Animal Reservation near Meers, OK (Home of the world famous Meers burger).

On Saturday I spent my morning hiking and bouldering all over the baby mountains, I have to admit there is quite a thrill in jumping over crevices that stretch over 50 feet down, and trusting the grip of my Italian made hiking boots and solidity of the slag. While I was conquering one particularly slanted, shelf face I noticed a plastic water bottles wedged in a crack about a ten foot distance from where I was clinging, and was absolutely appalled. However, I did nothing to reverse the injustice and chose to leave the human mark that was insulting the beauty of nature. Am I any different from the individual who left that plastic disaster there in the first place?

The next day, our final activity of the weekend was to drive to the top of the ranges highest peak, Mt. Scott, a grasping 2,801 footer. I would say the first issue is that a road was built at all; shouldn't we have to work harder to enjoy the beauty and power that "top of the mountain" experience gives us? Standing on the man made deck, I could see miles in every direction, graceful shapely ranges and stretches of prairie vast before me, freeing and exhilarating. But if I just tilted my head to the stretch of peak below my feat I was assaulted with a make shift dump sight. All twenty-nine of us took trash bags and began to scrape as much of the nastiness away from the rocky ground as possible. There was anything from dirty diapers to Styrofoam cups. Bob Sanderson, our director told me that another time that he had been up there picking up glass bottles and a group of "distinguished" gentlemen were sipping on a few classy Keystones and decided to dispose of them a few feet from Bob. Can we really be so cruel and ignorant?

Do me a favor and don't ignore Sesame Street.

A taste of growing up

My sophomore year is quickly coming to an end, and with this I have began the process of the terrifying and thrilling house search. Six months ago I could only dream about the process and very easily skim over the reality of living in a house which my parents did not also reside. Can I really be old enough to make this decision? Signing the lease in next few days will be one of the first legal documents which I will be bound to with complete independence. I can not explain the absolute terror of so much responsibility.

But I will admit that with this heavy burden of bills that I can not possibly yet comprehend, I am also discovering the joy of having a key in my own name. I have not yet filed my taxes, but have somehow managed to secure a house that will place me in the category of Adult.

With this new freedom, I have begun to search through various thrift stores, garage sales, and antique shops for items to fill my house which I have appropriately christened "Little" (it’s quite a small house). On one of these searches, I discovered a deceivingly enormous Antique Emporium tucked away at the corner of a strip mall. Walking inside gave me the feeling of inertia, with an endless expanse of aisles cluttered with uniquely displayed treasures. I was absolutely, irrevocably astounded by the amount of "things" with which I was confronted. In one corner I picked up a cigar box stuffed with gloves, each with distinct styles to portray their decade. Some were off white lace, dainty and frail, one pair deep crimson leather with the words MADE IN ITALY fashionably printed on the cuff. I pulled this particular pair onto my hands and felt a sudden realization that all of the antiques surrounding me had a history, they each stored secrets and character. I also noticed that if I chose to purchase anything in the Emporium my bank account would whine tremendously.


We put such a value on something that has aged, a collection of comic books, a whiskey bottle from prohibition or a trunk that sailed across the ocean in the late 1800's. Why do we not place the same value on our relationships; what if I could look at each person I meet with the same intrigue and excitement that I see a first edition copy of "Pride and Prejudice"? Just a thought.

Cold
This is a cold that stumbled into Abilene. It crept up on us with fingers clawing at our skin, pulling at the roots of my scalp.
It wraps its chilling fingers around my stiffened nose, tightened mouth, so stinging it causes teeth to ache
My ankles ill exposed soak in the icy wind with no gratitude

The cold squeezes out the sunny memory of a warmer day
Blinding clouds of dreary gray carry thick waves of icy wind that smother me.

Cold


_________________________


Warm
Sunshine splashes across the cool spring pond
The pavement black, inhales the rays that joyously that melt into the ground
It smooths like creamy lotion over every colorful surface,
Kissing the skin with a slight and tempting pink
It coaxes the buds out of the tender soil, and twists buoyant leaves our of sleeping roots and twigs.

_____________________________________


Rain
When the day starts without the sun, there is a certain excitement in the earth
They have been waiting patiently for the rolling and crackling clouds to carry them a gift
Every rose and lili dress in their brightest colors, trees stretch out their limbs to full extent with thirsty anticipation
Colors that hide in brighter light, let out their full ambers, lush greens, stunning auburns and all give their best performance for the creator
As the first drop falls to the mossy floors, insects and humans alike burrow deep under covers and back nooks to observe the glossy spread in a dry and content environment
The smells combine a sweet must with sugary blooms to create a tantalizing aroma
The kissing of drops on every surface is a gift from the heavens
Even the dirt smiles as it becomes mud cakes and chocolate puddles
Rain

Perfect and less than

Sitting inside this morning is almost an insult to the weather. Though I have to be honest, most people may be surprised by this comment considering that the popular opinion of what classifies a "nice day" must include sunshine. I however, will argue that when the sky is painted with thick gray stratocumulus (lumpy, layered that can produce a rain or drizzle) the colors that come with spring such as washed out pale greens, yellows, purples, and pinks as Easter depicts, are magnified and transformed into rich deep plush green, gold, violet, and crimsons. I can practically smell the grass growing, the birds sing a little more cheerfully with the hopes of an April shower; their voices penetrate into my small room leaving little place for complete silence or gloom.

The rain brings also the promise of hot tea and excuses to ignore foreboding class assignments.

Thought 2
Eating in the caf is simply a daily ritual that helps us to avoid starvation. Although I don't usually consider myself the first to complain about our cafeteria, I was given the opportunity this morning as I sat alone waiting for my breakfast companion to fully digest the idea of what I was eating. I have a theory; the caf is a fine place to eat if your only wish is to fill your stomach. Eat fast and the taste is hardly an issue, but as I was sitting alone with my thoughts, I began to chew on a usually ok tasting steak finger (the name alone should have warned me) when for the first time I though about the textures and flavors of what I was eating. It should not be considered enjoyable to taste the chunks of processed meat mashed into a rectangular shape and deep fried. Is in not a bad sign when we cover every morsel is sauce to hide the distinct nastiness of what we are consuming?

Second, I began cutting my perfectly square waffle, realizing that this was completely off base, haven't we always been told that the authenticity of a stone comes from its imperfections? For this reason, I became weary that my waffle was not even close to hand made, but had eggo stamped all over its symmetrical shell.

At last I had the privilege of eating something natural, a whole beautifully ripe Banana. How absolutely wonderful to eat fresh fruit despite its chemical enhancement and preservatives was delicious and upfront. Thank You Hardin Simmons dining services for providing me with at least one authentic experience.

Dream Catcher

In psychology, we learn about dreaming, rem cycles, and all the properties that make up our brain activity during sleep. But honestly, no matter how much the science of our makeup can explain away the "odd happenings" in our life, I am convinced that sometimes as bizarre as this may sound, my dreams are parables, much like Christ used while he was on earth.

Here let me explain; two nights ago I was doing what many of us students do to avoid studying, which was facebook stalking. Somehow I stumbled on the pages of two girls who I was semi-acquainted with in high school and was subconsciously sticking my nose up to their life choices; both of them have had illegitimate babies in the last few years. I don't think I fully realized how much disdain I had for these girls, despite my words of congratulations that I uttered anytime I would bump into them at the grocery store, pinching their little ones cheeks and talking in that really high voice we were programmed to do anytime something small and cute is in view.

My dream: when I went to sleep that night I was suddenly extremely pregnant and experienced a rapid labor then obviously birth of my own child; I remember it distinctly to be a girl. Let me say that I have defiantly experienced love, I love my parents, siblings, various children that I nannied, baby cousins, but never have I had my own child and consequently am completely ignorant of the intimacy between a baby and their mother. But after I gave birth in my dream, I am certain that I was full of this absolute agape for my daughter. I held her with the utmost tenderness and could do nothing but explode with excitement for the little life in my arms.

Then, much like my real life, I began to realize that I had no husband, and as much as I loved my little girl I hated that everywhere I turned someone was judging the illegitimacy of my child. How could I be so torn between adoration and despise for this tiny life that I had created?

Lesson- Papa (God, Christ, Holy Spirit) does not tolerate any hate that I might have for a mother and child, or anything for that matter. In my dream, as much as I needed to know my little girl was worthy of genuine love from people, these girls from my high school need real, raw, pure agape from Papa's family; including me.