Now Playing: Coldplay, "X&Y," "White Shadows."

This morning after going to the gym, I posted a package to Indonesia. It's always amusing to me how posting something to an international destination makes one feel important--even more than posting something domestic.

When we were kids, we used to post things to Lebanon, Jordan, and Yemen. I remember my mother buying the special blue air mail envelopes, which are actually stationery that fold into envelopes of their own. She would write over every available centimeter of paper, and sometimes she would let us scribble something of ours before she folded it up like an origami animal and took it to the post office.

And there's always the hope that something will come back in return--a letter with a colorful stamp on it, or a parcel with exotic food. Once our friends brought back incense that looked like crystallized rocks or brown sugar. We've never burned it. I've always wondered how it would smell.

The parcel I posted today was one of these readymade US Postal Service boxes. They, too, fold up like origami. Some engineer must have had a delightful time deciding just where to put the scoring so that the sides would fold together properly and hold together with just one strip of adhesive down one side.

I, however, am not an engineer, and I have spent most of the day trying to cram my brain full of Literature in English for the exam on Saturday. Currently a tall stack of books sits beside me on my desk, including titles by George Eliot, John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams, and Maya Angelou. Last night I dreamed literature.

Whether or not any of it sticks for the exam, I have started writing poetry again. With my head so full of words, I have to put something out in order to fit something else in. This shrapnel-style survey of literature does leave one with an overwhelming sense of elegy, of melancholy. No matter what era I dip into, I find humans fighting for meaning--even if that is the assertion that there is none--and, failing, falling back miserably into their own cobwebs.

Cobwebs and adders' eggs is how Isaiah 59 describes our efforts. Apt. We cannot clothe ourselves with our works, and our creative attempts in so many cases only hatch poison. I love the promise of the following chapters: instead of snakes and spiders, God turns His people into a garden full of fruitful trees.

Now Playing: The Fray, "Look After You."

More photos here.

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "Love and Thunder," Track 5, "Just As I Am."

Today the Great Renovating Adventure came to an at least partial conclusion. A crash-bang thunderstorm woke me this morning on the top bunk of my brother's bed. After breakfast, while it was still pouring and nearly dark outside, my mother, Stephen, and I began the arduous task of moving everything back into my room. The bed and bookshelves were comparatively easy with their help. Then came the hardest part: carting all the books from Laura's room into my room, putting them in the right places on the right shelves, dusting them off, and making sure that they didn't slide in avalanches all over everywhere.

Thanks to the fact that my packrat instinct has fastened itself largely on books, it took all morning to get everything settled satisfactorily. My mother had an appointment this afternoon with the ophthalmologist, and after she left, Stephen and I worked on our chores. Debris from the guinea pig, dust from the books, and general messiness from nearly a month of topsy-turvydom has left the upstairs in quite a mess.

When we finished, I sat down and wrote e-mails, then had my quiet time, then took a shower. At half five my parents and Stephen left for a basketball team pizza party in Ponca City. I settled myself down with Coldplay and Virginia Woolf (quite a combination!) to finish Woolf's essay, A Room of One's Own. I love her style. She scintillates. Refreshingly honest, straightforward, yet sauntering, leisurely.

When I finished the essay, I warmed up leftovers for tea and worked on Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, trying to brush up on my Great Modern Novelists for the Literature GRE. Somehow I managed to escape twentieth-century novelists all through highschool and undergrad. I have only had a very little Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, and even less Joyce, Hemingway, and Faulkner. Not that I regret that much, but it does make revising for this exam time consuming.

I spent the evening at the Fs' house. The robotics team was pounding away in the basement, so Anna, Ruth, and I sequestered ourselves in their room with the DVD player and Horatio Hornblower: Mutiny, and tea and cookies. We would have been on the edge of our seats had we not been sitting on the floor.... It was a very tense episode in the life of our brave hero. When we finished, Dani, Ruth, Anna, and I stood round chatting and laughing (Anna was very hyper) for awhile.

On the way home, I had a sort of breakdown. It's such a ridiculous, trivial, quotidian (now there's a good GRE word for you!) admission to make, but I realized that I've been worshipping these painting projects. Such silly things to idolize, you think. The mind plays its tricks very cleverly. "When I get this finished, I'll be happy.... When I have everything just the way I like it, I'll be at peace...." Of course, it can be even more insidious than that. "When I finish this exam.... When I finish this paper.... When I finish this next paper.... And the one after that.... And the one after that.... And...."

So that we end up being like the guinea pig with a carrot dangling in front of its nose. Standing up as tall as we can, whiskers quivering, paws trembling with effort, but never quite able to reach.

This fact is nothing new, nothing earth-shattering. Ages ago (on my tiny scale), in freshman year, Mr. C wagged his head wisely at me and imparted the fact that I have to choose to be happy today, otherwise I'll never be happy. "I remember, when I was a boy, that I realized that if I didn't decide to be happy now, I would never be happy at all," he said.

Yes, that's very true, but I keep circling closer and closer to that truth, in long, slow circles, circles that are more like undulations: up, then down, then up, a little higher again. Like being on a swing, going a little bit higher with each thrust of arms and legs.

No, I won't be happy when this project is finished, or after I've taken the next GRE, or when I've turned in all my applications. What are we all waiting for? The next paycheck (if we're fortunate enough to be earning one)? Or the next child moved out of the house and happily married? Or the next diploma earned? What is the "next thing" that is sitting on the throne of my heart in the place of Jesus Christ?

Generally speaking I don't agree with the idolization of one teacher or writer above others. Because of that, I've actually been suspicious of the "cult" that seems to surround John Piper. His mantra that "God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him" smacked of suspicion to me when I first heard it. But in this case, I think he's right. When I take all of my joy, all of my peace, all of my strength from God Himself and not from anything else--not from finishing the exam, or the paper, or the project, or whatever it is I need for success--then I am saying that He is good enough to satisfy me. Then He has His proper place: King above everyone and everything, Lover, Creator, Redeemer.

Why am I still waiting? He is above all else powerful and beautiful. It's not a quip. It's not just something that's easy to say, a placebo for everything that's going wrong in life. It's not just a bunch of smart words or even just a bunch of apparently reverent, actually self-righteous words.

The Everlasting God promises that if we pursue Him first, He will provide for everything else.

Photos from this week here.

Now Playing: Tchaikovsky, Violin Concerto in D, Finale--Allegro Vivacissimo.

All day I've been trying to avoid thinking about the GRE. This morning I sat down and worked on math for an hour before breakfast and was only discouraged as I missed about a quarter of the problems in each set I attempted. That's the last of my practice, though. I can't do anything about it now. If it's in my head, it's in my head; if it's not, it's not.

My only comfort is that God Himself is overseeing this exam and its outcome. Anna reminded me yesterday that whether I get a good test or a hard test, whether I remember what I've learned and practice it or not--it all depends on sheer providence. Nicole said something similar. I can't keep myself from freaking out and losing my head. I can't keep myself from going "high" and breezing through the exam, only to find that I've ignored most of the directions on the way. Physically, emotionally, mentally I have very, very little control over myself. That's true. No matter how well disciplined I may be, if some chemical in my brain isn't balanced just right tomorrow, there's nothing I can do to change it.

Now that sounds very fatalistic. I had a professor once who declared in class that he thought it was useless to pray before an exam. "You should be studying, not praying!" he pontificated. On a practical level, maybe that's true. But I say I believe in a sovereign God who is closely concerned with every detail of my life, a God who worked out to the most precise millimeter how far away the earth would be from the sun, and how many cells would be in each blade of grass, and what color my hair would be.

It seems ridiculous, in one sense. God has a cosmos to manage. Surely He can't be conscious every moment of every day of exactly what one individual human being is thinking or doing. Surely He can't be involved with every detail of every life that's being lived at this moment--not to mention every detail of nature and its laws. He must know about everything in some grand, supreme, impersonal sense. He must command, "Hearts, keep beating," and "Sun, stay in your course," and "Rain, fall," in a general, big-picture sort of way.

Hard as it is to believe, though, that's not what God says about the way He operates. He told us that He has counted every hair on our heads, that we are more precious to Him than many sparrows (grand example of litotes there!). He doesn't command every human heart to beat in some impersonal way. He says, "E--'s heart, beat now, beat now, beat now, beat now." He has planned (not just knows, but has planned) what I will eat for breakfast tomorrow, and what I'll say to Katie on Saturday, and whether the Pythagorean theorem will be tested tomorrow.

Listening to The Silver Chair this evening, I realized that God controls even our appetites and desires, things we normally think of as being wrong. As Christians, we seem to spend most of our time trying to control our appetites and desires, trying to subdue our dreams and goals, trying to weed them out. We talk a lot about conformity to the will of God, about being content with His plan for our lives.

At the beginning of The Silver Chair, just after Jill has pushed Eustace over the edge and Aslan has blown him to safety, Jill has a good crying fit. And then she becomes very, very thirsty. Now my reaction to such a desire might be, "No, I'll not go and get a drink. I don't deserve it just now." But in the story, that appetite impels Jill to seek water, and, with the water, to discover Aslan himself, in all of his stern grace.

So I realized this evening that God controls, gives as a gift, our appetites and desires, whether that be so that we can learn His grace by controlling them failingly (when they are sinful), or whether that be so that we can glorify Him when He satisfies them.

And, of course, the satisfaction of these desires lies in the hands of the God who sacrificed His Son in my place. Isaiah 43 always gives me pause for thought. God tells His people that He gives Egypt as their ransom, Cush and Seba in exchange for them: "Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you, I give men in return for you, people in exchange for your life."

This isn't simply the Old Testament God attempting to comfort His people with some sort of political analogy. This is a foreshadowing (another grand understatement!) of what God will give in exchange for His people: His own Son, who is far more rich and powerful and lovely and dear to Him than any pagan nation in the bloom of its golden age.

So when I walk into the exam building tomorrow and sit down at that monitor to take that test, the outcome, whatever it is, lies in the hands of this God.

Now Playing: Focus on the Family's adaptation of C.S. Lewis's The Silver Chair.

Stephen and I stripped wallpaper all day today in my bedroom. An arduous task. We used a steamer the Ws lent us and managed to contribute about three gallons of water to the atmosphere over the course of the day. That meant that my room was foggy and smelled like dissolving wallpaper glue, so we opened all of my windows--which made my room cold and even clammier, thanks to the fact that it was raining outside. But now the wallpaper is all off, and I've cleaned up the mess, and am nearly ready to paint.

Stephen stripping wallpaper in the morning.

By the afternoon, we were over to the desk.

And the results of the day's work: a glorious mess!

Now Playing: Flook, "Haven", "Padraig's".

This last weekend, I drove all over everywhere, it seemed. Friday evening we had our first high school girls' Bible study. I had been concerned that we'd have trouble getting the girls to talk, but of course no such worries with this group. Anna had more trouble keeping the girls from giggling and interrupting each other than she did persuading them to answer the discussion questions. I found it very refreshing to see the girls' genuine eagerness to fellowship with each other and learn about the Christian life. This makes me sound like an old person already, but I really do wish I had been as open, confident, and eager as they seem to be.

After the Bible study, I spent the night with Anna and Ruth at their house since their family was away camping. More specifically, I spent the morning with them since we stayed up until about three o'clock in the morning watching Robin Hood and Merlin episodes, courtesy BBC TV.

On Saturday, I drove to Tulsa for the afternoon and evening. I had been grumbling to myself mentally about only being in Tulsa for a couple of hours and not being able to see many people, but I ended up being there until half ten at night and having some really good conversations. Watching Philip, Alyson, and one of their friends play Scrabble while keeping score on a spreadsheet (such engineers!) made me laugh.

Among the conversations I had with people in Tulsa, the topic of writing kept cropping up. A sense of disillusionment or defeat when it comes to writing. Whenever I hear people talk about their projects, though I enjoy listening to them and giving advice, I also feel hopeless. At the minute some of the people in Stillwater are working on/planning to work on their own personal novel projects. Oh, yes, I've had ideas kicking around in my head for settings, characters, and plots since before high school. Whenever I try to write them down, though, the result is abject failure.

Probably the problem is that I'm requiring too much of myself. Perfection is a pretty high goal to reach even for the best writers. So why ask it of my very first attempts at prose fiction? As someone else said this weekend, it's an issue of pride, of course. Here I could apply the Christian principles of grace: I don't have to be perfect because Christ has redeemed me; I use the abilities He has given me for His glory; He will love me no matter how good or bad the results are.

Those things are true, but they don't address the question in my mind as to why another piece of fiction should be added to the world's already-bulging libraries. Why bother? Everything that needs to be said has already been said a thousand times before, and a thousand times more skillfully than I could manage. That applies not only to my ideas for prose but also for poetic projects that occasionally sprout up. Reading the Norton Anthology--or even my friend's sonnets--is a daunting prospect because I know that as a result I will inevitably be paralyzed when it comes to writing.

Paradoxically, of course, reading other people's pieces, whether they come from the Norton or from a friend's blog, also makes me want to write more. Response, interplay, dialogue with what others have been or are producing has become an important ingredient in my own creative process. Films, music, painting, sculpture, and dance all drive me to respond in writing, to capture my perception of that creative event in a repetitive, reverberating event of my own.

Overshadowed by the Romantic and Modern ideals of art as completely new and original, though, I encounter that barrier of intimidation again and again. It seems so pretentious for me to try to put anything into words and then to demand that others read it, especially when many of those others have written perfectly good things themselves. That's one reason why I love journaling: no one has to read it, not even me. That text puts no expectations on the reader, no demands, no requirements. The books stack up on shelves and boxes, silently, useless except for whatever tiny random facts may be required in the future about flight details or medical appointments.

Yesterday after church, Katie asked me if I'd been writing anything recently. I love talking to Katie, but she invariably touches whatever sore spots I'm trying to hide from myself and everyone else. It was the second time last weekend someone had asked me what I'd been writing and had given me the "older sibling look" when they heard the answer.

So, circling again, the same factor that pushes me away from the keyboard also forces me toward it, the pressure (shame, if you like) from others.

Now Playing: Corelli, Concerto Grosso in G Minor.

It's been raining for the last four days. This afternoon I took our neighbor's dog over to the lake to trudge around in the mud and mist.

She got royally wet and muddy, of course. Every so often she had to stop to shake herself off.

The sumac, goldenrod, and asters are all in bloom right now. It was lovely when the sunflowers and goldenrod were blooming together, in September and early October, but now the sunflowers have been reduced to black spiky dead heads. The sumac leaves hang like flags left over from a gala, glowing but sodden with mist.

The mist fell steadily over the lake. Only two other people were out there, a suspect couple--the man was carrying a rifle and smoking a cigarette, and they both glowered at us as we slogged past.

The woods around the lake were rich with color. 

And a black-and-white to finish it all. Waterlogged asters, bending with the weight of the rain.