Who are "we"?

"We've had the inspection and appraisal, so hopefully we can close in the next few weeks!" I said this at work today to someone who inquired about my current home purchase. Even as I spoke, however, I was thinking, "Why do I always say 'we'?"

No matter who I'm talking to about this house, I have noticed that I use the plural pronoun to describe the process.  You might think that by "we" I mean myself and the sellers, or perhaps myself and my Realtor, but I have heard myself say "we" when referring to a decision I and I alone have made.

So who are "we"?

In part, "we" are all the people who have helped me with the practical aspects of this project: my mother, who enthusiastically scoured listings for houses I might like; my friend (and soon-to-be neighbor) Grace, who spent a Saturday morning visiting properties with me; my house-builder friend, Randy, who lent his professional eye to the house before I made my official offer; my friends Emily and Jenn who gave me questions to ask and ideas to consider.

And certainly, "we" are guests for so many promised or possible friends: students who can come for a quiet place to study; faraway friends from Texas, Indiana, or Tennessee, relatives who will gather in the summer, or at Thanksgiving.

I cannot help believing, however that "we" includes more hearts and faces than I can yet name. When I imagine this house, I seem to hear voices in all the rooms. Who might they be? A companion, one who rents a room and says a prayer with me, breaking bread and taking evening walks? A husband humming in the kitchen? Children, adopted or born, laughing under the live oak tree? Students yet-to-come singing hymns in the dining room? These are not voices I remember, but voices I hope to hear.

For some weeks I have been speaking of this unknown plurality only half-consciously, but even after recognizing the habit, I don't think I'll stop. I am thankful for the stability and resources that enable me to buy a house on my own, but as in all good things, I don't really want to do it alone. So as long as anyone asks, I know my answer:

"We're buying a house. We're making a home."

We are Made for Love

“We are made for love -- and in vain we strive to pour forth the streams of our affection by the narrow channels which the world can give -- and well is it if, stagnated in our hearts, they turn not to bitterness.”

-George MacDonald 

Of the 29 Valentine's Days I have witnessed in my life, I have had a boyfriend for only two of them. He was a very good boyfriend, thrilling me with roses and dinners and shy proclamations of affection. However, I loved Valentine's Day long before he came along, and I have continued to love it in the years since.

For many single men and women, Valentine's Day can feel like an insult, as if all the greeting-card companies and jewelry commercials have conspired to exclude them from a shimmering holiday. If I wished to criticize Valentine's Day, I would start with George MacDonald, and point out that popular concepts of romance tend to offer a few channels for our love. We long to love someone, but if we don't have a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or wife, who will receive our love? And who will return it? So much of the bitterness I hear regarding Valentine's Day reeks of the stagnation MacDonald describes, and of jealousy for those who are blissfully floating down the narrow channels of romance.

As Christians, we ought to be excavating deep and wide channels where all men and women can pour out the love they were made to give. I'm thankful for the many ways my parents and friends have done this. For example, from first grade through my senior year of high school, my father would take me out to lunch each Valentine's Day. Leaving school for an hour, eating at a restaurant, and having my father's undivided attention made the day special long before I cared about the holiday's romantic possibilities. As an adult, I have done my best to use Valentine's Day to celebrate all the people I love. Some years that means giving homemade caramels to everyone in my office. Sometimes it means piles of handmade envelopes and cards. This year it meant stitching little hearts for a few of my most faithful correspondents.

However you celebrate Valentine's Day, pray that your festivities will challenge the world's narrow picture of love. If you are happily married or dating, delight yourself in that romance, but consider also sending a card (or better yet, flowers) to a friend who is single. If you are single, defy bitterness and pour your heart into those you love: mothers, children, colleagues, friends.

How will you celebrate Valentine's Day this year? 

A few of the tokens I made for  Valentine's Day this year.

Travel safely

"I know the roads are wet, so travel safely." My friend Darcy left this message on my phone as I began my trip north last week.

"Travel safely." The words might seem ordinary, but they are a loving injunction. Travel safely....because I care for your welfare. Travel safely....because I would not have you come to harm. And why should Darcy say such a thing to me? This visit was to be the first time I had seen her since college, when she, her husband John, and I were all students together. We have stayed in touch though Facebook glimpses and snapshot messages, but we have not known one another's deepest stories. We do not trade serious news or heart-concerns. We are not responsible for one another.

Or are we? "Travel safely," she said, and I smiled, understanding. If the road I take leads to her home, then I have entered the ken of her care. I have taken a thousand trips down a thousand roads, over oceans and under mountains, and she has never known. But this road comes to her door, and somehow that matters.

Hospitality demands that we venture our hearts on on roads we will not travel and journeys that are not ours. By allowing someone to be at home with us, we become vulnerable to the perils of the roads they have yet to travel. We can't go with them. Perhaps we can walk alongside one, or two, but even the nearest companions must part eventually--for years, or hours, or one bright eternal moment.

Some hosts, no doubt, issue these commands--"Travel safely"--merely out of courtesy, and I know some travelers ignore the benediction. I never will. Maybe the words are customary, but they carry the weight of ancient and noble ideals of hospitality, echoing the the Old Testament, or the Odyssey, in which a host turns all his resources to welcoming a guest and making that guest a friend.

Among my Texas friends, the prayer book many of us used for corporate and personal devotions provided strong words for protecting someone as they leave home. Each morning prayer ends with the following valediction:

May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you : wherever he may send you;may he guide you through the wilderness : protect you through the storm;may he bring you home rejoicing : at the wonders he has shown you;may he bring you home rejoicing : once again into our doors.

When several in our Sunday School class prepared to leave Texas for new works and new homes last spring, our friends spoke those words over us. When I moved, Katie wrote the blessing out by hand and framed it for me. The same words closed a letter I received from Josh last month. When Audrey and I talked through Skype yesterday, I saw how she and her roommates had painted the words and hung them on their walls. They are good, thoughtful, careful words, but they are not the only words that will do. For those who have ears to hear, the same care lies behind so many of our customary, glorious, ordinary, generous commands:

"Let me know when you get in."
"Take your time. Enjoy the road."
"Travel safely."

In other words, "I love you."

Dreams of Home

After visiting several houses last Saturday, I have spent the last week considering whether to move forward with one place I really loved. Many doors and signs have opened in that direction, and today I returned for a second visit. If I feel the same peace Monday I feel today, I may be ready to make a formal offer.

I am beginning to allow myself to be really and very excited about all of this, but today has been heavy: not stressful, exactly, but intense. Talk of bids and bonds, down payments and mortgage insurance, escrow and warranties and offers -- these are good things, for they shall bringeth unto me a house, but they whelm me. I have many good advisors, but in the end I must make all these decisions alone. While I thank God that I am happy enough in my job and secure enough in my finances to buy a house, the end-of-the-day solitude of this process only adds to my disorientation.

Consequently, I am ending this very long day by making a list of all the joyful things I wish to do once I buy a house. For many of these activities I will invite or require company, so let me know in the comments where you wish to join in!

Housewarming

Once all the books are on the shelves and the plates in their cupboards, I will throw open the doors and ask friends to come bless the house with their joy. I will serve homemade ginger ale by the gallon, and we will go from room to room, praying for each.

Open Sabbaths 

Several of my Texas homes became gathering places for Sunday rest and reflection. My dear Kt came over nearly every week to sew, talk, and sit, and I loved inviting others to come and share our rest. When my friend Audrey was exploring the idea of keeping a Sabbath, she once came over with a book and pajama pants, and spent the afternoon reading and napping while I sewed nearby. I want my house to be a place where we teach one another to rest.


Foxfire Fridays

In Waco, the local Mennonite church would host free or nearly-free seminars in skills such as cheese-making, knitting, baking, canning, and other traditions skills and crafts. They called these sessions "Foxfire Fridays" after the Appalachian Foxfire project (read more about that here). I've looked in vain for a similar gathering in Alabama, and I've finally decided I should just start one myself. We may begin with a few friends gathered for knitting lessons or jam-making, but eventually I would love to use  my house as a meeting place for people interested in sustainable living.

Gardening

Hopefully, my first project upon moving will be to establish gardens. In addition to vegetables and flowers, I have dreams of gardens that grow natural dyes, herbs, and other useful flora.

Square Dancing 

This is risky, considering I've only ever square danced once, and I have no idea how to teach anyone else to do it.  Nevertheless, if I have a spacious yard, I would really enjoy finding some old records and gathering some people to laugh and swing and dosey do.

Rocking Chairs 

Special kinds of conversations happen in rocking chairs, just as supper tables, road trips, and Christmas trees all inspire their own precious forms of conversation. I hope to acquire a few rocking chairs and put them somewhere we can hear crickets in the summer. We'll rock and talk late into summer nights.

Holidays

Mobile is nearly equidistant between my parents and my uncle's family, so there is a good chance my house will become the meeting point for that side of the family. I love hosting holidays--especially Thanksgiving and Easter, so I look forward to becoming the the host not only for my family, but for anyone in this city who finds themselves in need of a home on a holy day.

Making this list has been a happy exercise. I'm feeling far more cheerful about all the decisions I'll need to make in the coming weeks. Please keep me in your prayers as I move forward with this project.

What do you think I should do with a house once I have it? How can I be a good and creative steward of a house?

Why Virginity Matters (or, Hey! Where's my unicorn?)

I really wanted to write about real estate tonight. I wanted to write a cozy and encouraging post about shopping for houses, hardwood floors, and decisions regarding mortgages. However, some things I saw on Facebook tonight (this, this, and this, in particular) have compelled me to address a topic I've been brooding over for months: virginity.

"Virgin with Unicorn" by Französischer Tapisseur (15th Century)

For the last few years I have been trying to understand what's so wonderful about virginity. The culture at large treats virginity among adults like a joke. Meanwhile, the standard evangelical line, which tends to discuss virginity only in the context of sexual purity before marriage, doesn't do much for  those of us who are adults with no immediate prospects for marriage. Last summer I addressed this issue in one of my most-read posts, "True Love Doesn't Wait"(read it here).

Considering virginity has been a lonely reflection, mainly because it seems awkward to introduce "the delights of virginity" as a topic for discussion at dinner. And yet, I think that if we expect young men and women to remain virgins, we should have something good to say about virginity. For my part, I experience virginity as something beautiful, particularly when I see how the Bible consistently uses sexual states to represent spiritual conditions. When I sit in a room of married friends, I often feel that I possess something--in my relationship to Christ as an unmarried person--that they do not, just as they, in their marriage, know and experience something as Christians that I have not known. I don't have a word for that feeling. Nor do I know if it is a valid feeling, a Spirit-led feeling. I'm rather ashamed that I am only now, at the age of 29, even bothering to wonder about it. 

If I were approaching this question as a scholar, I would probably need to start by addressing  the historical and anthropological research on virginity, including a survey of the many ways ideals about virginity have been misused throughout history. However, I'm writing tonight as Bethany, not as Dr. Bear, and so I begin not with a scholarly literature review, but with a question I began to ask as a teenager. When I was 14 or 15, I read that according to medieval folklore, only a virgin could tame a unicorn, calming the notoriously violent creature. Madeleine L'Engle makes modern use of this legend in her novel Many Waters, and the legend has fascinated me ever since. Something about a virgin is so alluring, so powerful, that even the wildest creature submits to it. The virgin in this legend is neither defenseless nor worthless; she has more power than even the mightiest and most aggressive hunter who tries--and fails--to catch the mythic creature. 

This legend echoes through my imagination whenever I read 2 Corinthians 11, as Paul writes to the church in Corinth, "I feel a divine jealousy for you, since I betrothed you to one husband, to present you as a pure virgin to Christ. But I am afraid that as the serpent deceived Eve by his cunning, your thoughts will be led astray from a sincere and pure devotion to Christ" (vv. 2-3).  

Paul contrasts a "pure virgin" with Eve, and the analogy is telling: if Eve was deceived by cunning, a virgin sees through lies. If Eve was led astray, a virgin remains on the path he or she has chosen. Paul chooses the physical state of virginity to symbolize clear-eyed, undaunted devotion to Christ. It shouldn't be surprising, then, that many medieval writers saw the unicorn legend--the strange creature tamed by a virgin--as an allegory for Christ's relationship to his mother Mary. 

These are only preliminary, tentative thoughts on a vast and mysterious topic. I don't know if I will be brave enough or wise enough to write any more on this subject, but I do feel that I can draw two conclusions from tonight's reflections: 

1) Sexual purity is crucial to a healthy Christian marriage, but discussions of virginity can't stop here. Allowing virginity to become a relic of outmoded culture, rather than a witness to new life in Christ, is a tragic failure of imagination. 

2) As a virgin, I should live my life in such a way that it becomes a symbol for the life of Christ's body on earth: undeceived, committed, and focused on the Way. 

I cannot pretend that I have a complete picture of why virginity matters to a Christian, just as I doubt most married Christians completely understand the mystery of Christ and the church, which their state of life is supposed to symbolize. I hope to ponder this question with prayer and joy in the years to come, and perhaps you'll ponder with me. In the meantime, let's not forget that most American adults can say they found someone to marry them, but one of these days, a few us are going to show up at church with a unicorn. 

Prayers for a House and a Home

I've decided to buy a house. I looked at some properties before I moved last summer (read about that here and here), but I didn't have any peace about making such a big decision. The timeline would have been rushed, and I wasn't sure what part of town would be best for me. Perhaps more importantly, I was so overwhelmed by all that had happened in the first half of 2012 (finishing a dissertation, finding a job, leaving my Texas home of six years), that I didn't have the emotional wherewithal to commit to a house. I've been really happy with my apartment for the last seven months, and anyway, if I had bought a house last year, I might not having anything exciting to say in my Christmas letter for 2013.

So far, the process has been calm and simple. I contacted a Realtor I trust, selected a few houses as preliminary favorites, and tomorrow we will visit them. It all seems so ordinary, and yet this is a moment I have dreamt about since I was a little girl. I feel there ought to be festivities, or rituals of some kind, to mark tomorrow as a special day: The Day She Goes Out into the Wilderness to Seek Land and a House. (Granted -- this isn't exactly the wilderness. But let's not forget I live behind a place called "Catfish Junction," and within walking distance of a bow-hunting shop).

I'll save my grand celebrations for the day I actually purchase a house, with another soon after, when I plant a garden and can check off another item on my "Let's Be a Literal Proverbs 31 Woman" list. (I don't really have a list, but maybe I should. Between spinning wool into yarn, putting purple sheets on my bed, and considering land to purchase, I'm not doing too badly.)

Until I can host an official housewarming (what a wonderful term!), I want to be steady and diligent in prayer for this undertaking. Here's my prayer for this weekend:

God who settles the solitary in a home: thank you for all the houses you have already given me. Thank you for the snug white house on ninth street, the dorm room on the second floor of Burnett hall, the garage efficiency on Maple Avenue, our "lighthouse" apartment on the banks of the Brazos, my last bright room in Waco, and these little chapel-rooms in a land of bays and bayous. Thank you for all the people who have shared these homes with me: for my parents, assorted cats, one dog, for Rachel, and Mari, for another Mary, for Adrienne, for Jenn & Grant. Thank you for the food I could place on shelves or grow from the ground. Thank you for the money to keep the lights shining and the water running. Thank you for the guests and friends who visited these rooms and made them homes. 

God who is with us, please guide and bless this newest search. Take me to houses that are solid and well-built, with strong walls and good ground. Lead me to sidewalks where children could play and where neighbors know one another. Give me wise questions to ask about wiring and roofs, and let my imagination see how a place might welcome friends and strangers. 

God who loves, let me dedicate this place to you before I own it, before I even see it. Give me a house that I may continue to welcome students, make friends, house the homeless, and give beds for weary travelers. Let it become a gathering place and an outpost of your kingdom. Let it be a homely house in a dark world, let it be bigger on the inside, let its windows be called "Wonder" and all its doorways, "Hope." You, God, are our true home, and I pray my house will bear witness to that. 

In the name of Jesus, who made a home with us, amen.  

Anxiety and the Crisis of Memory

Four years ago, the world turned dark.

It was January, 2009, and the spring semester was about to begin. The fall term had been difficult but victorious: I wrote in my journal that I felt myself to be "between the hammer and the anvil," yet the pressure exhilarated me. For one of my courses I had written over 300 pages between August and December, and in the other I had earned a nearly perfect grade in Old English.  After two years of uncertainty, I was finally beginning to believe that I was actually smart enough to be in a doctoral program.  I lived and worked with a wonderful community of students and scholars. I had a challenging and loving church home. I was on good terms with my parents and all my friends. 

Lights were all around, but I could only see the darkness. 

Intellectually, I knew everything was okay and more than okay, but that January, just before the first week of the new semester, something broke.

I felt like my world was tottering on the edge of a cliff. I couldn't stop crying, and I began to tremble uncontrollably. I couldn't articulate what was wrong precisely because it seemed that everything was wrong. A blackness hovered around the edge of my vision, as though I might blink and find the world extinguished. The first week of classes began: I went to school, taught my freshmen, attended my own classes, always on the verge of tears. I managed to do my work but little else, and when a friend asked when I had eaten last, I couldn't remember.

I couldn't remember. I don't mean I couldn't remember what was upsetting me: if anything could be called a "cause" of my anxiety and despair, it was probably three years of unresolved stress that I had written off as being "normal" for a diligent grad student. At the time, however, the fact that I could not remember goodness haunted me more than anything. During that dark January, my memory seemed to have betrayed me. One day, for example, I was walking from the library to my car when the name of a Victorian writer--Walter Pater, I think it was--flashed through my mind. Walter Pater has never been particularly important to my work, but in that moment, my mind quailed, and I started to panic. I felt guilty and exposed, as though my dissertation director might materialize in the parking lot and demand a full biography of Walter Pater. (He never did, in case you were wondering).

Throughout that January and into the spring, my memory turned sullen and silent. Walter Pater, I soon realized, was the least of my worries.

I couldn't remember how it felt to enjoy being alone.

I couldn't remember why sunshine had once made me smile.

I couldn't remember the confidence that had come from past semesters of successful coursework. 

I couldn't remember anything ever being easy; my anxiety never disrupted my teaching, but little tasks like picking up a pencil to write a note felt like training with lead weights.

I couldn't remember looking forward to the future. 

I couldn't remember how to quiet worrisome thoughts. 

I couldn't remember.

Most terribly, I couldn't remember the good gifts--peace above all--that God had given me in the past. Gone was the calm certainty my faith had always delivered. I don't mean that I no longer believed in God; I mean that my emotional response the world--fear and trembling--didn't match my claims that God was faithful, and loving, and compassionate. With every tremor, I seemed to contradict scripture. I was worrying about everything. I was neither strong nor courageous. I let my heart be troubled. I did not consider the lilies. 

And yet, once I realized that my anxiety was a crisis of memory, the black margin around my eyes began to fade. Work was good because it distracted me from fear, but in any spare or solitary moment, I poured all my energy into memorizing psalms, especially Psalm 84.

At the same time, many able hands began collecting and carrying memories I had lost in the dark. An excellent counselor helped me identify some of the thoughts that were feeding my anxiety, and challenged me to remember the promises God makes through the Bible. My friends remembered to invite me for supper or study sessions several times a week. My father came to stay for a week, then my mother, then my friend Julianna, and their presence--their mere, marvelous presence--reminded me that I was not alone. Other friends took time away from their own jobs, studies, or families to call and tell me about the times they had struggled with depression, and how they had come through. The books I read for my classes, especially The Pilgrim's Progress, The Book of Job, and Walter Brueggemann's The Message of the Psalms, reminded me that feeling pain did not mean I was unfaithful. The music of John Michael Talbot filled my mind so beautifully that anxious thoughts fell silent.  

I have no idea if my experience with anxiety and depression was typical. Thankfully, I have not endured anything similar since that strange spring four years ago. Regardless, I know that what I endured for a season, some people battle for years. The dark margin which I suffered so acutely is a chronic condition for some. And the betrayal of memory, the spiritual amnesia--perhaps that also haunts  other children who have forgotten they were created in the image of God. 

I often write about memories on this blog, and that's not because I am merely nostalgic by nature (though I am). I use this blog to remember the yellow weight of sunlight, the joy of friendship, the delight of good work, the strength of gardens, the wisdom of sparrows who make their nests on the altars of the Lord.