Don't Forget to Have a Little Fun!

Besides regaling Kirk regularly with Bing Crosby tunes, I found plenty of ways to surprise my new husband with some unexpected antics.

For instance, a spontaneous jog up the craggy Burren, my feisty fists curled in determination to conquer it, almost before he realized I had gone but not before he could snag a few pictures:

And, the use of any old mettle I could find to demonstrate my acrobatic prowess:

Don’t forget my competitive spirit! Which, consequently, and, of course, sent Kirk running for cover.

Expect the Unexpected

The best way to travel is to be open to surprises.

For example, while we expected to love the Rock of Cashel site near Kilkenney, an old landmark that draws tons of tourists to its grounds per day, we actually enjoyed better the old abandoned and rundown monastery sitting on the other side and down the hill from it. Who couldn’t love and discover the holy in a sacred and quiet place like this? (See Rock of Cashel through window of second picture.)

Also, a little church we decided to visit on our return from Rock of Cashel smacked us silent with reverence and awe when we definitely didn’t expect it. After nearly two months away from corporate worship, my spirit craved the refreshment of the profound presence of God’s Spirit that pervades that Holywell Abbey. Even though we were alone in the church’s interior, the quietly piped-in monastic chant and the small candles casting a red glow on the wall made it feel we were surrounded by other believers seeking the holiness of God’s face, too.

And finally, while staying at the Lyreth Estate Hotel in Kilkenny, we spied two hot air balloons taking off from the hotel grounds early one evening, as well as a handful of ponies and a private jet plane that belonged to the hotel owner!

You just delight in experiences and awaken yourself to much more of life’s gifts when you adopt a habit of wonder, I’ve decided. Don’t you agree? 

Just Duds about Dublin

Even though we met there and were glad to return to it, Dublin didn’t impress us as much this time around. Maybe it had something to do with the rain. Or getting lost while trying to find our hotel. Or travel weariness. Or maybe just that we’d seen most of it before. In any case, all we did for most of our time in Dublin was stay in our bathrobes, order room service, and challenge each other to more and more competitive card games. (I know, we’re kind of nerds.)

Probably the most exciting part about Dublin, like I already mentioned, was the back-and-forthing we did about 4 times right in front of our hotel when trying to find it, taking about an hour of time zipping around and around the same city block square because the hotel was so poorly marked. Even though we’d been there before and the area looked so familiar, we just couldn’t put our finger on where it was. That is, not until we found it by accident while making an illegal U-turn, happening to look up and discover the small square sign next to the terribly common door that read “Merrion Hotel.” Grr!

Besides that harrowing hour of frustration, the only other sighting worthy of remark this time around is what we discovered on the way there: a sheep horse, herding a group of sheep up a hill!

And Finally, Paris . . .

I hardly know what to say about Paris except that it’s positively magical.

All the places you’ve seen in movies, pictures, and on TV . . . suddenly right before your eyes and within a finger’s reach. All that history. All those landmarks. All those artists, philosophers, poets, and writers making their homes within those city streets. All of it, right there for us to enjoy.

I could hardly believe it.

I’ll let pictures do the talking first, just to give a feel for what we enjoyed on a daily basis. Be sure to walk through these pics with the pace of a leisurely Parisian stroll. That’s what everyone else is doing!

Arc de Triomphe

Besides taking a short boat tour on the Seine River our first evening in Paris, our first order of business was to walk the length of the tree-lined Champs Elysees to the base of the famous Arc de Triomph – and then climb to the top of it.

The view at the base and the top was amazing, but the climb to the top and back down is quite another story, as I’ve developed an increasing fear of heights in the past 7 or 8 years. Even though the stairway was enclosed and its sides encased by trusty handrails, my stride strode slower and slower with each mounting and dismounting step, and not a little bit of wobble. It was enough to make me fear the Eiffel Tower climb we’d planned for the next day! 

Eiffel Tower

But speaking of that Eiffel climb, we didn’t have to do it. You can take an elevator all the way to the top! Whew, that bit of news made my day. I was pretty nervous at the thought of climbing at least three times higher than the length of the Arc de Triomph, and without the safety of enclosed walls.

Here are a few things I learned while on top of the Eiffel:

1) Paris is cloaked in white. When you first look down from the top of the tower, all you can help noticing is the radiance of the city. It positively shimmers. (See pictures below for proof.)

2) Almost every place in Paris has historic landmarks, but some sections are more famous than others. The vistas to the west of town, for instance, include the Louvre, the Obelisk (known as the guillotine during the French Revolution), and the Notre Dame Cathedral. The vista to the south holds the Arc de Triomph, while the southwest carries Montmartre. Less popular are the east, with its highrise views of corporate Paris, and the north, which is more serene and pastoral.

3) Parisians value beauty. Though the plethora of museums, bridges, and carefully preserved palaces and cathedrals make this statement obvious, it’s also true in a not-so-obvious way. Like the tree-lined streets suffused throughout the city on major thoroughfares. From the top of the Eiffel Tower, you can see the city is primarily composed of rows upon rows of soft white colored buildings intersected with long green lines of carefully planted earth. Small plantations of grass and flowers crop up out of nowhere within otherwise commercial city blocks, and there are plenty of free parks and gardens to keep you occupied for weeks. (See pictures below for proof of this point, too.)

4) I can experience special places with Kirk, rather than just beside him. What I mean is, I’ve done a lot of traveling, and a lot of traveling with other people, but I’m not used to sharing the sights and sounds so personally with anyone else. Usually I don’t know how. I feel unable to share my impressions in a way another person will understand, especially if the impressions have particularly moved me. But with Kirk, it’s a completely different story. I learned at the top of the Eiffel Tower that I can experience moving – and even just plain silly – moments with him right as they are happening. I don’t know how else to explain this profound moment of realization except to say there’s a big difference between doing something with someone and doing something with someone.

So, here are a few of the sights we enjoyed together at the top of the Eiffel Tower:

Our Favorite Place in Paris

We learned on our first trip to Europe last summer, when we were visiting Cambridge for the first time, that we enjoy discovering “favorite places” and then frequenting them numerous times during the course of a stay. It’s probably because an environment with just the right atmosphere for a good meal or just the right ambience for a meaningful conversation, or even just the right vibe for reading a good book, is such a rare find these days.

In Cambridge, that special place was Café Rouge. In Oxford it was The Quad. In Brea it’s Market City Café or Diedrich’s Coffeehouse, hands down.

Paris is no exception.

Besides finding our favorite place for lunch (Café Madeleine) and for dinner (L’Ecluse) fairly quickly, we also discovered our favorite place to set down for an afternoon snack, coke, and cider. That place is Café LeNotre, quaintly situated in the park and gardens near the top of the Champs Elysees.

Café LeNotre is the perfect place to spend an artist’s afternoon. In other words, it’s the place to go when you want a few hours of uninterrupted time to read, write, think, talk, or take photographs of the more meaningful and moving things in life.

That’s just the sort of thing Kirk and I love to do, so we spent a few artist afternoons at this very special café – a place we could count on for great ambience and service. One such afternoon yielded the following photographs, the first (more artsy) one by Kirk and the second (more commonplace) one by me.

What do you think? 

A Place that Inspires Stories

On Friday, one of our last full days in Paris, we headed out of the city on a tour of Mont-Saint-Michel (pronounced “Mont-San-Michelle”), a seventh-century monastery that offers, in Kirk’s words, “a pristine portal back in time, a pinnacle of pilgrimage for weary and thirsty souls.”

We journeyed five hours through the Normandy countryside to reach Mont-Saint-Michel, the second most-visited pilgrimage site in the world. Over centuries, rooms and staircases, twists and turns, and even a few secret passageways have been added so that winding through its interior is virtually like winding through a maze!

Such a place really has inspired stories, as Umberto Eco took it as the setting for his recent novel, Name of a Rose. Kirk and I remained awe-struck by the many remarkable surprises awaiting us around practically every corner.

Personally, I loved the cloister walk best . . .

Some Final Thoughts

It’s strange to be home after such an experience. Especially now, after settling into somewhat of a routine at home in Florida, we’re struck with amazement at all we were seeing and sharing on the other side of the world just a few short weeks ago.

But threads of that special time will remain with us, I’m sure, for a long time to come. I know that’s true from what’s happened in the aftermath of previous trips we’ve shared already. We’ll encounter a place that has a feel of “one of those places in Paris.” Or we’ll move more smoothly through a difficult situation by remembering what we learned from “that difficult situation with the guy at the gas station in Ireland.” Or, if nothing else, we’ll remember to bring the allergy medication along next time “because of what happened in that field on our first day in Ireland.”

Plus, because we’re in the habit of naming things, we’ve already named the little place we call home. Welcome to Ashford Cottage!

Soon and Very Soon

Don't worry. I haven't forgotten that you want to see pictures and hear stories from our honeymoon trip. We've just been super busy this week, finishing errands and unpacking our stuff since Kirk was off school for the holiday and we could get lots of stuff done together. The good news is that all the boxes are unpacked and our little place is finally starting to feel settled and more like home!

In other news and speaking of the holiday, have you ever been to a NASA space shuttle launch? We have! We went to the launch of the Discovery shuttle on Tuesday, which is a great way to spend the 4th of July, let me tell you. Very patriotic!

I'm surprised at the emotion I felt as the shuttle hit liftoff. It made me think of all the times I saw it happen on TV growing up in California, but here it was happening in person -- history in the making, just across the Indian River from where we were standing with everyone else who chose to celebrate the holiday this way.

I couldn't help but utter some fierce prayers for the safety of the crew as we saw them climb higher and higher into the sky, out of view and into space, especially as I thought about the Challenger and Columbia explosions that have happened in my lifetime. I can't imagine what it must be like for those astronauts to be that brave and live that kind of life. Wow! 

That Was So Random . . . Or Was It?

So, I already shared about the crazy hills we had to climb -- both literally and metaphorically -- to get to the wedding on the morning of June 9. What I didn't share were all the hills that preceded those ones. Seriously. We seemed to hit random speed bumps everywhere we went, so much so that we started thinking those bumps were way too bizarre to be random.

There are actually quite a lot of these to share, but here's our top three.

Random Event #1: I'm Sitting Where?!

After weeks spent working with a premiere travel agent in Winter Park -- and spending the accompanying moolah such a benefit costs -- Kirk was quite disconcerted to learn we weren't paired together on the flight out of Orlando into Philadelphia. And, it was a flight so full that getting new seats together meant we'd need to take an altogether new flight that was set to leave its gate in just under an hour. You know what that means: Run!

Random Event #2: Oops, That Thing That Just Broke? That Held My Wedding Dress

Of course, I wasn't about to let my wedding dress out of sight. It went with me as a (very heavy) carry-on so it couldn't possibly be routed to Milan when I wanted it to show up in Shannon, Ireland.

This meant, then, lugging it on the hanger everywhere we went. But, wedding dresses being as heavy as they are and airport maneuvering being as harried and hurried as it is, the hanger broke sometime en route from one gate to another in Philly.

You should have seen the crumpled look on my face.

I'd been pretty calm through all the stress of the week until that moment, but suddenly I was sure it was all going to be ruined. Instead of carrying my beautiful wedding dress right-side-up and flat on a perfectly functional hanger like a proper bride should have been able to do, I now had to fold it in half and carry it over my arm like some old sweater or raggedy doll.

In the end, Kirk reminded me that a wrinkled wedding dress could not possibly have the final word on our wedding day. He said I would surely take his breath away no matter what the state of the dress -- wrinkled, rumpled, dirty, or even caked with mud.

Okay, so he didn't say exactly those words, but he said enough to calm my fears, dry my eyes, and getting us moving along again. Such a sweetheart. He can make me feel better about seemingly bad news in a heartbeat, simply because he knows how to put things in perspective.

Random Event #3: Honey, I Can't See You 'Cause My Eyes Are Swollen Shut

Just so you know, ancient abbeys and cathedrals can be found everywhere in Ireland. I say this so you don't make the mistake we did on our very first time on the road from the Shannon Airport to Galway.

We were driving along quite well, actually, even though Kirk was faced with the challenge of not just driving on the opposite side of the road but driving with a steering wheel and stick shift planted on the opposite side of the car.

And we were nearly to Galway, really, maybe just 12 kilometers away, when suddenly we saw it: an old church that looked ancient. Falling-down ancient. Crumbly, made of stone, situated in a beautiful field, and without a proper roof ancient.

You have to know both of us to know how we would respond to this, especially in the first few hours of exploring our way through the Emerald Isle on our wedding and honeymoon trip.

"Honey, look!" Kirk cried.

"Wow -- that's beautiful!"

"I wonder how we get there?"

"Me, too," I said. "So weird that it's right behind all those new track homes. Why'd they build all those homes right there, in front of an ancient church?"

"I don't know," Kirk said. Pause. "Wanna try and get there?"

"Pshaw, yeah, I do!" I said. Well, maybe I didn't actally say "pshaw." Who says that word, anyway?

Off we went, driving in and out of the new track home development until we realized that route had to be a dead end. There wasn't a road through to the church, none that we could find, anyway, and we weren't quite sure what to do next.

"Is it worth it?" Kirk asked.

"Are you really asking me that?" I replied.

"That's what I thought."

I nodded. "So worth it. Maybe we could ask someone who knows."

"Probably a good idea, at this point," Kirk said.

Luckily -- or, depending on how you interpret the end of the story, not quite so luckily -- we found an old guy who looked official and decided to ask him.

"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell us how to get to that church?" I said, pointing to it.

"Oh, the old abbey?" he replied in his thick Irish accent. "Right around the corner from here, there's a group of new homes. You know it?"

"Yep. We know it."

"Drive through to the end of the main road there, park at the end, hike through the field behind the houses, cross the railroad tracks at the other side, and then you'll be to it. Or you could just follow the railroad tracks here, if you like."

"Hmm," I said, squinting my eyes as I peered down the long lane of tracks. "That seems way easier. Do you think a train will come?"

He followed my gaze down the tracks. "Not sure. I don't think one's been for a while, so it might."

Um, thanks, but no thanks. We decided to take the wild field route. We like wild fields, right?

But this was no ordinary field. It was a field of weeds and grasses waist-high. That kept getting higher and higher the further into it we went. At one point I remember thinking, Oh good, I'm glad my allergies aren't flaring up. I used to get major allergies in high school, and with all the seedlings and pollen floating around that Irish field, I was surprised my eyes and nose weren't reacting.

I must have thought that happy thought too soon.

By the time we reached the end of the field -- probably just after Kirk had jumped the creek between the field and railroad tracks, steadying his balance on the other side by grabbing onto a branch that immediately produced several itchy spots on his arm, and I inadvertently rubbed my eyes for just a moment-- the light itching of my eyes had begun. Which soon turned into major itching. And watering. And, well, goopiness.

Gross.

I knew this feeling well. It was the exact same feeling -- and symptoms -- that happened every spring during secondary school, for which the doctors had a technical term: conjunctivitis. In other words, pink eye.

I didn't really enjoy that abbey visit.

So, What Happened?

Kirk's rash went away after a few minutes, but I spent the rest of the day holding cold compresses on my eyes, every once in a while dropping Visine into them to reduce the redness, or spreading hydrocortizone on them to reduce the swelling. Thankfully, these homemade "prescriptions" had been learned by years of dealing with this exact same problem in high school, and this attentiveness to the problem helped it get mostly better by morning.

Plus, Kirk reminded me (yet again, being the man that he is) that nothing could possibly detract from the specialness of the upcoming day, no matter how hard Satan might try to make it.

And those kinds of conversations in the moments leading up to the wedding are what reminded us of who we are and the importance of what we were about to do. Because we aren't just two human beings who fell in love because they thought the other one was kind of cute and fun to be around. No, we're two fierce warriors in God's kingdom, joined not just by human interest but godly appointment to complete specific work for His glory on earth together. We firmly believe we're much stronger and more effective for God's glory together than we could ever be apart and that God brought us together for a reason.

And all that means we have a destructive Enemy seeking to steal, kill, and destroy whatever he can in our path. He's shown up a number of times already in our short life together over the past year, seeking to pull us off course by small-story stuff or lies about what defines us or even sheer busyness, not to mention actual hardcore spiritual warfare. He's an Enemy, in fact, who will try all he can to keep God's purposes from being accomplished in us. It's like C.S. Lewis wrote: Since he can't have our souls, he puts everything he can into defeating us into ineffective or complacent or "safe" lives with his lies. Lies which we're not the least bit interested in buying.

We're Back!

Greetings from Winter Park, Florida, from the newlyweds!

After two and a half weeks in Europe, we are finally settling into our little studio loft on Palmer Avenue. We are certainly glad to be establishing "home" together now, especially after a month of transition and travel. Take a look at the events of our last month:

1) A week on the I-10 road from California to Florida.

2) A frenzied week after that, filled with unpacking the car, buying "house stuff," and preparing for the Big Day and what we've termed our "Overture" in Europe.

3) Once in Europe, another two and a half weeks tooling around blessed Ireland and -- drum roll, please -- PARIS!

4) Not to mention almost 24 hours negotiating the ins and outs of the two most dysfunctional airports in the world -- Charles de Gaal in Paris and slower-than-slow and attitude-ridden Philadelphia.

Wouldn't all this activity make anyone throw themselves down on their blessed bed back home and not get up for days?

Well, I guess it didn't take days for us to get back on our feet. Kirk, after all, had to be at school at 8:30 the next morning.

But we're resting as much as we can and enjoying every second back home. And so, I must say, are the two frisky felines we house. Solomon and Diva have taken to following our every move. This is partly, I think, an attempt to make sure we don't leave the country without them again. It's also, I'm sure, their way of milking us for all the affectionate pats and hugs they can get. They need their little love tanks filled as much as the rest of us do, I guess.

And now for the information we've been dying to share . . .

The Wedding Day

Our wedding day was more poignant and significant than we could ever have planned it to be. Only God could have orchestrated such a perfect day, and we've heartily agreed we wouldn't change a single thing about it -- not even the Irish cows who showed up uninvited! (More on that later.)

Obviously, we traveled a long way to get to that appointed hour. On a literal level, we went halfway around the world. But you could also say the traveling began with Kirk's trip to California in late May to help drive me and my car and our two cats to Florida. And if you want to get really deep about it, you could say it began with that first unsuspecting e-mail I sent him for work purposes back in March 2005, or when we met in Dublin two summers ago, or even as far back as the conception point of our lives, when God infused our DNA with the exact qualities and desires and personhood-ness that make us who we are in the world today and for each other, creating a perfect fit.

In any case, we traveled a long way to get to Ireland earlier this month.

Step One: Get There

But even after traveling that long way to Ireland, we had to travel even farther once we got there! What I mean is, the morning after our first night's stay in Ireland -- in the Great Southern Hotel of Galway, overlooking the grand Eyre Square -- we had to get ourselves to the Aran Islands. This meant first catching a 9:30 a.m. coach that took us to meet a 10:30 ferry. Once on Inis Mor, the largest of the three Aran Islands, we had to hunt around for a tour bus driver who would be kind enough to drop us at Mainistir House before getting his tour underway.

This was no easy task, let me tell you, as those tour bus drivers waiting on the ferry docks work hard to fill their tour buses with paying customers who stay on the bus for the entire 1/2-day tour of the island. Luckily, God led us to a driver who said he would drop us at Mainister House if he didn't get a full bus. But then, as we waited hopefully on the curb next to his bus, he proceeded to spend the next 45 minutes attempting as hard as he could to get more than two paying passengers to step into his 10-seater bus.

When that didn't work, we were finally off -- nervous and a little frustrated at this point, given the unexpected lag in our plans, as it was now well past noon, the wedding was set for 1pm, and we still needed to dress and get to the wedding site. But the driver finally wound his way up the long, steep hill to Mainister House, the nice hostel where a room was being kept for us to change into our wedding clothes.

About 25 minutes later, we were met by an old-fashioned pony-and-trap -- yes, you read that right -- driven by a friendly old Irishman named Patrick and his trusty pony Brownie. They escorted us around the island, my veil flying to and fro like crazy in that uncontrollable island wind, until we finally reached our destination: the ancient ruins of a monastery and its surrounding fields of wildflowers.

But don't believe for a second that the long journey was over yet! As the pony-and-trap couldn't make it up the hill, it was our personal job to climb it. So up we went, hiking that small hill in our wedding garb -- with an unexpected snag of the veil on a quite prickly patch of roses and stems, which Kirk gallantly "unprickled" -- to meet Dara, our minister, and Sean, our photographer, so the ceremony could finally begin. In all, we were just 20 minutes behind schedule. Whew!

Fortunately, we had our spirits about us again and found that pony-and-trap ride and final climb up the hill quite exciting, thrilling, and delicious. What an exciting morning to get us to the moment of ceremony!

Step Two: The Holy Well

The ceremony Dara officiated for us was situated much like a short pilgrimage, with four stops at various locations on the holy site.

The first stop was an ancient holy well, representative of the feminine because it goes down into the earth, receives what the earth has to give it, and then offers what it has back to the world above. In this place, the bride is blessed and receives prayers from the minister while offering her own in silence.

As there hadn't been rain on the island in 10 days, I couldn't reach the water in the well by putting my hands down into it, so Dara scooped some of it into a bowl and invited me to press my hands down into the bowl while he prayed the blessing over me.

Step Three: The Standing Stone

Then we hiked around the side of the hill, up a slope that led to the monastic ruin, and skirted the ruin to reach the second station: an ancient standing stone. Predating Christianity to the time of the Celts, standing stones have traditionally represented the masculine in spirituality, as they emerge from the earth to heaven and offer strength to those who lean upon them. Here, Kirk received a blessing and prayer from Dara much like mine, though his centered on prayers for strength -- that his strength would continue growing evermore into the future plans God has for his individual life and our life together.

Step Four: The Church

Next, it was finally time to enter the monastic ruin to exchange our vows and rings. Dara provided traditional vows for us and completed the vow ceremony with a Celtic handfasting. This involved his lacing our hands with a cord of fabric to symbolize the solidification of our union and the permanence of our vows.

Of the many beautiful truths Dara shared with us that day, one was the truth that God's presence exists everywhere but is especially concentrated in places where people have consecrated His name of glory over and over again. As that particular monastic site was erected in the 12th century, he noted the particular holiness of God's presence surrounding us in that place, as well as the great blessing of love that had been built up by the perhaps thousands of couples who had exchanged vows in that same spot over the past 900 years. It was particularly encouraging for us to realize our own spirits of blessing were rising up to meet them that day, joining holy forces with theirs to continue blessing all who would follow after us in that place.

As you can see below, the wind continued to blow quite insistently. So much so that, eventually, the veil came off and went on the altar as an offering to God -- which was of particular comic note to me, given the many strains I took to secure the veil back in California before we left!

Step Five: The Wishing Stone

Our final stop was the wishing stone, which used to act as a sundial for the monks who lived in the monastery when it properly functioned as one. The sundial has a hole in the middle of it, and as part of an ancient tradition to seal a contract between two people, Dara had us push our two index fingers to meet in the middle of the hole, thus further sealing the promises we had made to each other through the vows in the church.

Besides acting as a sundial and place of contract, the stone also functions as a wishing stone. Another ancient tradition here says that receiving one's wish called for passing a cloth through the hole three times while reciting the particular wish. Kirk's wish? "That God would be in us and through us all of our days." My wish? "That God's best would be accomplished in our lives always."

Step Six: Concluding Moments

As I said, we certainly wouldn't change one thing about our special and sacred day. So many things happened that were felicitous, unexpected, consecrated, and downright hilarious.

For starters, there was the issue with the veil flying hither and yon from moment one -- on the pony-and-trap, on the hike up the hill, at the holy well, inside the ancient church. I'd gone through quite the pains to secure that veil back in California, but instead of being upset it wouldn't stay on my head, it became a prized moment to lay it on the altar just before we exchanged our vows -- and then to take it up again for safekeeping and a special ceremony on our wedding night.

Also, after exchanging the contract and wishes at the wishing stone, Dara was taken aback for a moment and said he couldn't help but want to sing a hymn in that moment. Not only was this something he doesn't normally, it was also amazingly special that he chose to sing nothing other than "St. Patrick's Breastplate." This is a verse that Kirk and I have prayed together numerous times in our courtship, not to mention that our dating anniversary is St. Patrick's Day, and that March 17 is also the day we got engaged earlier this year. We couldn't help but believe Dara was moved by the Holy Spirit to share that song with us.

We were also surprised to learn that June 9 is a very special celebration day for the Irish. It's the Feast of St. Columba, who, next in line behind St. Patrick, is the most revered and favored Irishman of God. We will always be blessed to know our courtship and marriage have been and always will be protected and covered by the two greatest patron saints of Ireland, a land that has always held such a special place in our hearts.

And finally, there's the issue of the cows. Yes, cows. Seeing as how they're everywhere in Ireland -- as numerous as the sheep you'll see grazing in the fields on the side of every road -- we should not have been surprised in the least to find them waiting for us at the ruin. But surprised we were, and there they stood: four great brown nosy creatures, more eager to chew their cud than get out of our way.

We'll never forget the sight of our two hosts -- Dara in his white priest's gown with the multicolored vestment cloth and Sean in his jeans with his two huge cameras bumping against his chest, both of them flapping their arms and shooing the cows further along up the hill and away from the sacred festivities taking place below. Nor the way the cows kept pushing themselves right back down the hill -- they'd found a great grazing spot down near us, gosh darn it! -- every time Dara and Sean turned their backs to come back down to meet us. And the way I had to lift the edges of my heavy dress, Kirk carrying the train behind me, as we carefully picked our way from station to station in order to avoid the cow pies in the mud.

What a hilarious happenstance that was -- and one we wouldn't trade for a minute. It made us laugh. It made us feel part of the land. And it made us sure we'd picked a wedding location far different than any found anywhere else on earth.

Lessons Learned on the Road

1) Never drive through Houston during rush hour. In the rain. In the metro section. Where the I-10 branches off to the I-45 and Downtown exits. You're liable to wind up driving in circles for 3 hours, just to get back on course. Really. This could happen to you. This message could, in fact, save your life.

2) When purchasing disposable cat litter boxes, make sure the box you purchase is big enough for your cat. Poor Solomon. Or should I say, poor Zoey. Or should I say, poor us. Which leads me to a sub-lesson of Lesson Number 2: I really, really, really don't like cleaning out a crate carrier that's been mussed by a cat. Or cleaning up said kitty after the fact. Ick.

3) In the same amount of time it takes you to drive through Texas, you can drive through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida and STILL have time to catch a few winks of sleep in your new home in Winter Park. Sheesh.

4) A new bed is one of the most luxurious inventions in the world. Especially when you've been sleeping on the couch and floor for the past 12 months of your life. And a twin bed for the previous year before that. Ah, the wonder of soft blue sheets. White down comforters. Billowy mattresses. I could sleep forever on the bed in our new place. I'm not kidding, either.

5) Even if your cats are sane (and it's questionable whether ours are, in fact, sane), they likely still wouldn't appreciate being cooped up in a crate carrier in the back seat of a Volkswagen Jetta for much more than 12 hours. And we ran 14 hour days on that I-10 road. After four of those days, I can still hear Diva's pathetic mew ringing in my ears. And, of course, Solomon's signature chirp.

So, we leave for Europe this afternoon on a 3-week expedition through Ireland and "that other place." The travels begin with a wedding ceremony on the Aran Islandsat 1pm this Friday afternoon. (That's 5am on the West Coast for all you California folk out there.) And then we're off for a 10-day foray in the Emerald Isle and a mysterious 8-day stint in some other as-of-yet-undisclosed location.

My latest guess on that "other place"? Italy.

I'll keep you posted.

World Weary, but Not Forlorn

Oh, dear. How I wish I could be warm and witty right now. How I wish I could impart more humor. How I wish my outlook on this week could be disposed toward something more sunny.

But the days standing between me and this weekend are worthy of only a sigh. I sit inside my colleague's office, 8-hour-day after 8-hour-day, evaluating the 70 students entrusted to our care, one slow half-hour at a time.

And yet, the patch of sky outside the window shines blue. A soft breeze taps the scrawny branches outside the office window against the large glass pane. Tap-tap-tap. What a seductive invitation to life outside these concrete walls!

But here I sit, dredging through hours of meetings, anticipating the turn toward my home at night, but a home only filled with boxes stuffed to the brim with books, CDs, movies, and clothes, and knowing the two days following my last Biola day already lay riddled with tasks: getting the car serviced for a 3,000-mile road trip, refilling important medical prescriptions, returning borrowed furniture, clearing a speeding ticket, and picking up final paychecks and medical paperwork.

In the meantime, the thought of a walk in that breeze with my sweetheart keeps me going. As of this Saturday night, all will finally be well. At this point, we just can't wait to uphold the following image forever:

So come, this Saturday evening, come!

Dear God, Thou art so good to me. Blessed be Your holy name forever.

The Curling Place

It has been a l-o-o-o-n-g time since I posted on this blog. That's because my face has been stuffed inside 75 college-level papers for the past week. So glad THOSE are done.

I want to write something more poignant and thoughtful for you and for God to read, but my heart and brain and energy level aren't up to it. They're all at a low, low point. In the next few minutes, I'm going to go curl up on my couch with a quilt and blanket and invite my kitties to cuddle.

Because sometimes we just need REST.

State of My World

It's now 2:00 in the morning and I've been working on "work stuff" since 1:00 this afternoon, grading freshman paper after freshman paper while taking food breaks every few hours and medicating myself with caffeine. Oh, and working via e-mail for the past handful of hours with my TA at Biola on the academic conference we are running next Friday. Getting down to the wire!

I'm making good progress on all this work and feel fully accomplished today, but . . . I'm just realizing how crazy life is right now. I've known it all along, of course, but it's coming to a head this week, given number of times I've found myself jumping with surprise today -- remembering things I have committed to finishing or attending or am in charge of making happen this week -- that I might forget if I'm not careful.

So, I decided to make a note of the things that need to be done each day this week on a small Post-it note on the table next to me. Which turned into 2 Post-it notes just to make sure I would remember everything that will get me through the weekend. Which turned into 5 Post-it notes that catalogs the responsibilities I have each day from now until the day I move to FL with Kirk. (Oh, glory be the light at the end of the tunnel!)

But then I realized something. I realized I had just put my whole life for the next two-and-a-half weeks -- mind you, what's left of my California life in total -- on 5 small Post-it notes on a very small piece of kitchen table.

I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS. MY WHOLE CALIFORNIA LIFE FITS ON 5 SMALL YELLOW POST-IT NOTES. HOW CAN THAT BE??

I'm sad.

I'm going to miss seeing Hannah's quirky smile and beautiful blue eyes. I'm going to miss hugging -- squeezing, rather -- Katy's small frame and seeing how her dark lashes form a protective umbrella over her blue eyes when she's deep in concentration. I'm going to miss hanging for a full day of Felicity or Gilmore Girls reruns at my mom's house and knowing I can stop over absolutely whenever, her house is always open, and I don't even need a reason for showing up. I'm going to miss laughing at my sister when she gets silly and wants to remind me of how funny we were as kids. I'm going to miss the beach. I'm going to miss Rock Harbor, the coolest, edgiest, most God-glorifying church I've ever witnessed or been privileged to serve in and be a part of. I'm going to miss my Life Group girls, who have been like my life's blood next to Kirk this past year and the arms of the very body of Christ. I'm going to miss my little white house that's decorated in a way so perfectly reflective of me. I'm going to miss witnessing and speaking into the lives of my students as they grow up and into adults. And I'm going to miss the fantastic, strangely beautiful, altogether unique ones who have unreservedly changed my life this year.

Change -- even good change -- is accompanied by pain. I think this is always the case.

I'm thankful I have found a man who understands this pain, wants to walk with me through it while holding my hand, give me my space if I ever need it, and, more importantly, loves me even more each day for feeling all that I feel -- the joy and the pain -- that somehow, for him, demonstrates the deep feeling heart I carry within me, which is an invaluable treasure, he says -- a treasure of the kingdom! -- and would want all of it always, even when it feels like it's breaking into a thousand little pieces.

Just like it does right now.

More Thoughts on Music

So, after 4 years in an classics program and 3 years reading at least 1,000 academic papers, I have a few formed thoughts on what makes music good.

Disclaimer: These thoughts come straight from Plato. If you haven't read him, you'll feel like you have after the following crash course in a few of his basic philosophies. And if you stick with me til the end, I promise a sweet "philosophy of music" payoff -- to which I'd love your input.

First, Plato believed the human soul to be comprised of three faculties: the rational, the appetitive, and the spirited. The rational is, you guessed it, given to reason. The appetitive is, guessed right again, given to appetite or desire. And the spirited is, less obviously, the one that mediates between the other two.

Note: By "appetite," Plato didn't mean foodstuffs. He meant "base pleasures," or pleasures controlled by carnal desires devoid of reason.

The one that usually confuses people is the spirited faculty. What does it mean for part of our soul to "mediate" between desire and reason? It might be easier to think of it this way: Whenever our reason and appetite conflict, the spirited faculty is the one that chooses which one to follow. In fact, it's the one that chooses anything that needs choosing, since it's the part of our soul that controls our will.

Plato then says that the goal of a well-lived life is to develop a "just soul," or justice among the three parts. And since reason is what separates us from the animals, justice for the human soul means getting our spirited faculty to defer to our rational faculty instead of our appetitive one. Furthermore, it means getting our appetitive faculty to conform -- even submit -- to reason so that the soul runs smoothly within itself, rather than in combat mode.

With me still? Here's a quick recap:

Man = Reason + Desire + Will
Animals = Desire + Will
Plants, Pianos, Desks, and other Inanimate Objects = None of the Above

Thus, by virtue of our humanness, we should prefer to live in accordance with reason instead of appetite, as choosing the latter likens us unto mere brutes . . . and that can't possibly be good.

Now for the musical connection.

Just as the soul is made of three parts, so is music comprised of three parts: words, rhythms, and modes. And, lo and behold, the three parts of music correspond evenly to the three parts of the soul!

How so?

Well, the words are the "rational" part of music. They communicate the meaning, or idea, of it. (Which, in the case of wordless music, still holds true because it means the main idea motivating the creation of that piece.) Conversely, the rhythm of a piece of music is its "appetitive" part, the part that gets our shoulders moving, our feet tapping, our fingers snapping. In other words, rhythm, like the appetitive portion of our soul, taps into the more visceral parts of our nature. And finally, the mode, or "spirited" part, is what unites the two and gives them life. It's what actualizes the words and rhythms into a piece of music through the power of tone, melody, harmony, time signature, tempo, and/or emotive release.

Now, to apply Plato's idea of the just soul to music, we can create a filter for "good music."

Good music should:

1) Have a motivating idea or purpose, always communicated through words when available.

2) Be supported, not overpowered, by the rhythmic aspect.

3) Fuse words and rhythms through modal choices so as to evoke the power of the main idea in the listener.

4) Carry a resonant "sound," or energy, that uses the instruments, harmonies, melodies, and toe-tapping rhythm to perfectly reflect its main idea.

5) When done well, the discovery of the main idea and its corresponding emotion will be an unavoidable byproduct of listening to the piece.

Some concluding thoughts:

Are we commonly aware of music's power to shape -- and even reflect -- the state of our souls? Do we care that it holds that power? Why or why not?

As someone who cares about the formation of her soul, this goes a long way in explaining why cars that bump and vibrate next to me at the stop light affect me on a physical, even soul-shaking, level. Such an encounter drives me to bodily itchiness, discomfort, and aggravation! And, according to Plato's filter, this must be because I'm actively seeking to be mastered by reason, not appetite, and appetite is just what enslaves that kind of music.

Lord, help us strive to be creatures moved by what is truly good -- which, in the context of music, is that music that carries beautiful ideas and is coupled by corresponding tonalities and rhythms that elevate the spheres of our souls into the heavens, nearer to You. Amen.

Good Music = Good for the Soul

Thanks to my good friend Hannah, I'm discovering all sorts of delicious music these days.

Copeland. Waking Ashland. Mae. To name just a few.

Hannah has -- get this -- 325 albums loaded on her computer, which translates into just shy of 4,000 tracks. Whew! Maybe this sounds like small beans to some of you, but it blows my virginal mind completely; I had a mere 2 to 3 albums loaded on my computer when we began meeting for work-dates at Diedrich's coffee shop last December. We needed good music -- and a strong variety of it! -- to get us through those last harried weeks of our respective semesters.

Well, it's that time of the semester again, and I've discovered the needs haven't changed. I sound my newly amplified playlists over and again, and thank God repeatedly for the discovery of new music. There's so much variety out there! I'm amazed musicians for ages past have worked with the same harmonious, melodious, and/or discordant combinations of notes to produce altogether new creations for as long as they have. It's a miracle that will keep repeating itself till the end of time, and even longer. What an amazingly creative thing for God to have invented and shared with the rest of us!

Question of the day: What makes music good?

What Cats Do (Part 2)

Cats get finicky.

For instance, our cat Diva has recently retracted her agreement to take all the affection I offer in deference to her own self-sufficiency. I suppose this is a good thing -- a sign of her blossoming self-image over the past eight months in my house -- so why do I feel like an unwanted mother in the house of a newly independent teenager?

When we first met, Diva carried herself with a fragile uncertainty that required an obsequious amount of affirmation. For months after moving in with me, she'd follow me around the house, looking up at me with her plaintive blue eyes and emitting pathetically feminine "mews" every few moments, just to make sure I knew how sad and needy she was. And I'd comply exactly as she hoped: with a quick scratch behind the ears, a thorough rub on the back, or a swift lift into my arms for a celebratory parade around my 450-square-foot home. This hit parade included, invariably, a pit stop in the bathroom so we could stare at what she took to be the puzzling image of ourselves in the mirror.

Diva also demonstrated her need through the Art of the Paw-Paw. Have you heard of it? Given any textured substance -- and quilts and blankets are her favorite -- Diva fixates for long stretches of time on paw-pawing, or kneading, that substance to a pulp. You can even create a Time of the Paw-Paw by flicking the edge of a blanket on the couch within her direct line of sight. One glance at that flickering blanket and she'll get that old Paw-Paw Glint in her eyes. Then she'll make ready to pounce. Having mastered the jump, nothing else matters but that she fixate on a focal point directly in front of her and begin to push the tiny pink pads of her small front paws into the blanket as though kneading a bowl of dough. Over and over. As though digesting her internal woes on the journal of that blanket, one paw-paw at a time.

Sigh.

It used to be that Diva enjoyed the Art of the Paw-Paw with me. She had her own form of the 5 a.m. wake-up call that included a morning round of paw-pawing my stomach. Just after Solomon had nearly knocked the wind out of me by jumping off of it.

Ah, yes. With Solomon chirping for his fresh lamb-and-rice by the bedside and Diva kneading my stomach to death, they made for quite the early morning team. I sure miss those good old days.

What Cats Do (Part 1)

First, cats who weigh over 20 pounds eat a lot . . . and often.

Take our illustrious King Solomon, for instance. He knows when it's feeding time. Right on schedule, every morning at 5, he lumbers from his sleeping perch atop the loveseat and makes his way up my bed with stealth. It's dark and he's heavy, so he stumbles over my legs and knees until he finds his footing on my stomach (oof!). Bound and ever determined, he creeps and crawls his way forward . . . until he reaches the nesting place on which he rests his bouldering frame: my chest.

Quite satisfied with this gymnastic feat across my sea of blankets, he settles his soft front paws at my chin and then shoves his whiskered face into my mouth and nose. Then he begins to breathe. Very loudly. Like a motor that can't stop running. Like an engine that needs some work. You know, the kind that gurgles and heaves while it idles nervously through the interminable moments at the stop light.

At this point, we play a little game. I give him what I wish he came for -- some undivided affection from me -- and he tolerates this for about 3 minutes. He pushes his furry cheek into the palm of my hand, for instance, when I move from massaging his flat head to rubbing the side of his cheek, and then he stretches his stubby neck heavenward when I scratch the underside of his chin.

But eventually comes the moment of reckoning -- the moment when he leaps from my chest, pushing all 20 pounds of himself into my fragile and flattened sternum, and ambles over to the food dish. Only to discover it is empty. Only to return to my bedside and sit on his haunches and let out an impatient huff.

And then he begins to chirp. That's right, chirp. The regal, self-contained, and very masculine King Solomon chirps for his bowl of porridge in the morning. And won't stop until I give it to him.