The New English.

Well, Dr. Longinow sure knows how to sell journalism as a major. “Creative nonfiction narrative” is what he calls it. His perception is that English departments across the country are feeling pressure to place emphasis on post-modern literature and are steering away from writing and the development of the narrative writer. Journalism, he says, is the new English.

The class that I am sitting in on, Dr. Longinow’s Foundations of Journalism, is currently engaged in a lab assignment. The students were given complimentary notebooks sent by The New York Times and sent out to interview a secretary somewhere on campus. They were sent with the question, “How does God show up here at work?” They were encouraged to observe sights, sounds, smells, taste and texture. THIS is the journalism that I was originally drawn to. Personality profiles, feature stories, stories with heart.

What were the words of C.S. Lewis that Matt quoted on the tour earlier? We are souls with bodies? I see a good “creative nonfiction narrative” article that way. A story shouldn’t be facts thrown together, it should be a soul in the form of an article. We are not simply scientific beings; love and desire are not simply hormones being moved around. A story is not simply the form to which we mold it, it transcends the placement of paragraph and number of words in a lead.

Graceful is not my middle name.

I am not a particularly graceful person. I stumble a lot. I drip liquids on myself daily. I say the wrong thing with too many words and with too much enthusiasm. I snap and bite and lose patience. I dwell on perception. There are times when grace is the finish line and only a speck in the distance.

Let’s come back to this.

I write these words while thousands of feet in the air. My mother and I are seated near the jet of the small plane and my voice vibrates when I speak. She is sleeping, I cannot.

There is a woman with two boys seated in front of me. The elder of the two is very needy: he hasn’t ceased to speak since he was buckled in his seat. He asks his mother questions repeatedly: “When will we take off? Why haven’t we left yet? When will we eat? Will I get to shower later? Why is that person standing? Are we still going to Disneyland? Do you love me?” The questions are followed by a series of statements: “I want to read. I am thirsty. There isn’t enough arm room. I have a paper cut. This book is funny. He called me weird. I dripped some water. My sock is wet…etc.” The younger of the two boys is whiny, but far more tolerable then his brother. Both of the boys are very polite.

Their mother is extremely patient. She acknowledges each utterance. She does not enable the elder son’s neediness, but shows him love and gives him an appropriate amount of attention. This woman is quickly becoming my hero. If you look up “graceful” in the encyclopedia, you’ll probably see a photo of this woman.

Rewind a couple months ago to my last plane ride to LA: same purpose, far different circumstances. This trip will require considerably more grace than the last one. Maybe if I say the word over and over again, it will start to describe me: graceful, graceful, graceful, graceful, graceful…

Maybe not.

Okay, time to circle the wagons.

I feel as though, in the “Race to Grace,” I am running with a twisted ankle and the woman in front of me is an Olympic athlete. I don’t think I will ever get THAT good. Yes, yes, I understand the whole “clumsiness is character” bit – but it gets a bit old.

Hey, “Race to Grace” rhymes. That’s fun!

Yikes, I am losing focus. Also, my metaphors are lame.

Graceful. Graceful. Graceful. Graceful.

Having a How. Or Something.

My uncle is learning to play the guitar faster then I am. I will admit he has been practicing a bit more: he doesn’t have copious amounts of Soviet reading to do. I suppose being a father of three and partner of a financial advising agency keeps him sufficiently busy. Still, how is it that I don’t have time to learn to play guitar? Aren’t a person’s college years supposed to be carefree? I am nineteen -- isn’t my life supposed to be made up of eating chocolate without consequence, staying up late, learning to do things like belly-dance and sew and knit and meeting the love of my life?

Something along those lines.

I am a bit stressed out of late. Okay, I am always stressed out. Maybe Mr. Furtado was right when in a home fellowship email he satirically predicted that I have an addiction to stress. I have been trying to relieve it: I have been working out, eating well, doing yoga, praying…

It all comes back to one issue, though. Stress motivates me. Or rather, I am stressed because I care about things, and that motivates me. I care about my brother and sisters, the opinion of my parents. I care about my friends, their happiness and futures. I care about what the Lord wants for me: I want to do His will; I want to glorify Him.

The question is how. How, how, how? All I can do is keep learning.

Here is what I have been learning of late (beyond the constant “trust God” lesson):

I cannot convict people. I can’t make them learn from sin or a mistake. I can’t make someone want to change. I can’t make someone acknowledge a wrong. I can’t make someone go into business mode. I can’t make a person regret how they have treated me. This is not my job. WAKE UP, SARAH: This is God’s work. All I am called to do is love people. I want to be a blessing to those around me in the same way that I am blessed by the sunshine, a good climbing tree or a letter in the mail. Simple. Simple and loving.

Have I found my “How?”

"William Shakespeare: The Complete Works" is mocking me.

My eyes have been heavy for a couple of weeks now. I am tired.

The pictures on my wall keep falling down. The fluctuation of heat from the heater and cool air from the open window causes them to curl and for the scotch tape that holds them in place to lose its stickiness. Poor scotch tape: identity crisis isn’t fun. So far five of my photos have fallen. I haven’t decided whether I should launch another campaign against the refusing wall and re-attach them.

Rejection isn’t much fun either.

I have an awful lot of homework to do. It is, as usual, hard to get started when there are much larger things on my mind. Like, for example, the rest of my life. Or maybe just the fall. Or maybe just today (Yes, I know those last two sentences aren’t grammatically correct. Microsoft Word is so pretentious with its squiggly, green underline).

I want to go home.

Well.

I don't know who reads this: probably not many more then the five who decided to "follow" me. Even then, I don't imagine that viewing is particularly regular for them. Regardless, I hereby announce that I was accepted to Biola University this morning. Oh goodness - I am so excited!

I didn't know that I was nervous about being accepted until I was. When my lovely admissions counselor, Donald, told me that he was printing out my acceptance letter as soon as we got off the phone, a wave of relief washed over me. I didn't even feel compelled to call anyone right away, I just jumped up and down to the Scott Olsen song that was playing in the background and thanked God for this blessing.

"Come, let us sing for joy to the Lord; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song."

Psalm 95:1-2

The relief is making me giddy (probably in correlation with the wonderful 7.5 hours of sleep I got last night).

This good news aside, I am also stoked because of some new fellowship I have found on campus. My neighbor Kate and I have been working out and praying together every night. We want to glorify God with our bodies and with our attitudes and work ethic. Getting to know this girl has been such a joy! God has provided what I have been praying for for MONTHS: fellowship here on the Linfield campus; someone who is excited to be pursuing God with her life; someone who understands the loneliness I experienced last semester.

That said, God is good. God provides. Praise Him!