And euthus! I was pushed through the dark, to you, and my hands fell firmly on the unknown, untouched: your soma. It was our first touch, warm, there in the dark. The piano held its peace; my heart hammered instead, hammering, hammering. But then, I was yours, and I was wrapped in all places, known, finally, but still dark. Dark, dark, dark throbbed instead of time. How long? Always. We are still there, in the dark, not letting go.

What if God never wanted me strong? What if God gave me weakness in order  to display his grace?

I have been given eight extra weeks to finish my classes. Eight weeks full of grace. What have I done with them? Waited around for strength and got nothing done. I’ve been to the doctor, got six vials of blood drawn, scheduled for an MRI and health management counseling, and waited and waited for some kind diagnosis. My eight weeks are almost up, and I have neither a diagnosis, nor completed coursework to show.

Instead of waiting around for a good day, or a bottle of pills, maybe I ought to be trusting, instead, in the divine mercy, expecting to be weak. What would it mean to glory in my weakness? I don’t know. I think I will only understand once I do.

This post is not elegant; but it’s the best I can offer right now. And it happened.  More things need to happen before July 2. I am so very weak.

We watched Alice in Wonderland yesterday, and the Mad Hatter caught me by surprise. He said to the identity-crisised Alice, “You used to be much more . . . muchier. You’ve lost your muchness.” I know that word! It’s the word without a word, and like Alice, I’ve lost it too. I don’t feel much like myself anymore.

Today is the first symptom free day I’ve had in weeks. I’m tired, but clear-headed and thankful. A day like this helps me remember who I am and what I dream to live for. I want to love Yahweh my God with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my muchness.

But I’ve been a whore to plenty other dreams and I’ve more often sinned the sin of the dreamless. Lord have mercy, on this Resurrection Day: bring me, too, to life with you.

                I had a migraine last night. The pain chased me and I hid. I buried myself in darkness, wishing for unconsciousness or death. But my love was waiting by my bedside, and in a single moment, I awoke from the nightmare to the light of his face. He gazed at me in perfect love– perfect love casts out fear—and the whole world was made new. It was a new age, and there existed nothing but love, and this love would never fail. The weight of every doubt, fear, and worry vanished. The strife of the past was forever banished, the future unquestionably bright. Who could have known that I had been so plagued by darkness before?  Who could have imagined the weight of sin before it was removed?

In the perfection of peace, I cried. In the morning, I still cry: Oh Heaven, return to earth.

Glancing off the minarets,

You could think of guavas and figs

And the whole marketplace filled

With the sumptuous din of haggling,

But you could not think of Alexandria

Without the sea, or the sea,

Turquoise and shimmering, without

The white city rising before it.

Even on the back streets

You could feel it on your skin,

You could smell it in the aroma

Of dark coffee, spiced meat.

You looked at the sea and you heard

The wail of an Arab woman singing or praying.

If, as I can now, you could point

To the North Atlantic, swollen

And dark as it often is, you might say,

“Here lies Wrath,” or “Truly God is great.”

You could season a Puritan soul by it.

But you could fall into the Mediterranean

As though you were falling into a blue dream,

Gauzy, half unreal for its loveliness.

It was deceptively calm and luxurious.

At Stanley Bay, you could float

On your back and watch the evening sun

Color the city a faint rose.

You could drown, it was said,

Almost without knowing it.

“Alexandria, 1953″ by Gregory Djanikian, from Falling Deeply into America.

The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor, Nov. 17, 2009

I wrote this freshman year, in the midst of much doubt and discontent, and of questioning my identity. It seems in times of deepest confusion, the sun shows itself as a strange symbol of hope. Sophomore year, I was lonely and unsatisfied, but I woke up each morning to the sun rising above the mountains. That sunrise carried me through the semester. And once, it brought me back to faith in God.

Today that sun revealed itself again. Through my first floor window I could see the whole world turned gold. I pushed back the blinds and admired the vibrancy of the sky. I went back to my work. I pushed back the blinds again. I threw on my hoodie and shoes and hurried into the cold air for a better view. In the sky, purple fought orange and pushed back the blue; a whole crowd had gathered to watch. And, as if there weren’t enough extravagant colors already, a crisp rainbow arched opposite the sun.

As the brilliance began to fade, I walked back to my room feeling joyful about being a sucker for such beauty. It’s good to admit I enjoy something, and it’s good to join with others in its awe. Somehow, glory reaches into my troubled heart, and in the eternity of its beauty, gives me rest.

My great-grandmother died last week. I had not known her well; what I knew of her made me uncomfortable. Her death was unexpected, but not untimely.

My mom had called to pass the time on a long trip home from Georgia; she mentioned grandma’s hip in passing. “The doctor can’t perform surgery. Her heart is too weak,” she said. “He says sixty percent of the elderly die shortly after breaking a hip.” She paused. “So it could be a week; it could be a year.” But I thought little of it, either too optimistic, or in denial that anyone I know could die.

When I was in elementary school, her husband, my great-grandfather, died of Alzheimer’s. His yelling had terrified me. And my neighbors died within months of one another. They used to give me candy out of a crystal dish; we would talk on their pink velveteen settee. Two distant cousins committed suicide within the span of a year: Michael in a drunken game of Russian roulette initiated by the father, Luke by a dive from a rooftop. I remember the wailing. I remember inventing stories for myself: Luke made a robot to look like himself and sent it off the edge; it was all a funny joke. Luke wasn’t really in that casket. He’d show at the wake. Everyone would be happy. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real. And I had never met him.

My mom left a voicemail while I was in class. As I walked to lunch, I heard her voice say, “I need you to find out your school’s bereavement policy.” I stopped walking, felt my stomach tie up. Was I ready for this?

Later that day, I lamented my indifference to my boyfriend. “I’m too young to grieve,” I said, feeling vaguely philosophical. “Life is still ahead of me. I don’t understand what it is like to lose a loved one; I am still looking forward to gaining loved ones. My grandparents are no longer holding onto this life as tightly as I. How can I understand their loss when we are in such different seasons of life?” Seasons of life, yes. “A time to weep, and a time to laugh,” said Solomon, “a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” There it is, I thought, Solomon knows. It is not my time to cry.

I was set to leave for the funeral, a four day weekend eight hours north. As the news travelled around campus, I began receiving sympathy and hugs. I never knew how to respond. Once I started rambling about my great-grandmother’s schizophrenia and tendency to call restraining orders on her loved ones. “I wasn’t very fond of her,” I said. Everyone stared. A friend offered his love and I lashed out, “Why is everyone so sorry for me?” Did they not know that it is not my time to grieve?

The next day, I stood with my heels stuck in the grass, passing out pink and white carnations to a small group of relatives I hadn’t seen in years. My mom gave the eulogy. She told a story of a strong and committed woman who grew up in the Great Depression without knowing the great historical event was even occurring. “We just worked the farm and made do with what we had,” she said. She remained faithful to her husband for fifty-six years of marriage after only two months of dating, a challenge for anyone, and especially me, as I look toward marriage in the hazy future. I learned about her addiction to Coca-Cola when it still contained traces of cocaine, her pen pal from across the pond before facebook or the internet were even conceived, and her continuous scolding of her little boy, my grandfather, even up to her last days. And about the last words she spoke: I love you. Unprecedented words from a heart I had only known as hard. I recognized her humanity for the first time; she gained my respect. This woman, my great-grandmother, lived her life. And I cried.

Maybe funerals are not only about the wailing and the loss. My vague philosophical drivel betrayed as much denial as my childhood robot story did years ago. But honoring the dead, I learned, is also about the affirmation of life. As in celebrating birth or marriage, we affirm the value of life. Maybe a funeral is about both the mourning and the dancing. And I do not need to be afraid of the mourning. Thank you, Yahweh, for life.

When I returned home, I was still receiving hugs and condolences. But now I was content to give a nod and a quiet word of thanks. Perhaps these people had understood what I had not all along: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven… a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”

I have been missing my check card for about a month. No, it wasn’t stolen; it is somewhere in the house. Lost. I have searched many times to no avail. This morning, I am preparing for camp: cleaning, packing, getting myself in the right mindset, trying to take on an attitude of rest and openness to God. My lost check card has by now acquired some friends, so I sat down to make a list of all the items I am missing. I was anticipating the relief that would come with checking each item off the list, and I was about to make a focused effort to find them. I was feeling like the woman with the lost coin. The list is as follows:

• check card
• driver license
• peace earrings (which I had recently recieved for my birthday)
• earbuds

And then something prompted me to write:

• eddy

Odd, yes. It struck me, suddenly: How much more would I delight to be united with him again? This real human being whom I love deeply: How could anything compare? Yes, I get it God. I mean a lot to you. Oh, you want me back?

This new insight resonating inside my chest, I got up to resume my search. First place I looked, I found the check card. No guarantees on the rest of the list (especially the latter entry), but I got the point. Thanks, God.

…but while she was still a long way off, her father saw her and was filled with compassion for her; he ran to his daughter, threw his arms around her and kissed her… [Luke 15:20]

I twiddle through the summer months. My adrenals have exhausted. My hormones are getting trippy. My thought life withered weeks ago. I distinctly remember feeling whole. I remember– I am not. What happened? Is it really just the hours of sweeping for five dollars and sixty-five cents, wait, $6.55? What’s happening to my body? My mind? What’s the connexion there?

I never much cared for that silly philosophical problem. Oh mysterious Christ.