This. Means. War.

Ariel and Davina presented on Freud and psychoanalysis in Contemporary Literary Theory today. In honor of psychoanalytic theory, Ariel decided to bring her bright lime green foam miniature brain to class, which we happily threw around the classroom while we waited for Professor Malandra.

Buck (Professor Buchanan) usually saunters by our classroom door on his way to pick up papers or some other such nonsense before heading over to his playwriting class. Shirly happened to have the brain in her hand as he walked by, so she threw it at him. He was deft enough to dodge her foamy brain missile.

He, in turn, proceeded to grab the brain and use it as a projectile, with me as his target this time. The war was officially on, with him standing at the doorway, books in tow, and me sitting my chair from the other side of the classroom, hurling the brain as accurately and powerfully at each other as we could. Sadly, he managed to escape most of my attempts to knock some sense into him.

Once Professor Malandra walked in, we quickly clued him in on our discussion of how we could further harass our favorite professors. We tried to enlist his expertise in our efforts, but to no avail. It would greatly help us to know the weaknesses of each of the professors so we could attack them each one by one [*evil laughter ensues], but unfortunately, he was unwilling to betray his fellow professors.

Our discouragement was brief, however, because once class dismissed, we sneaked down to Buck’s office, bid our time in Dr. Van Zandt’s office—visiting with her while we waited for our classmate to finish her conversation with Buck—and finally snuck in with the green brain in hand.

Buck was leaning back in his desk chair, when we invaded his office, daydreaming with his hands clasped behind his head. Thinking quickly, I lobbed the brain at him like a grenade, watching my bomb land on his chest and shock him out of his reverie. Then we ran out of his office like a bunch of hoodlums and sought refuge in Dr. Van Zandt’s office.

We hid there, wondering how Buck would seek his revenge. I ventured a peek down the hall while Ariel hid herself behind Dr. Van Zandt’s door, and Shirly sat laughing hysterically at us from her perch on the ottoman. I was beginning to get nervous, because I didn’t hear or see anything down the hall. Professor Davidson walked by and gave me a funny look, since I was popping my head in and out of the doorway to scan the hall for danger.

I waited a little while longer, hearing Professor Davidson stop at Buck’s office to consult him on something. Thinking that Buck’s attention was diverted by Professor Davidson, I felt that the most eminent danger had passed and that all was safe again.

I turned back to reenter the conversation that Shirly, Ariel, and I were having with Dr. Vandt. Behind me, I heard footsteps approaching; I turned in time to see Professor Davidson walk by, take the green foam brain out of concealment, and deftly throw it at my exposed back.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of my situation. My own English department advisor had betrayed me, had joined leagues with my enemy, and avenged Buck on me. Needless to say, I don’t think you can find that kind of fun and mischief at any other school.

Here comes the bride...

Everyone is getting married. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit. But the word “wedding” has been revolving around in my head quite a bit over the last several weeks. I know it’s definitely a hot topic at Biola, but the wedding bug isn’t limited to just that portion of my life. It affects my family, my church and my friends.

For example, my cousins and I are all eagerly anticipating my cousin’s marriage to her fiancé, who I think we’ve already accepted as part of the family. At the same time though, it feels really strange to think about. I still remember our crazy adventures, running around and seeking out mischief during our dad’s basketball tournaments. Or the special, personalized cousins’ newsletters that I received in the mail, complete with coloring sections and games (she was definitely meant to be a graphic designer).

I remember gathering the troops and walking down the street to the corner store where we would buy ice cream to combat the sweltering summer heat of Sacramento. I have very fond memories of the many late nights we had, sleeping over at one cousin’s house one night, and then moving camp to another cousin’s house for the next.

It’s finally beginning to hit me that I’m actually growing up. The last of the thirty-some cousins are going to be in college within the next year or so. The next generation in our family is exactly that—the next generation: the sons and daughters of my cousins, along with (the future offspring of) my brother and myself.

To return to the topic of marriage, at my church, we’ve had so many weddings that we’ve almost got it down to a fine science. The same people do the organizing and planning, the same people serve food or set up the reception, the same people serve as ushers, the same people prepare the music, with little adjustments here and there based on who’s getting married.

When I returned to school after the summer break, I had a few classmates who came back with new surnames adorning their own name and glittering diamond rings adorning their fingers. And it is most disconcerting to hear them say, “My husband this...” or, “My husband that…” during class. Even last semester it seemed like we heard of at least one new engagement every weekend.

Many of my good friends are getting engaged or planning for their upcoming weddings. I can think of three or four at this very moment. Today, in fact, I bumped into one of my English major friends who is graduating this spring. During our short conversation, I asked him about his post-graduation plans.

“Um…well, I’m getting married,” he answered. Then he proceeded to tell me about how excited he is about the new home that they will be moving into after their wedding. The idea of starting a new home or new family is so foreign to me, so far away. I can’t imagine—at my age—being anywhere near ready to get married.

Maybe it’s because I’m so single. Or because I still feel that there’s a lot for me to do before I settle down. I suppose there’s something beautiful about being a young couple, working together to build a future. But I have my own dreams and ideals other than being somebody’s wife.

The romantic in me is torn between the picture of marital bliss—realistic or unrealistic as it may be—and the equally romantic (to me, anyways), of traveling around the world to learn new languages, meet new people, and experience new cultures. I don’t doubt that I want to be married someday—I’m as anxious as the next girl to meet my true love. But I’d like to think that someday, I will find someone who will love me for who I am, aspirations and all.

Someone asked me yesterday if I’m a romantic. I’m not at all a mushy-gushy kind of girl—the kind who already knows the design of her wedding dress, the colors for her flowers, the location of her wedding, the dream house she will live in, and the tall, dashing man who will be her husband. I don’t have any idea what kind of ring I want or how I want to be proposed to.

I can appreciate sweet, romantic gestures. Part of me longs for that—for companionship, for affection, for love. But those things come in their time, and that time seems so far away to me. The future is so uncertain, full of so many possibilities. The only thing I know for certain is that God is in control; I must continue learning to find my contentment in him, and He will direct my paths in ways that will surpass my most romantic dreams.

Ode to Daniel...

Daniel and I meet every Wednesday afternoon for lunch. He’s basically the big brother I never had. I remember meeting his sister in first grade—we had the same hair cut, same glasses, even the same giant brown van. I remember we used to laugh at Daniel, who was a typical Junior Higher, because he refused to wear anything other than baggy black pants and a button up shirt to school, even during the warm summery days. He was way too cool.

Then I entered high school. He was a senior the year that I came in. To my surprise, he treated me a lot like his little sister, offering his advice or encouragement whenever I needed them. I felt lucky that a senior would take time out of his busy life, to stop me in the hall and talk to such a little insignificant freshman.

Even after he graduated, we continued to keep in contact, chatting online or over the phone. We lost contact, however, after a couple years. Last year, I got a huge shock when I ran into him on campus and discovered that he had transferred to Biola. Since then, we’ve been meeting regularly to have lunch and chat.

We always have a lot to talk about—everything from cooking to family to the Chinese language and back to food. It’s fun to try different restaurants, or to go back to the same one (where we inevitably order the same things we always do). Sometimes I have to check my cell phone to make sure we don’t get carried away with our conversation, especially on days when I have an exorbitant amount of homework to do.

Today, like all of our other lunch dates, was really fun. We sat at one of the two-seat tables in Eagle’s Nest, letting the lunch rush flow noisily around and past us. Always the experimental, free-spirited cook, Daniel brought his latest creation—Pineapple Curry Fried Rice—and I ordered a chicken soft taco at the counter.

Some how or other, he and I got to the topic of forgiveness: how bitterness can be all-consuming, how God treats those who do not forgive (Matthew 18:34-35), and how refusing to forgive someone can ultimately eat away at you from the inside and make you miserable. In fact, we agreed that those who let bitterness and hate permeate their lives ultimately suffer more torture than those who they seek to hurt.

I have one or two people in my own life who, I believe, are perfect examples of that. On one hand, I realize that I have to be careful not to let them affect me—to make me bitter, angry, or resentful. Sometimes my sense of injustice gets the better of me. But I don’t want to be just like they are, to let them have victory over me (those types of people just want everyone to be as miserable as they are).

At the same time, I know I need to develop a greater sense of compassion for them. My inclination is to say, “Oh, let them be miserable. They made their decision; they have to deal with the consequences. They deserve what they get.” That kind of attitude isn’t very Christ-like, I’ll admit; I’m constantly convicted of it.

In all honesty, my sense of compassion and mercy is sorely underdeveloped. I tell myself that I know how to be empathetic. But when it comes to people who have no sense of logic or reason, I just have a hard time being understanding.

That’s one of the reasons I’m so thankful that I’m a Christian. It is the power of God to do the work in me that I could never do myself—to show me my fallen state and my inability to merit any value outside of Christ’s work in my life. It is His amazing love and grace that compels me to grow in mercy and grace towards others, even those I have trouble forgiving.

Daddy's Little Girl

Growing up, my dad would often take me out by myself...we called them “Daddy-daughter dates.” When my mom was pregnant with Garrett, he would take me out to let my mom rest. When Garrett was born, he didn’t want us to have any sibling rivalry—he took me out so that I would get individual attention, so that I would feel special, rather than jealous. Even though I’m in college, we still go out on these occasional “dates.”

Usually, Dad and I like to pack up my homework and his Sunday School materials and head out to a café like Tapioca Express or Lollicup to work. My new favorite homework spot is a little café called Vanille in Rowland Heights. We have afternoon tea there, along with a platter of Chinese-style mini-cakes of various flavors and assortments. They have really good green tea and blended drinks, too. It’s nice to just sit and read, to listen to Chinese pop music blaring overhead, or to just people-watch as shoppers walk in and out of the little plaza.

I think the vast majority of my memories of my dad involve pastries or bakeries. Even this weekend, my dad and I made our weekly excursion to Keewah Bakery before dinner. He always jokes that the bakery is “so loud” because he can hear all of the pastries clling his name. Arm-in-arm, we looked through the cases of buns, rolls, pies, and egg tarts. I love breathing in the wonderful sweet scent of the Chinese bakery

It brought back a lot of old childhood memories. As a little kid, I remember spending a lot of time at my grandmother’s house in Sacramento. Dad and I would get up early to walk hand-in-hand down the street and around the corner. There was a restaurant that had a normal diner counter on one side (i.e. toast, omelettes, bacon, etc.) and a Chinese bakery on the other side. In my dad’s mind, at least, it was the perfect combination. I have a lot of happy remembrances of sitting at the counter, swinging my legs, watching in fascinated delight as the short-order cooks whipped up my French toast, enjoying the gooey Chinese pastry we picked out. I can still smell the steaming cup of coffee my dad would sip rather noisily, and the ice old apple juice I always asked for (my uncle nicknamed me “apple juice” because of it).

I’m beginning to look at the future with some hesitation and apprehension. I haven’t lost that sense of excitement and anticipation towards all of the experiences before me—of what God wants to do with my life and where He wants to take me. But the reality of going to Europe and London for a semester is beginning to set in. Even thinking about the possibility of moving away from home (say, Hong Kong or Taiwan) makes me feel a little sad. What will it be like not to go on Daddy-daughter dates? What will Daddy do when I cease to call him because I need a “study buddy”? What will happen to our weekly visits to the bakery and the DVD/CD/book/magazine store next door? What will it be like to no longer roam 99 Ranch Market together in search of the next new food we want to try?

I guess I’ve always been my Daddy’s girl. There’s part of me that knows that someday I must grow up, must be independent and mature and self-sufficient. Someday I might even meet someone who measures up to Daddy’s standards, and I’ll begin a new family and new life with him. But there’s part of me that hasn’t changed—still the same little girl with the big glasses and straight bangs, who sits on Daddy’s lap, and knows to ask Dad—not Mommy—when she wants something. She’s still same little girl who likes to watch sports highlights or the latest martial arts movie with Daddy…the same little girl who misses her Dad when they aren’t together. That part of me, I think, will probably never grow up.

YouTube and Benedictions

Yesterday, I was thinking about the lecture that Professor Weathers gave in our Website Development class. He gave us a brief summary of the progress that we have made as a (human) race in terms of communication and technology—from writing to the telegraph to computers and the internet. It was interesting to note that most of us couldn’t remember a time without computers. We belong to a generation that can’t imagine what it would be like without cell phones or iPods. The changes we’ve seen in technology have come naturally (we use Macbooks and Blackberry’s almost intuitively) and inconspicuously. Perhaps because of our closeness to such changes, the effect of these technologies on our lives is nearly imperceptible to us.

One major example is the internet. I think especially as college students, we have an almost unhealthy dependence on our ability to go online. We feel lost if our connection goes down, and annoyed if our connection is slow. We rely on the internet to keep us connected—through email, AIM, Facebook, Skype—with our friends and families. And we develop addictions to YouTube.

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that my dad is acquiring a slight addiction. He doesn’t really have a lot of free time, and he still spends a good deal of what little time he has playing tennis, watching ESPN basketball highlights, hanging out with my mom, or taking a nap. Browsing around on YouTube, however, has also become one of his relaxation habits, though not in an unhealthy way. In fact, it’s become something that he and I can share and enjoy together.

I’ve discovered, for instance, that I learn a lot about my dad’s interests just by watching and listening to what he watches on YouTube. One of his favorite pastimes is searching for techniques and tips for Judo and Jujitsu, or seeing great moves in the latest Mixed Martial Arts fights. From my usual spot on the couch I can often hear the songs of “Phantom of the Opera,” “Les Miserables,” or “Miss Saigon” emanating from my dad’s laptop in the kitchen. He especially likes Lea Salonga. He uses YouTube to search for songs that bring back nostalgic memories—like The Eagles, Strawberry Alarm Clock, The Supremes, or the Bee Gees. And he tries to keep up with what’s popular in today’s pop music; I think it makes him feel young.

We’ll often be sitting together in a restaurant chatting when my dad cocks his head to one side and comments, “Wait, isn’t this Maroon 5?” Or we’ll listen to the radio in the car, and he’ll be bobbing his head. Then he turns to me and suddenly says, “I like this song by Ne-yo; he’s got a nice, smooth voice. [continuing to bob] The song’s got a nice beat.” To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I feel about my dad listening to Rihanna and Jordin Sparks, but it’s cute nonetheless. And I’ll admit that I’m proud of him for appreciating Utada Hikaru. It just adds to his “coolness.”

On another, completely unrelated note, I wanted to recount a scene today that leaves me in fits of hysterical giggles every time I think about. Our congregation, I think, is very well trained. Not unthinking, per se, but well trained. We stand when we’re asked to stand, we sit when we’re allowed to sit, we read when we’re told to read. Many of us have grown up in the church, or have been a member for many, many years, so we’re well-versed in the protocols and procedures in the church, including the unspoken ones. Today was such a hilarious example of that.

I wrote earlier of little Ian, who was just adopted from China by a wonderful couple from our church. Today was his baby dedication—our pastor, along with the rest of the congregation, prays and dedicates his life to the Lord, asking God to work out the Gospel of Salvation in Ian’s life and bring him into the family of Christ. Everything was going smoothly. We stood, we closed our eyes and bowed our heads, little Ian wasn’t fidgety or ill-behaved. But during the prayer, our pastor began to invoke the trinity, saying, “in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit…”

For our congregation, that was our cue that the prayer was drawing to a close, so the entire sanctuary automatically responded, “Amen.” We were deceived, however, and the pastor continued on with his prayer, much to the surprise and amusement of all of us laymen in the congregation. By the time our pastor got to the end of his prayer, many of us were trying too hard to stifle our laughter—we could barely eke out a muffled chorus of amen's The ironic thing was that he really did end his prayer with “in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we pray. Amen.”

The Passage of Time

Today I brought two yearbooks with me to class: both the 1978 and 1979 editions of The Biolan. I found them amongst my mom’s things and discovered that she actually attended Biola around the same time that my professor and classmate’s mom did.

Everyone seemed to really enjoy seeing what our professor looked like when he was a freshman and sophomore. They especially got a kick out of his blond hair and the beard he sported as a first year student. He said (jokingly) that he was humiliated, but I think secretly he liked seeing those old pictures as much as we did.

After Ariel and I made our usual stop by his office to chat, we headed over the café to have dinner. We got to talking about our different professors, musing about what they must have been like as young people. It’s really difficult to think of them as anyone other than who they are now.

We contemplated what it was like for our male professors (we only really have one female prof) to court their future wives, and tried to imagine how they proposed. Were they romantic, practical, comical, serious, awkward?

It strikes me as strange how little we know of our professors’ personalities. To a certain extent, we can pick up on mannerisms, or style of teaching. We know how they dress, or the way they use their hands when they talk. We know how to joke around with them, or what will make them feel uncomfortable—we take great delight in using that to our advantage.

But at the same time, there’s so much we don’t know. How do they interact with their spouse or kids? What are they like when they're relaxed and informal? How do they like spend their free time? What were they like as college students? Are they ever silly? Do they ever laugh so hard they can’t breathe?

At Biola, and particularly in the English department, we tend to be pretty close with our professors. We treat them as mentors; we know they care deeply about us on many different levels. But the nature of our relationship with them as students naturally puts some amount of distance between us.

I guess it was just interesting to think about our professor: what he must have been like when he attended Biola and what he’s like now. At our age, we can hardly imagine what God is going to do with our lives—where He’s going to take us, how He wants to use us, how we will move and grow and change.

Seeing those old yearbooks was like seeing the passing of time. It had a really odd effect on me. It’s good to look back at where you’ve come from, and it’s good to look forward to what you will become. But it definitely makes the here and now seem almost surreal.

The little things...

Sometimes it’s the little things in life that get us through a hard day. Like having a roommate who knows you’re stressed out and offers to grab you lunch at McDonald’s to save you time. Or an RC who will stop on the stairs to pray for your homework.

Or a friend who doesn’t mind leading worship for you, even though he’s on the worship team for service every week. How about a mom who won’t give you a hard time, even though it’s the fourth time you’ve called to whine?

It’s the things you never notice, like professors who pray for you when you’re suffering some anxiety, or who are especially accommodating when you—in your scattered state—have forgotten to turn in an assignment.

Right now I’m past the point of exhaustion. I’ve ceased to function. My fingers are willing to type faster, but my brain refuses to move that quickly. I felt guilty tonight, sitting in the computer lab of the business building, listening to my professor explain how to create an html page.

He and the professor I’ve had for the last six weeks are tag-team teaching this class. This is our first week with this particular professor, and I already know I like him. He’s like a nicer, less awkward, better-looking version of Mr. Bean.

Maybe that’s not as much of a compliment as I meant for it to be. My first impression of him is that he’s friendly and comfortable. He seems to have a fairly good sense of humor, especially when it comes to losing at Scrabble on Facebook.

I think I also feel like I can connect with him on some level; we’re both bona fide nerds—each in our own way. He’s a great mix of computer geek, history buff, and savvy (I mean not technologically-challenged) professor. I think he’s even pretty interesting, too.

Unfortunately, I was so exhausted tonight that I could barely keep my eyes open. I was awake enough to catch the basic things we need to know to work with Dreamweaver. But it was a raging battle of the eyelids.

Part of the problem is that I stayed up late last night preparing for an oral presentation and hammering out a précis for my British mystery class. Then I had to wake up early to run to my 8:30 Point magazine meeting, which lasted almost three hours.

Then I walked over to Sutherland courtyard to meet with Chelsea, where we put the finishing touches on our presentation. I made my way back to the journalism office at 1:15. My professor was a little behind schedule, so we didn’t end up meeting until almost 2. Needless to say, I didn’t make it back to my apartment until almost 3.

Ariel had lunch waiting for me at the apartment. I quickly devoured my nuggets and fries (fast food is just comforting sometimes) before getting to work, making phone calls and trying to get my last two interviews. I still have a lot of work to do, but tomorrow’s draft is only the first. I do have time to make more contacts and refine my article.

I continued to transcribe my interview notes until it was time to head to my 6 pm class. I struggled to maintain consciousness through that class, then headed back to the apartment to eat dinner (instant curry is a wonderful thing) and sit down at my computer.

Since then, I’ve had to send out a bunch of emails for the magazine—we’re really cracking down on our writers now because their final drafts are due. And I still have the rest of the interview to transcribe, handouts to print, the précis to polish and print, and the article to write. It’s going to be a long night.

Sweaty Palms

I knew I was nervous. The clammy sweat accumulating on each palm more than proved it to me. My heart felt like it was bouncing around uncontrollably inside my chest, and the butterflies fluttering around in my stomach weren’t helping.

Listen to the chapel speaker, Lynnette. Maybe she’ll distract you, I told myself. Of course, in my state of slight agitation, concentration was next to impossible. From what I remember, she had some good points and some…interesting…points, all of which she gave in an unvaried, flat monotone.

I wished Ariel hadn’t said anything about London. She didn’t mean to worry me, but she and Janelle found out from our friend Shirly last week, and they couldn’t wait to find out whether or not I got in. Unfortunately, I must have checked my mail box before the notifications were sent out, so any of their well-placed, subtle questions were useless on me.

Taking out my pen, I sought distraction in the form of my journal. I often use my journal to record my prayers; it’s my way of talking with God. Our conversation went something like this:

I’m so nervous, God. What if I didn’t get in? Do you know how heart-broken I’ll be?
Trust me.
I’m TRYING. But You know how much I’ve wanted this. Ever since sophomore year.
I’m in control.
I KNOW You’re in control. That’s what worries me sometimes.
I’m not trying to withhold good things from you. But I want you to trust that I know best.
It’s easy to say that you’re in control if it turns out that I got accepted. But I don’t know how I’ll react if I don’t get in. I mean, I’d like to think that I’d be able to say that it’s Your will and submit to that, but I’m betting I’d probably cry instead.
It’s ok to be disappointed.
I’ve been trying to prepare myself for the worst so that I won’t be totally disappointed. But I really want to study in London; there’s no getting around it.
Remember I love you. Even when you feel disappointed.

Our conversation was suddenly interrupted when the chapel speaker unexpectedly went into her closing prayer, rousing me from my own thoughts. I bent my head and listened to her, only half paying attention, because I could feel the anxiety building up inside me.

Ariel and Janelle offered to come with me to the mailboxes. I have a top box, so I have to stand on my tip toes to see the numbers of my combination lock. After about 30 seconds of turning the lock, I finally opened my box, jumped up to see if there was anything inside, and stretched my arm as far as I could to grab the letter.

I almost wanted to put off opening it, as though the contents would change in my favor if I waited long enough. But I knew that was impossible. I ripped the envelope slowly, pulled out the letter, and opened the top fold.

My eyes fell on the first word printed in bold type, “Congratulations!” With a huge sigh of relief, I opened the rest of the letter and let my eyes run down it. I didn’t really bother to finish reading—I’d do it later—I was just too happy to think straight. The only thing that came to mind was, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Ariel and Janelle were excited too, celebrating with me. I gave them a big hug and wished them a good day. Then I rushed off to my Fitness Walking and Jogging class with a ridiculous grin plastered across my face.

Sunshine and Phil Wickham

Today is a beautiful day. Despite my failure to be a morning person, I definitely appreciate other people who are—like my roommate. For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been waking up early on Friday mornings to go to breakfast before chapel. It’s nice to wake up, to feel the newness of the day. Most of the time that Ariel and I spend together involves sitting in our room or laying across the living room couches reading, stopping only to read an amusing quote out loud or ask a question about literary theory. Honestly, other than our 20 minute Super Smash Brother study breaks, our only other activities together are homework and eating meals. We even went to the library in between chapel and lunch.

Not that I’m complaining. Nonetheless, Friday mornings are always really nice. We even got a special treat this week. For today’s chapel, Dr. Corey got up on stage and introduced Biola’s Board of Directors, who were all in town for a special meeting together. Ariel and I were just settling down when a particular head caught my attention. I squinted and tried to recognize the face, when suddenly, it dawned on me.

“That’s Michael Chang!” I squealed excitedly. “Or, at least I think so,” I said, not quite as confident as I thought.

“Are you sure? He looks…well…”

“Yeah, I think that’s him, " I interrupted, "I’m pretty sure.”
“OK,” Ariel said, not quite sure if she should believe me, but willing to entertain me.

Sure enough, my childhood legend was there. I remember watching him as I was growing up, thinking how great he was for being one of the first successful Asian-American athletes, and a Christian to boot. What’s more, he was just inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame, so we all got to celebrate and cheer for him. It was so neat to hear him give all of the glory to God, and to see how he is using his celebrity status (he’s at least a celebrity in China) to boldly spread the Gospel.

Then, Dr. Corey gave the floor to CJ, who in turn, introduced us to Phil Wickham. It stuck me as really funny that we would have him come to the one chapel we had with the entire Board of Directors—most of whom are older and gray, with a few exceptions—sitting in the bleachers. I hope they enjoyed it as much as we did.

Today was most crowded Friday chapel we’ve had in a while, mainly because of Phil Wickham coming, and because they closed off the balcony seating, forcing people to find a seat on the bleachers or stand on the gym floor. Either way, it was awesome to be able to worship with an entire gym full of Biolans, all singing praise to God for his greatness.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect with Phil Wickham leading worship, but he and his team are very gospel-oriented when they lead. And even though they’re one of the louder bands we’ve had in chapel, they’re really good at portraying that sense of holy majesty that belongs to God alone. I appreciated that his songs are not focused solely on how we feel, though that is a part of worship, but it was our response to the greatness of God’s grace and who He is.

On the same note, I was thinking about the difference between having Phil Wickham lead worship for us, and the Getty’s (they’re part of the team that wrote “In Christ Alone” and “The Power of the Cross,”) from a week or two ago. They’re so different in terms of style and atmosphere, and yet they worship and glorify the same God. I love hymns; the Getty’s music has such powerful richness and doctrine, it was so amazing. And Kristyn Getty’s voice is absolutely angelic. She’s way better in person than on their album (she sounds great either way).

Back to Phil Wickham—I thought it was interesting that a lot of his songs talked about how creation reveals God’s power and majesty and holiness. After singing those, and then walking outside, I was apt to agree. Today’s weather is wonderfully warm and springy. It’s almost warm enough to feel like summer (right now weather.com says it’s 80 degrees in La Mirada). Anyways, I’m still trying to think of a way to enjoy the sun and still get my work done today.

My First (or Second?) "Cold Call"

Everyone has a story. It’s something I’m beginning to discover the more I write. Dr. Longinow and Professor Mosqueda sent us out on a “cold call” again today—no research, no idea who we were going to interview. This time, however, we didn’t get an assignment; they didn’t give us a question to ask or a theme to follow.

We’re already pretty intimidated by the prospect of having to walk up to a complete stranger and ask for ten, twenty minutes of their precious time. It’s complicated ten-fold by the fact that we have no idea what story we’re pursuing. Because we don’t know who we’re interviewing, we don’t have a chance to do any research ahead of time or prepare questions in advance.

I walked around aimlessly for five, maybe ten minutes. It seemed like forever. Every place I thought to go, there were already other students from my class interviewing people. It just felt really awkward, like I was treading on the territory that they had already claimed.

I was beginning to get nervous again. You’d better just suck it up and find someone, I told myself. Our instructions were to find someone different from us—in my case, not Asian and not a female. That at least narrowed it down for me. I scanned around the fountain area and felt my heart sink into my stomach.

Professor Mosqueda was standing a short distance away from me, scanning the area around Fluor Fountain. He seemed so relaxed; I felt distraught. I quickly turned away. The first person I laid eyes on was a tall guy dressed in very urban street wear.

He was walking slowly enough to indicate that he wasn’t in too great a hurry. That was encouraging. I walked up to him.

“Hi. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Um…yeah,” he said, looking over my head towards the cafeteria. “When does the café close?”

“Oh, you mean, for breakfast?” I said, tracing his gaze. “Um…well, I can always just walk in with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Uh…ok, sure” he replied a little hesitantly.

“My name’s Lynnette, by the way,” I decided to throw in. I walked along side of him, my pen and notebook in hand, and began asking him the basics—name, year, hometown, the usual.

We headed into the cafeteria, where we searched for the girl that he was meeting for breakfast. We explained to her the reason that I was intruding upon their morning meal, and she didn’t seem to mind at all. I think they felt a little privileged or special that I had chosen one of them to interview.

Whatever they felt, both were very obliging. I started off with simple things, like his major, which led to talking about his dream of becoming a pastor. At one point, I got him off on a tangent about being a bassist for a band that practiced in his garage.

I managed to re-route our conversation back to his classes, and how they are helping to prepare him for the calling God has placed in his life. And that led to talking about his vision of ministry, his heart for the city and people of San Francisco, and the work that he has already done there.

What I thought would just be a journalistic exercise (which it was) ended up being quite an interesting interview. That got me thinking about what it's like to meet and talk to people. Tonight, for instance, as I was ordering my smoothie at the cashier of the cute little café Grace and I like to visit, I got into a conversation with the owner about literary theory.

Turns out, he graduated from UCI as an English major (he double majored with Art History) before deciding to run the café with his wife. We talked about everything from Derrida to American vs. British literature, to professors, to what kind of writing we like to do.

I love meeting people—they’re really fascinating. Everyone has their own story, if we only stop long enough to listen to them. Sometimes, we think our lives are very boring, very pedestrian. But there is always something unique or surprising or interesting to be found if we’re willing to search deeper.

That’s what makes writing a worthwhile activity. It’s about people. People like to read about other people. It’s inherent in the human condition. We are drawn to the stories and lives of other people who are and are not like us. The job of the writer is to tell those stories in a way that is vibrant and compelling. Hopefully, someday, that will be my job.