He says that making lists takes the spontaneity out of conversation and life. I disagree, it's the only method I've found to be satisfactory when it comes to getting things done. So I've been making a list of things for which I need people to keep me accountable. I am an introvert in personality, an extrovert in need. I need people to remind me to be, do, say, and practice things.

1. I went to the eye doctor yesterday for the first time in a long time. He said all the same things eye doctors say to me when they see me: you wear your contacts too much, you're going to get glaucoma, what do you mean you've been wearing this pair of contacts more than the recommended allotment of one month?! After hearing his lovingly administered tirade, I agreed that this time I would listen and promptly went home and wore my glasses for the rest of the day. I also requested that my roommates and immediate friends keep me accountable to at least three hours a day of glasses use.

2. I wrote this a few weeks ago and still have yet to really write anything else since then. It's not that there aren't thoughts, but they aren't really coherant or worth reading by the general populous. But I've been living long enough to realize that nothing comes easily that isn't practiced and writing hasn't been practiced of late around here. I asked a few people to make sure that I was at least cranking out something, however menial, everyday.

3. I've been working on trusting the Lord for my future. It's not something with which I struggle normally, but in the past few months it's arisen with alarming consistancy. People call it senioritis and I somehow thought I'd be above it because of my age and, well, you know, maturity. . . but it appears that I'm not. I met with my advisor this past week and left with narrowed options and wider possibilities that makes this next year a little more palatable. I'll be applying to nine low residency MFA programs, mostly in New England and the south, and applying for a English teaching position in the plethora of private schools that southeastern Tennessee has to offer. Between the two options there will hopefully be a few serious possibilities, as well as make a few other things clear. I've asked a few people to remind me that the Lord is in control of my future and not nine grad schools or a plethora of private schools either.

That's it folks. That's all I have for today. At least I'm writing something, however menial!

Cool things are happening. I wish I could be a part of them. But I can't complain because I get to watch this and keep up on this while I'm far away (and she is even further). I'll tell you if anything cool happens around here, but mostly I just do school and church and be with people. And remind myself of seasons and surety. And watch this again.

He chose five stones. Even though he had complete confidence that God was on his side and the giant would be defeated, still, he chose five stones. In case the first one didn't work? In case the first four didn't work? We know it only took one, but we have the vantage of hindsight and Hebrew scribes. He had nothing but his stature and a slingshot to count on. And the faithfulness of his God.

I remember once, listening to someone wise saying that sometimes in this Christian walk there are options in front of us that all look suspiciously right and good. Options that all lead to the Kingdom and life and make it hard to choose between rights and wrongs, because they all look okay and profitable. It's then, he said, that we just choose one. Walk in it in the faith that God knows our desire to head toward the Kingdom and trust that we'll get there in His time and in His way.

I'm standing at that crossroads, if you will, specing the territory. Seeing the options. Trying to not get overwhelmed with the possible goodness or probable suffering, just trusting that of the five stones I hold in my possession, all could do the job, but only one eventually will.

It may not be the first, or the first four. But we'll never know until the story is finished.

"When was the last time?" she asked. "The last time you wrote something for you?"

I don't write anything for me, I think to myself. I write for other people, professors, readers, God, never for me. Instead I just say that I can't remember. "Well maybe you should refresh your memory and start writing again." I acquiesce, after all it's what I'm supposed to love to do. But the words don't come, only meaningless dribble about the sunset this evening and the crunch of free-falling magnolia leaves beneath my sandals. Nothing important. Nothing felt, just observed.

It's hard to put the things I feel into words, my safety net. They used to sit nestled on their respective shelves, filed away in my heart until a need for them arose and I could nestle them in a sentence worth reading. Now the syntax is all wrong and the grammar gets confused with objects of direct and indirect emotions. I can't spit out all the right things and I can't write all the spinning things.

I try to read good books, solid writing, to remind myself of how to speak clearly and how to communicate aptly, but even they testify of rejection letters and dry years. Is that what this is? An opportunity to have something about which to testify?

John 9 is on my mind a lot recently. The man blind from birth. His sin, they asked, or his parents. Neither, He replied, but so that my Father could be glorified. I'm tempted to push the blame of this season on my sin, on their sin, his sin, our sin, but in the end I find that it's just another opportunity to walk through a blindness and somehow glorify the Father.

But, Lord, I'm hungry to see again.