Omelets, walking, and powdered sugar.


I ate an omelet this morning.

WHO AM I?

Before today I was the girl who – when asked if she was the kind of vegetarian that ate eggs – said that I only ate them in cake.

But this morning, I cracked an egg into a bowl-shaped plate thing, added milk, then put it in a pan with butter, cheddar cheese, onion, red pepper, and tomato. Then I put it on a plate and ate it with a fork. The whole thing, without making faces or hesitating.

I’m not kidding. Who am I?

Really, though, it’s a good question. Because when you arrive in a foreign place, you feel foreign and sort of forget what makes you, you. You walk around speaking bits of a new language and trying new foods and grocery stores and restaurants and transport systems and friends and classes, and then you forget what you usually do with your life.

So then you try an omelet and find out you might actually like protein (but never red meat. don’t hold out hope, Mom and Dad) in that form.

At least you find yourself again when you walk the 20 minutes to campus without the form you needed to pick up your ID, so you have to walk the twenty minutes home again to get the form, then walk to campus again to get that darn ID.

And you find yourself again when you buy yourself a krapfen (which happen to be covered in powdered sugar) and a cappuccino on the way home (the first time). You’re so busy walking and eating and trying to make sure you don’t have powdered sugar on your face that you don’t realize that all the while your shirt is being polka-dotted with sugar. You walk multiple blocks before realizing this, then hurriedly cram the rest of the krapfen into your mouth and brush yourself off.

Boy do I feel human sometimes.

Sneezing and cleaning and a side of worship, please.


Grad party preparations were in progress this morning as my mom and I braved the dust, dead bugs, and junk on our screened-in porch.  Two space heaters (conveniently acquired when our furnace was tagged “dangerous” by the furnace inspection guy this winter, so the heating company provided them for the night spent without heat) kept us warm since this week the temperature has dipped a bit from the unusual highs we’ve been experiencing lately.  The dust started swirling as we went through shelves full of garden supplies, badminton rackets, a random piece of tupperware (we’re not sure how it got out there since we usually keep tupperware in a cupboard in the kitchen… because that makes sense.), too many flip-flops, beach towels, a tube of sunscreen that looked like someone had sent the lawnmower over it (DAD???), and a can of spray adhesive… among other things.

two short breaths in, and CHOO! That’s how I sneeze. (I’m sure you were wondering.)  Not only have the influx of pollen and a night spent around woodsmoke helped me clear out my sinuses by sneezing, but now we have dust as well to keep me sneezing.  I, however, like the sort of strange individual that I am, enjoy sneezing.  I can’t explain it, but I feel like it’s a release.  Like I’m saying LEAVE, pollen.  Clear out the premises, dust. And while we’re cleaning house, get out, Anxiety.  You too, Selfishness.  Out, out, Irritation!  I won’t be missing you

I should sneeze out my faults and hangups more often.

I almost blogged last night about how the empty tomb is inviting to me in more than one way – the first being because it’s a catalyst for rejoicing that my Savior is alive, the second being that it could be a place of retreat for an introvert… – but then I realized that the second reason made me sound depressingly creepy.  I don’t really want to spend time alone in a dark, cold, hard, lonely tomb.  I’d rather have a little room painted lime green all to myself, where pictures of people adorn the walls, but I am alone.  So, there you go.  I’m introverted but not depressed or creepy.  And I’m not a hermit either.

In fact, I went to a party last night.  Not your typical party, since it was actually a church service, but it felt like a party. I’ve mentioned before that I go to church twice each Sunday.  The first time is in the morning, at my more traditional Baptist church.  The second is at 7pm at a slightly younger, much more contemporary church.  The morning service was great; I even went to it twice since I was doing the powerpoint for both services.  But the 7pm was exactly how I think we should celebrate the resurrection.

There was crêpe paper on the walls and strung over the two trees in the room.  After Joe (who I found out a couple weeks ago has the same last name as me) spoke about letting go of our doubts and surrendering to God, we started to sing like the saved.  We sang and clapped and jumped around and danced like we’d been set free.  Because we have been.  If there hadn’t been a great feeling of joy and gratitude to my God behind all that, I would have been the one  standing in the corner, judging and wondering why people were being so rowdy. But it was so clear that it wasn’t about the jumping and clapping and singing – it was just an outpouring from the hearts of people who had been redeemed in the most remarkable way possible.  It was the celebration of people whose God had conquered death and sin forever, once for all.

That, my friends, is joy.  That’s where hope and joy spring from, knowing that my God has overcome all the things that face me in life.

I intend to sing like I’m saved a little more often.

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Also, we dyed Easter eggs. With a glitter dye kit. It was maybe the most fun I’ve ever had with egg dying.