Everyday News

::    Here's a bit I just rediscovered . . . I'm not at all unorganized, *ahem*.     ::

There's nothing like that gloriously sweet, wafting scent of freshly cut grass. Sometimes I think cows are blessed little creatures to be able to eat something as sweetly, deliciously smelling as grass. . . .

How's that for a conversation starter? ;-)

This morning God woke me up again to His gloriously beautiful world as I drove along and good-morning-to-this-fair-assembly-ed my way along sweet country roads brimming over with freshly flowering tulips and cherry blossoms. I'm not a city girl. If I didn't know that before, seven months in a crowded D.C. suburb has convinced me of it. Small southern towns, or maybe even Yankee country ones, are much more my cuppa. As one of my favorite bloggers once expressed, without the greenspace, quiet, and yes, even the Southern humidity, I lose something very much a part of myself, and yet I always find another bit of Jane Ellen -- or is it another Jane Ellen entirely? -- whilst in the city.

All these little thoughts strolled their ways across my mind this morning as I drove home -- on a "completely intentional, I-totally-know-where-this-road-goes, senic route" -- after posting a package, and it occured to me that I have done a poor job at keeping you posted on my adventures during this odd year. I'm not very good at simple updates, for there is something of the actress in me always preferring a good soul out-pouring to a holiday snapshot rambling. But one day I'll wish I had documented daily life during P.C. And so here I am.

For those of you unaware, "P.C." stands for Pastor's College, the whole reason for my living in Maryland. My dear father has been diligently slaving away at his books for the past seven months; we've dubbed him "the hermit" here because of his habit of sitting in one corner of his bedroom, back to the world, whole body hunched forward in a book or fingers tap-tapping away at a laptop. But unlike seminary or even university, Pastor's College is about more than theology and doctrine, more than professors and students, more than graduation and ordination. It truly is a whole family, whole life ordeal. Thrust into a circle of people all from different backgrounds but in similar situations, it's a time when God takes up his knitting needles and starts knit-purling heart strings together. (I pray none of you are offended by that metaphor -- what would Rachel Lynde say?)

There are twenty three family units here, twenty two dear, wonderful, friends-forever families and one unattached young man. I am the oldest P.C.K. -- Pastor's College kid, as we're referred to by . . . non-P.C.K.s . . . what is this fascination with abbreviations? -- living here with my family and one of the few above the age of ten. That makes for plenty of babysitting opportunities, let me tell you. But I couldn't be happier, really. Many of my mornings are spent encouraging young girls in their musical and scholarly pursuits; many of my evenings are whiled away playing house, acting charades, doling out stories, and holding sleepy babies. Actually, truth be told, the average age of my closest circle of friends in the P.C. is around four. (And, no, I'm not concerned about that.) :)

Other than playing with children, my time is happily passed with a high dose of simplicity. My senior year of high school is probably my easiest one since toddlerhood, and consequently I'm far more behind than I've ever been since, well,  probably toddlerhood. But spring fever's pumping through my veins this Holy Week and with it diligence. Hopefully I'll prove a trendsetter for myself. Next year looms ahead of me like Everest in my simple path, but even Everest in all its towering glory stirs up the dust of an adventurous soul.

::    Afterthought: I'm sure I had ample more details that I intended to share before this little post slipped through the cyber-cracks, but I've long since forgotten what they were. So now you can just jump to the conclusion, which I had already written, and you can get a picture of just how not-intuitively I dream up blog posts. Actually I think I had mentally composed the beginning and the end of this post and attempted to write something to glue the two together. Fail.    ::

I was driving north out of the bustle of the city to guard some sweet children in their slumber this evening. (That's my epic way of saying "babysitting," because doesn't that term just bother you, too? I mean think about it . . . ) And the setting sun was casting such warm golden light onto the maples, red with blooms, and her sister trees dripping with infantile leaflets. All around me was naught but warmth and fairy dust. But as I rounded the bend in the road, sleepy Apollo pierced down the roadway in all his last minute mustering. Indescribably golden, like the purest honey and the softest butter, that sunset demanded such reverence and awe yet incited impish desires. All I wanted to do was drive straight for that sun, into the sunset, and bask in all that amber goodness.

No, life in Maryland is far from bad.

*sigh*