New Blog Address!

You can read me now at ladygrey23.wordpress.com. :-)

I hope this doesn't cause too much trouble, but as the female version of Sebastian Flyte, I needed the pretty blog, and wordpress's clean style appealed to my aesthetic sensibilities. :)

The Way to Proverbs 31

I have loved writing since I wasn't even old enough to spell. It took me a long time to realize that it's because writing is the way I best express myself, analyze circumstances, and make observations about people. I love people.

One thing I notice when I look back over old writing is what it says about the man I hope to marry someday. That image of an "ideal husband" has changed over the years, and I love to see how the Lord has shaped in me a desire for his primary quality to be love of the Lord. Look at one part of a short story I wrote a few years ago:

[over skype] She settled back into the armchair in her bedroom and listened to her sweet boyfriend tell her about pranks and then about several boys in his cabin whom he had been blessed to help lead to faith in Christ that weekend and other who had come to him for help in relationships. His eyes truly shone, though his face was serious, when he told her about their fruitful conversations. “I don’t know why these boys all came to me, but I was so blessed to have been used in that way,” he said.

Courtney smiled at his sincerity. “I think God’s gifted you with a quiet and wise spirit that those boys trust. He gets so much glory through your work because you give all praise to Him and teach those boys to do the same.” She suspected from his gentle weariness that not only had he kept late middle-school camp hours but that he had also gotten up early to pray for each of those boys every day.

The idea of spending forever with a man of God like this sort of melts my heart.

Let me just say, by the way, that as much as I await being a wife and mother someday with anticipation, I am so very happy being unattached. The Lord has blessed me and grown in my heart such joy in His salvation over the past few years.

But I want to know, what is the best way I can pray for the man the Lord will someday give me to serve and love? What is the best way I can prepare now to be a godly wife who doesn't lose patience with the human ordinariness of married life that I know will come along with the romance? You married women, tell me, please! (And you single girls, let me know if and how you pray for your future husband too!)

Guest Blogger: Geoffrey Chaucer

Ok, kidding. But my roommate Rachel quoted A Knight's Tale in her blog because we watched it last night, which reminded me that in high school I wrote a "blog post" for Geoffrey Chaucer based on the movie. I have decided, as an exercise of humorous humility, to share my high school cheesiness with you. Despairing laughter is allowed.

May 20, 1420

“Stupid Frenchmen,” I muttered to myself as I walked down the dusty road in the blazing stupid French sun. Well... if truth be told, it was possible if you’re of a narrow mind to blame me for losing all my clothes. I was, after all, the one gambling. But I give the truth in scope- and anyway, they were the ones who made me lose. I had a winning streak last week. Got back my trousers, my shirt, even my jacket. My boots I didn’t win, which is why I was gambling today. The brokers only laugh at me. I have a reputation all over the Continent as an unlucky, broke gambler. I think they just like seeing me without the benefit of clothing.

But a few minutes after walking down the dusty road lamenting the dirt in the creases behind my knees and in my elbows and everywhere else imaginable, I ran into some men who did not look very French. They looked like Englishmen, actually, except the one with the carrot- colored hair who was yelling to his liege that his didn’t give a witch’s teeth (about something), it was his turn.

“Fine, fine,” the blonde man grumbled, dismounting from his horse. Odd, I thought, most lords would have set him in the dirt by now. Witch’s teeth, indeed. Oh well, I told myself with a grin, if he’s not a knight, I can certainly have some fun with him.

“Morning,” I said brightly, patting the massive horse’s shoulder. The blonde man paused in mid- dismount.

“Why, sir,” he said after a second, “What are you doing?”

I chuckled to myself. “Ah, trudging.”

Blank look.

“You know, trudging? To trudge? To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man with nothing left except to simply soldier on.”

More blank looks.

“Were you robbed?”

I laughed. “Interesting question, actually. Yes, and at the same time a huge, resounding no. It’s more of a sort of involuntary vow of poverty, really. But you know at the same time, trudging represents pride; pride, resolve and faith in the good Lord Almighty- please, Christ, rescue me from my contribula- ah!” I held my toes up to my mouth to pull and spit out the splinter I had stepped on. The knight-impostor and his two men watched me implacably.

“Who are ye?” the third man, a tall, fat one, asked.

I told them, of course, that I was the Lily Among the Thorns, Geoffrey Chaucer, the writer. They just stared at me, implacably as ever, and when I asked them who they were, the blonde knight man said bluffly, “Well, I am, um, Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein of Gelderland,and these are my faithful squires Delves of Dodgington-” this was the fat one- “And Falhurst, of Cruin.”

I held out my hand, squinting against the sun. “Right, and I’m Sir Richard the Lionheart. Pleased to meet you. No wait, I’m Charlemange. No, Saint John the Baptist-”

“Hold your tongue, sir, or lose it.” Sir Ulrich held a dagger in my face so close that I backed up at sat on the grass growing along the road’s edge, grinning. “Now you see, that I do believe, Sir Ulrich.”

Ulrich, in the process of sheathing the weapon, pointed it back at me briefly. “Thank you.”

Feeling rather confident in my tongue’s safety again, I explained to the sheltered Gelderlanders what it is that I do, telling them I could write whatever they wanted, from creeds, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility...

“Did you say patents of nobility?”

Bingo, Geoff. You were right. “Yes, that’s right, I did.”

This caused some little consternation between masters Falhurst, Delves, and Ulrich, as to whether or not they ought to trust me. Ah, Geoff, I told myself, the fat one and the impostor are not stupid as you thought. Good, myself replied, you hate Frenchman.

“Wat,” Ulrich said to Falhurst, “Tell him what will happen to him if he betrays us.”

“And be nice,” Delves added firmly. I looked expectantly at Master Wat Falhurst, who ambled over, muttering in his cockney accent, “Nice, nice.” He knelt down in front of me and said passionately, “Betray us, and I will fong you till your insides are out, your entrails become your extrails. I will wring all the... angstmff.... pain! Lots of pain!”

By now I was laughing, and swore I would indeed remember the promised fonging and never betray Lord Ulrich. The happy result was clothes, a half loaf of penny bread from the morning’s street vendors, and an hour’s ride on the pseudo- knight’s horse. As we continued down the road towards Rouen, I learned how it was that William Thatcher had come to be Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein, and Wat and Roland to be Falhurst and Delves.

It was still an hour before I dared ask Wat what a fonging was.

Reflections on Amsterdam

I want to write a story about my trip to Holland sometime soon, a story for a magazine that young people will read and learn from my experience. I want to share that missions and servanthood are harder to bring home than they are to cultivate overseas, but that God grows these things in our hearts until a passion for the lost is ignited and He begins to make us His hands and feet.

Here is a tentative beginning. I don't know how it will actually go, but Amsterdam has been on my heart lately and I wanted to share a little now.

The smell lingered in my nose for hours after I washed it off my skin, the suggestion of marijuana, dust, and cheap beer picked up along the cobblestone streets of Amsterdam’s red light district. I had only been in the city for one day, but what I had seen made me hate Amsterdam. I struggled for days with how to respond to the challenges of such a dark and sinful neighborhood.

The next evening, after mulling over the flagrant sin and desperation of the district while spending time with the Dutch youth of the my friends’ church, I sat at the open second-story door of their home outside the city, watching a storm roll in. I could feel the rain and thunder coming. I waited in anticipation, hoping the storm would be a catharsis for dealing with Amsterdam and the red light district. I still didn’t know how to feel about it, how to think, how to pray.

To my surprise, it had been hard to feel anything while I was there except disgust at the tourists, often middle-aged couples pushing baby carriages past theaters, windows and sex shops. I couldn’t fathom how they could enjoy the display of an inhumane trade that I, as a young woman, could hardly comprehend.

The rain started suddenly, pattering on the flat Dutch roofs that stretched down to the shlote (little canal) where the ducklings hid. I sat with my Bible and notebook open on my lap; I would start to process Amsterdam soon, but I paused to enjoy Nieuw Vennep. I love the Dutch countryside. I would be happy to stay forever if I could move my friends and family there. The way I felt about the countryside made it harder to comprehend the city less than an hour away, where girls sold themselves to cheap buyers and YWAMers prayed constantly for them all to be set free. I prayed for a softened heart, that God would teach me to allow myself to be brokenhearted for others, to offer up their sin and my judgement to Him and take His love in return.

Just then the other couple who lived in the house drove up from a weeklong holiday to England. I shouted, “Welcome home!” then laughed at myself. Me, watching the storm from their rooftop, welcoming them to their own home when I had been in the country a week. But that’s the way God works, growing love and passion in the middle of much need.

Law Should Be Liberty.

I just finished reading Frederic Bastiat's mid-19th-century book, The Law. [You can, and should, find the book here. Bastiat's concise but brilliant book reminds me why I love French writers so much- writers like Alexis deTocqueville, Blaise Pascal, and even Moliere. After reading The Law, I think I have to move Bastiat up to deTocqueville's level. The clarity of his arguments is supplemented by the elegance only a Frenchman's political prose can succeed at.

Bastiat's central argument is that the purpose of the law is to prevent injustice through the use of collective force, and anything outside the prevention of injustice is unlawful force. By this reasoning- which I am well persuaded is absolutely true- even the current state of our democracy is unlawful. Many of us have realized that the American government is unconstitutional, but Bastiat argues that it is against the principle of law as a universal principle as well.

I love America, but I do not love big government, so I appreciate Bastiat's arguments immensely. He lays them out clearly enough for me to follow, know why I agree, and remember, and he does it in less than 100 pages too. I wish I had read this in college- why doesn't Hillsdale require it in one of the core classes? I'm sure several professors do.

Being in D.C., working at a newspaper, and reading this book have all made the transience of government and human frailty of legislators clearer than ever to me. That sounds depressing, but actually I find it encouraging for two reasons. First, it means the system we operate under does not always have to be the current form of democracy. Second, it means that those who understand the purpose of law, that, as Bastiat repeats over and over in his conclusion, "law is liberty," have a chance to change our system of government in favor of liberty and justice for all.

Newspaper Days

I spent the past two years of journalism classes and Collegian work trying to imagine what the day-to-day life of a journalist is like. Now that I'm here, trying it out for the summer, I find that some of my imagining was completely off, while some of it was not too far from the truth. 

* First of all, it does get easier to whip out stories on a deadline. That started getting easier this year, as I wrote 2-5 stories a week for the Collegian, but I still thought it would be harder at a daily. The reality: some stories still take several days to adequately research, and that's still ok. Others have a turnaround of 2 hours or less, and that's ok too. It happens. 

* Second of all, it really is easier to interview people when you can introduce yourself as part of a major newspaper. Saying, "Hi, my name is Michal and I'm calling from Hillsdale College's newspaper, the Collegian... Hillsdale... yes, Michigan..." just doesn't get you as quick a response as saying you're calling from the Times. 

*The newsroom is not always hectic, and editors are not always scary. Sure, my stomach flip-flops at the thought (or event) of an editor coming over and asking if I can get a story done before I leave the same day, especially if there are prominent people involved. But one phone call at a time, reporting just has its busy moments like any other job. Political reporters in The District probably always feel hectic, but I am not one of them. 

*Sometimes being in an office and wearing business attire, even if it's cute, is not as fun as playing house. The walls are bare white. The lights are fluorescent-do I have Seasonal Affectedness Disorder? Or does anyone else understand how awful fluorescent lights are on cloudy days? Also, button-downs don't stay tucked in all day. 

*The newsroom is no longer full to the brim, the phones don't ring off the hook (although a lady called in a story today), and the editors are not constantly yelling and assigning and copyediting. But there is plenty of room for young, innovative, persistent journalists to keep the news industry going. Newspapers are by no means dying; the business model is simply changing. 

*It really is a fun job. And it's an industry that has no time or patience for writers and reporters who can't hit the ground running, so everyone in the newsroom or the editorial office really counts. You really do get your name in print, too, which doesn't hurt. :-) 

Nine weeks of summer left to save the world. The last two are for cleanup. 

A train of thought not entirely random

I just finished the BBC version of Emma. As lazy as I feel watching a movie during the daytime, I have to say it's awfully good not to have to do anything. I'm also reading The Law for homework, and it's astonishingly astute and engaging. But I got to spend a few hours with Mr. Knightly. He is so gentlemanly and so wonderful. Whoever I marry will be a gentleman like him. My Daddy made sure I'd be satisfied with no less. :-)

Thinking of men makes me think of Matt Chandler (a pastor Ian told me about) and his wonderful teaching on Biblical manhood, which makes me think of living Biblically in general. It is too easy to get comfortable being as I am, I realize, even when I've just moved to a new place. I think of my own interests and not the interests of others.

I passed by a homeless man begging outside of Starbucks today, and the first thing out of my mouth was, "I'm sorry, I don't have anything." As I walked into the coffee shop, it struck me how false that really was. While I ought to be wise with how I care for homeless people, it's not a reason to completely disregard every one of them. I could have asked him if he needed some food; or I could have supplied him with endless satisfaction by asking if he knew the Lord. It was a busy street with lots of people around and inside the store, so I would surely be safe sitting across the little table from him and asking that. But it is so hard to shift gears and think of myself as a servant, not the served. Because I am always being served.

I'm not about to go looking for homeless men to chill with, but I have been wondering how to be Jesus' hands and feet here. Maybe it is among the NJC interns and the Times newsroom. Matt Chandler says Epaphroditus in Ephesians heard the gospel, went home to share it with his town, and through his enthusiastic love for God's glory planted the Colossian church. Where is my faith to "speak boldly, as I ought to speak"?

Pray for me, that boldness may be given to me in the Spirit, that I may speak as I ought to. I love my Savior, and I want to have too much zeal for His name to let it go unknown where I am. This is going to be a good summer, and I hope to leave the people I meet a little different than they are right now.