Dear Friends,
My regular Thursday blog post has turned into a Saturday post this week because Albus Andrew pushed back my Thursday tutorial to Friday, thereby entirely confusing my normal routine. That is to say, need not worry that I died.
I have found that I usually like to start out these posts by regaling you with the tale of my latest debacle. The angsty situtation for this week can properly be deemed: "The Flooded Cowpath."
Alas, think back to the angsty situation of two posts past--the canceled tutorial and the snow-covered, icy hill--that story should transition quite nicely into this story because lots and lots of snow, when melted, turns into lots and lots of water.
As I set out last Friday morning for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan, clicking down the lane with my newly attained trendy Euro boots, I thought I might take the scenic footpath that winds blissfully around one of the university parks. However, I hadn't gone too far down this path when I came to a locked door preventing me from going any further across the bridges (locked doors are becoming a bit of a motif, aren't they?). Considering the situation, I deduced that the water was too high, and that the path had flooded and I would have to go around. I then proceeded to click much more quickly with my trendy Euro boots, as I now had to trace my steps back and then take an entirely different path. I might also mention that at this point, the newly attained trendy Euro boots had caused a blister the size of a golf ball to form on my right foot. Regardless, I did not want to be late for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan so I clicked feverishy on.
When I had gotten a little ways down the new path, a friendly British woman with even more trendy Euro boots stopped and informed me that the path I was heading towards was completely flooded over.
"Oh no," I said, glancing at her knee-high trendy Euro boots, "what did you do? Did you get wet?"
"No, I didn't go through--it's too deep--I turned around."
The blasted snow was going to get the best of me once more.
I was already running slightly behind for my tutorial, and if I were to turn around now and pick another new path, I would be at least 40 minutes late. Thus, having not yet seen the water level, I forged ahead. As I rounded the corner and the field path came into view, I saw that the path was indeed covered with nearly a foot of what could not be described as gently, gurgling water. However, having no choice at this point, I stooped down, pulled off my newly attained trendy Euro boots and socks, rolled up my pants like a young girl excited to go frog-hunting, and moved my way confidently into the gushing stream.
I cannot say that this was a good idea.
I did remember that it happened to be the middle of the winter while I was wading through the foot of ICE COLD water. Thus, I did what any girl would do as she waded barefoot through 300 yards of frigid terror. I cussed unabashedly.
When I got to the other side, my pants were soaked up to the thigh from the splashing water, and I was very, very cold. I shoved my feet back into my trendy Euro boots, minus the socks, and hoped that I had not contracted syphilis by wading through the water with my golf ball sized blister. Now being about 15 minutes from the location of my tutorial, I thought that I might be able to make it without dying.
I arrived finally at the house and was greeted by a nice lad and ushered in. Albus Jonathan poked his head into the doorway.
"Hello Sara."
"Hi," (looking downward) "It seems I got my pants quite wet. The cowpath is really flooded. Is there by chance a girl around that I might borrow some pants from?" (Remember, Albus Jonathan is the RD-type person for the other house students live in).
Albus Jonathan looked around and found me a girl who provided me with a lovely pair of sweatpants and put my own soaked pants in the dryer. I then proceeded to have a wonderful tutorial with Albus Jonathan in my socks and newly attained sweatpants. Having finished, I retrieved my warm and dry pants from the dryer, returned the lovely sweatpants, and headed out for the rest of my day in town.
Roughly six hours later, as I was walking back to my home for the evening, something struck me. Pants, in British-English mean UNDERWEAR. Thus, I had arrived for my tutorial, promptly informed my tutor that I had gotten my underwear wet, and asked if I might borrow some dry underwear from a nearby female. Oh. My. Goodness. I laughed joyfully all the way home. I had always been worried, and therefore conscientious, that I was going to make that mistake, but in the aftermath of my angst-filled debacle, I had completely forgotten to make the differentiation. Dearest me.
You ought to be glad, you know, that I have no common sense and get myself into these situations. They're probably going to end up being the highlight of my trip.
In other news, since last week I have comsumed my first, and second, Guinness. I am quite pleased that I enjoyed it as doing such was I believe my third listed goal in coming here. I have found a friend that enjoys going to the pub and discussing theology over drinks. Of this, I am most glad. A discussion of universalism makes a pint go down so much more smoothly.
I hate to tell you this, but I am enjoying Oxford a lot lately. A lot, a lot. I enjoy the clicking of my trendy Euro boots as I travel the 45 minutes into the city--I enjoy the crowded streets--and I especially enjoy the books I read and the essays I produce. I had a chat this past week with the "cutest, most brilliant English woman in the history of ever"/senior tutor for our program. When I had submitted to her the required progress report for how I thought my tutorials were going, I had mentioned that I was a bit concerned because Albus Andrew never gave me any feedback, and therefore I wasn't necessarily sure how to improve. She imformed me that Albus Andrew, in his own progress report on me, had reported that I was doing really very well.
"Albus! I wish you would tell ME that!"
He had also offered to be my long essay/"dissertation" advisor, which is not the norm, as he is an outside tutor. Thus, I'm going to get to keep Albus Andrew for another 4 weeks after my tutorial finishes.
I'm starting to like Albus Andrew so much. During my tutorial yesterday, I just wanted to give him a hug and bake him a casserole. Nonetheless, doing such might be the most inappropriate thing possible one could do to one's tutor. Also, I've never baked a casserole. Do you even bake a casserole? Or do you cook it? No one really knows.
For next week's tutorial, I get to describe and account for the distinctive emphases of the Gospel of John and answer why it was written. I am SO excited. As I begin doing some of my reading, I remembered/realized that John is most certainly my favorite Gospel. It is the best. I could definitely be a Johannine scholar and spend the rest of my life steeped in that literature. Not only does the 4th evangelist present a superhuman Jesus as speaking "as no man has ever spoken" (7:46), but he also portrays Jesus in a very human way--getting tired, weeping, having friends, engaging in long drawn-out discussions with his opponents (rather than the polished one-liners of the Synoptics). John is both so hard and so easy to understand. Scholars have described it anecdotally as a Gospel in which both an elephant can swim and a child can wade. Needless to say, I am super excited for this week's studies.
Also, to keep you updated, I have decided to do my "dissertation" on what the non-canonical Gospels offer to the discussion of the historical Jesus. I ended up picking this because it was the topic Albus Andrew had offered to advise me on, and I thought having his input would be fantastic as he is currently writing a book on the non-canonical Gospels. Booyah. Can't beat that eh? And he's going to hook me up with a super sweet bibliography.
Alas, I should probably go read now. It s a delightfully beautiful day and perhaps even warm enough to lounge outside with my books. Joy.
Best,
Sara
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Bastard Stew and Things of the Like
Dear friends,
First, a collection of interesting tidbits and short narratives:
I recently googled Albus Andrew. (I'm apologize that all of my posts are about Albus Andrew, but he provides for such fantastic blogging opportunities.) Anyway, googling your tutor is a terrible idea. Besides seeing all the great scholarship that he has done thus far, I found this report: "[Albus] Andrew is a skinheaded nutcase who needs to be locked up." "Gee," I thought, "I sure hope that's not my Albus Andrew." After that, I thought it best to close the web browser.
I'm assuming that Albus Jonathan feels quite left out seeing as how Albus Andrew gets all the attention. No worries, for Albus Jonathan provided for his own moment of glory during our first meeting. As we were discussing my translation of Xenophon and his Persian Expedition (biblical Greek, I long for you...), we got to a point where dear Xenophon, (or was it Kyros?) anyway, one of them was hunting game. Peculiar game he seemed to be hunting--ostriches, wild asses, things of the like. This being the case, when I asked my tutor what a certain Greek word meant and he replied that it was a bastard, you can only imagine why I would take it as natural that Xenophon was hunting wild asses and bastards. Perhaps a peculiar sport to the modern mind, but who doesn't like to enjoy a hot bastard stew?
It was only later when I had gone back to my translation on my own and come across the bastards in another section that I realized that, in fact, Albus Jonathan had replied that the word in question was "bustard" -- apparently a large, ground-running bird. Goodness me! Those English accents are tricky to say the least.
And again back to Albus Andrew: during the small talk portion that typically concludes our tutorial, Albus Andrew calmly asked me in his pleasant Irish lilt:
"Have you begun working on your dissertation yet?"
"Crap Albus Andrew! Making it through one of your tutorials is enough of a tenuous affair, don't you think we should deal with improving my competency therein before discussing my dissertation? Who ARE you?"
Nonetheless, I found out fairly quickly that he was referring to the long essay that I will write as a culmination of my time here.
"Of right," I said, "my twelve page dissertation." "No, I have not particularly begun my work on that."
I then rather cautiously asked him if it was typical to refer to such projects as dissertations. He looked as though he thought I was trying to trick him and answered cautiously himself: "I guess I'd use it to refer to any longer piece of writing."
"Dear Northwestern College,
I went to Oxford to write a dissertation. Now do you think you could give me those freaking honors cords?
Just checking in,
Sara"
In other news that is perhaps the coolest news you've ever heard, I found out that N. T. Wright did his preparation for the Anglican ministry at Wycliffe Hall, which is the hall I'm associated with here. In case you don't know, N. T. Wright is a BAMF. I hope someday I can be a BAMF just like him. I probably sit in his favorite spot in the library, where he planned to write a million great books. You don't get that everyday at Ramaker eh?
In terms of one bit that is more anecdotal: a friend of mine here described the British as those "walking along looking sad in their peacoats." Sometimes when I'm out in public, I'll catch myself smiling for some reason or another, and I have to immediately put a stop to that. The same friend described the Brits' reaction to having a stranger smile at them: (tear eyes away viciously) "OMG, I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST SAW THAT." However, I have befriended in the slightest sense an adorable, older librarian in the theology faculty library. Today he commented on how I seemed to be clutching my red, frayed New Oxford Annotated Bible like it was such a precious thing. Once I told him about how when I hold it noticeably in public, God takes note of my righteousness, then he understood. He wanted one too, I could tell.
You might be interested to know that I have been considerably less angsty this whole past week. I feel as though I'm adjusting more and more, and my roommates and I have been interacting more so as besties lately. To illustrate the comfort level I have gained with them, I felt okay asking them the other night whether or not Philadelphia was a state. In retrospect, I really shouldn't ask questions like that outside of my head, but I had already shut down my computer and thus had no access to wikipedia. Geography really is my most terrible subject. It took me years to remember that London went with England and Paris went with France.
I think part of the change in my perspective is that I have realized that I will never "succeed" here in any sense of the word. As long as I am here, I am utterly, irreversibly dumb. Instead of being angsty about this, I have decided to enjoy it. I have decided to enjoy having no idea whether or not Albus Andrew thinks I'm a daft fool. In fact, it's really quite nice to not get grades on my essays. I will still get a final grade, but I will have absolutely no idea what that might be until I see it on my transcript. How about that for a angsty, obsessive, perfectionist eh?
I still wonder countless times each day whether or not I would find joy in a future in academia. I doubt my abilities so very, very much. The Oxford programme of study has a way of exposing all of my weaknesses, all the time. For this, I am both perpetually angsty and eternally grateful. Sometimes, I have this great fear that I might accidentally end up as a pastor. I don't know how one goes about becoming a pastor by "accident," but sometimes I worry that it will happen to me. I think that might be the worst thing I could foresee in the history of ever. I really have no idea what I'm going to do with my future.
So back to my dissertation, and here I readily welcome your advice because I have to make a big decision. I need to pick a topic within a week, and I have two topics that I really quite want to pursue.
a.) How important are non-canonical gospels as sources for the historical Jesus?
Thus, in terms of what we might be able to conclude regarding a historical account of the person of Jesus, might what we find, for instance, in the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter be of any help?
Truly, this could be a really good time.
b.) My other option is to do something with textual criticism, which is what I was supposed to do my honors research on at NW before that fell through.
For those who might not be familiar with textual criticism, it refers to the process of trying to restore the original words of the New Testament manuscripts. The field of textual criticism exists because the original manuscripts of the New Testament do not.
Thus, I would pick an interesting variant that runs contrary to what is printed in most Bibles today, and I would explore perhaps why that variant was either introduced into the text or eliminated from the text.
For example, at the end of Luke's account of Jesus' baptism, the text reads: "And a voice came from heaven, 'You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased" (3:22 NRSV). However, some of the manuscripts read something more akin to "You are my son, today I have begotten you." Now if you want to go all Bart Ehrman-esque, you might say that here we have an instance of orthodox corruption of the text--scribes smoothing out portions that might be preyed upon by various heresies. In particular, a heresy of the day that might be quite fond of the "today I have begotten you" reading would be that of the adoptionists--those who believed that Jesus was not divine at all, and had been more or less adopted at his baptism to be God's son. Thus, if Luke's original text read "today I have begotten you," then perhaps good-intentioned scribes smoothed over this a little, resulting in a reading that did not lend itself so easily to an adoptionist interpretation.
Wow, I did not plan to write so much. It's boring, yes I know. But I find it FASCINATING.
So, you get to help me, which sounds more interesting to you?
Okay now on to something more interesting: the other night I had what I'd like to refer to as "the best idea in the history of ever." While browsing flight prices on Ryanair.com, my roommate mentioned that she didn't even know what country most of the listed flights went to. After nodding my affirmation of this, I wondered aloud, "wouldn't it be fun to just book a flight to a city with a cool name and then just find out what country you were in when you got there?"
As one might imagine, this quickly became a "that's the coolest idea ever, and let's go and do it and remember it forever!" sort of thing. Thus, my roommates and I plan to book a 5 pound flight to a city with a cool sounding name and then figure out what to do once we get in that country. Is that perhaps not the most brilliant idea you've ever heard? It's going to be fantastic. I hope we don't die.
Well, seeing as how I have again written a ridiculously long post, I must now go prepare myself for Greek tutorial #2 with Albus Jonathan tomorrow. I do wonder what Xenophon might be hunting this week. Hopefully, another [insert expletive of choice] stew will be in order.
Best,
Sara
First, a collection of interesting tidbits and short narratives:
I recently googled Albus Andrew. (I'm apologize that all of my posts are about Albus Andrew, but he provides for such fantastic blogging opportunities.) Anyway, googling your tutor is a terrible idea. Besides seeing all the great scholarship that he has done thus far, I found this report: "[Albus] Andrew is a skinheaded nutcase who needs to be locked up." "Gee," I thought, "I sure hope that's not my Albus Andrew." After that, I thought it best to close the web browser.
I'm assuming that Albus Jonathan feels quite left out seeing as how Albus Andrew gets all the attention. No worries, for Albus Jonathan provided for his own moment of glory during our first meeting. As we were discussing my translation of Xenophon and his Persian Expedition (biblical Greek, I long for you...), we got to a point where dear Xenophon, (or was it Kyros?) anyway, one of them was hunting game. Peculiar game he seemed to be hunting--ostriches, wild asses, things of the like. This being the case, when I asked my tutor what a certain Greek word meant and he replied that it was a bastard, you can only imagine why I would take it as natural that Xenophon was hunting wild asses and bastards. Perhaps a peculiar sport to the modern mind, but who doesn't like to enjoy a hot bastard stew?
It was only later when I had gone back to my translation on my own and come across the bastards in another section that I realized that, in fact, Albus Jonathan had replied that the word in question was "bustard" -- apparently a large, ground-running bird. Goodness me! Those English accents are tricky to say the least.
And again back to Albus Andrew: during the small talk portion that typically concludes our tutorial, Albus Andrew calmly asked me in his pleasant Irish lilt:
"Have you begun working on your dissertation yet?"
"Crap Albus Andrew! Making it through one of your tutorials is enough of a tenuous affair, don't you think we should deal with improving my competency therein before discussing my dissertation? Who ARE you?"
Nonetheless, I found out fairly quickly that he was referring to the long essay that I will write as a culmination of my time here.
"Of right," I said, "my twelve page dissertation." "No, I have not particularly begun my work on that."
I then rather cautiously asked him if it was typical to refer to such projects as dissertations. He looked as though he thought I was trying to trick him and answered cautiously himself: "I guess I'd use it to refer to any longer piece of writing."
"Dear Northwestern College,
I went to Oxford to write a dissertation. Now do you think you could give me those freaking honors cords?
Just checking in,
Sara"
In other news that is perhaps the coolest news you've ever heard, I found out that N. T. Wright did his preparation for the Anglican ministry at Wycliffe Hall, which is the hall I'm associated with here. In case you don't know, N. T. Wright is a BAMF. I hope someday I can be a BAMF just like him. I probably sit in his favorite spot in the library, where he planned to write a million great books. You don't get that everyday at Ramaker eh?
In terms of one bit that is more anecdotal: a friend of mine here described the British as those "walking along looking sad in their peacoats." Sometimes when I'm out in public, I'll catch myself smiling for some reason or another, and I have to immediately put a stop to that. The same friend described the Brits' reaction to having a stranger smile at them: (tear eyes away viciously) "OMG, I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST SAW THAT." However, I have befriended in the slightest sense an adorable, older librarian in the theology faculty library. Today he commented on how I seemed to be clutching my red, frayed New Oxford Annotated Bible like it was such a precious thing. Once I told him about how when I hold it noticeably in public, God takes note of my righteousness, then he understood. He wanted one too, I could tell.
You might be interested to know that I have been considerably less angsty this whole past week. I feel as though I'm adjusting more and more, and my roommates and I have been interacting more so as besties lately. To illustrate the comfort level I have gained with them, I felt okay asking them the other night whether or not Philadelphia was a state. In retrospect, I really shouldn't ask questions like that outside of my head, but I had already shut down my computer and thus had no access to wikipedia. Geography really is my most terrible subject. It took me years to remember that London went with England and Paris went with France.
I think part of the change in my perspective is that I have realized that I will never "succeed" here in any sense of the word. As long as I am here, I am utterly, irreversibly dumb. Instead of being angsty about this, I have decided to enjoy it. I have decided to enjoy having no idea whether or not Albus Andrew thinks I'm a daft fool. In fact, it's really quite nice to not get grades on my essays. I will still get a final grade, but I will have absolutely no idea what that might be until I see it on my transcript. How about that for a angsty, obsessive, perfectionist eh?
I still wonder countless times each day whether or not I would find joy in a future in academia. I doubt my abilities so very, very much. The Oxford programme of study has a way of exposing all of my weaknesses, all the time. For this, I am both perpetually angsty and eternally grateful. Sometimes, I have this great fear that I might accidentally end up as a pastor. I don't know how one goes about becoming a pastor by "accident," but sometimes I worry that it will happen to me. I think that might be the worst thing I could foresee in the history of ever. I really have no idea what I'm going to do with my future.
So back to my dissertation, and here I readily welcome your advice because I have to make a big decision. I need to pick a topic within a week, and I have two topics that I really quite want to pursue.
a.) How important are non-canonical gospels as sources for the historical Jesus?
Thus, in terms of what we might be able to conclude regarding a historical account of the person of Jesus, might what we find, for instance, in the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter be of any help?
Truly, this could be a really good time.
b.) My other option is to do something with textual criticism, which is what I was supposed to do my honors research on at NW before that fell through.
For those who might not be familiar with textual criticism, it refers to the process of trying to restore the original words of the New Testament manuscripts. The field of textual criticism exists because the original manuscripts of the New Testament do not.
Thus, I would pick an interesting variant that runs contrary to what is printed in most Bibles today, and I would explore perhaps why that variant was either introduced into the text or eliminated from the text.
For example, at the end of Luke's account of Jesus' baptism, the text reads: "And a voice came from heaven, 'You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased" (3:22 NRSV). However, some of the manuscripts read something more akin to "You are my son, today I have begotten you." Now if you want to go all Bart Ehrman-esque, you might say that here we have an instance of orthodox corruption of the text--scribes smoothing out portions that might be preyed upon by various heresies. In particular, a heresy of the day that might be quite fond of the "today I have begotten you" reading would be that of the adoptionists--those who believed that Jesus was not divine at all, and had been more or less adopted at his baptism to be God's son. Thus, if Luke's original text read "today I have begotten you," then perhaps good-intentioned scribes smoothed over this a little, resulting in a reading that did not lend itself so easily to an adoptionist interpretation.
Wow, I did not plan to write so much. It's boring, yes I know. But I find it FASCINATING.
So, you get to help me, which sounds more interesting to you?
Okay now on to something more interesting: the other night I had what I'd like to refer to as "the best idea in the history of ever." While browsing flight prices on Ryanair.com, my roommate mentioned that she didn't even know what country most of the listed flights went to. After nodding my affirmation of this, I wondered aloud, "wouldn't it be fun to just book a flight to a city with a cool name and then just find out what country you were in when you got there?"
As one might imagine, this quickly became a "that's the coolest idea ever, and let's go and do it and remember it forever!" sort of thing. Thus, my roommates and I plan to book a 5 pound flight to a city with a cool sounding name and then figure out what to do once we get in that country. Is that perhaps not the most brilliant idea you've ever heard? It's going to be fantastic. I hope we don't die.
Well, seeing as how I have again written a ridiculously long post, I must now go prepare myself for Greek tutorial #2 with Albus Jonathan tomorrow. I do wonder what Xenophon might be hunting this week. Hopefully, another [insert expletive of choice] stew will be in order.
Best,
Sara
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Dear Friends,
If a short film were to be made of my life as it took shape this morning, it would be perhaps the most wonderful short film you had ever seen. Why? Because other people's pain is glorious.
I would now like to tell you about what I will forever remember as:
"the worst morning of my life."
To begin, remember when I fondly recounted the recent snowfall to you and told you it was glorious and made me feel like I was at home? Well, I have quickly learned that snow in Oxford is a wholly different entity than snow in Iowa. People in Oxford do not know what to do with snow. They definitely do not scoop it, but rather think it wise to take care of it by letting passers-by pack it down with their trendy Euro boots. They don't seem to understand that simply packing the snow down turns the footpaths into paths of death.
Thus, after spending an angst-ridden night, and for that matter, an angst ridden week, writing a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad essay on a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad topic, I ventured out for what would presumably be a most dismal tutorial.
Fortunately, the morning offered to me about 5 inches of beautiful, fresh, fluffy snow.
Unfortunately, the snow lost its appeal the first time I stepped in it with my low-rise, white sneakers and ankle socks.
I spent the next 35 minutes making the walk to University College to meet my tutor. This proved especially precarious on the hill that I usually refer to with lots of cuss words, as my shoes have not even a hint of traction. I fell and died only once, but since I was firmly clutching my frayed, red New Oxford Annotated Bible, God took note of my righteousness and saved me from sliding off the hill to be hit by the oncoming buses.
My growing angst at this point can hardly even be translated into the written word. Suffice it to say, within 5 minutes, my shoes, socks, and pant legs were thoroughly saturated. I was cold and with every step I took, continually at the risk of falling to a death I was starting to welcome.
When I arrived at last at University College, I leaned against the building wall with a crazed look in my eyes. Not only was Albus Andrew going to rip me to shreds for an hour, but he was going to rip me to shreds for an hour while I had sloshy, wet, cold feet. Unbridled angst held me tight in its grasp.
Nonetheless, I forced myself to go to his study one minute before 9.00--I no longer arrive early, because that translates into more time for my self-esteem to be crushed. However, when I got to the big red door that led to his office, the door without a doorknob was shut firmly. Since I had one time seen him get that door open by opening it trickily from the top, I thought perhaps he was now testing my physical strength as well as my mental strength. I thought to myself, "Albus Andrew! That is not kind of you! You know that I am really quite short. I cannot reach the top of the door in order to trickily open it like you do. Albus Andrew, I think your trick is beastly."
Thus, I began to knock loudly on the door, but not too loudly in case he was praying with someone or something awkward like that (I mean, he is a chaplain). Seeing as how this was to no avail, I sat dejectedly on the wooden stairs across from his office and thought about taking pictures of how angsty and forlorn I looked so I could entertain you with my most unfortunate situation. At this point, I was still convinced that Albus Andrew was indeed behind that door and was eventually going to come out and upbraid me for being late.
Now, while my angst was dripping on the floor, someone started heavily trudging up the stairs. "Albus Andrew? Is that you?" I put on my most forlorn face so that he would see how neglected and abandoned I looked. I mean, I know Jesus says:
"When you [are angsty], do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are [angsty]. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you [are angsty], put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to men that you are [angsty], but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."
However, I thought: "Screw it, Jesus. Albus Andrew needs to know."
Much to my chagrin, it was not Albus Andrew, but rather an unknown man who looked at me while taping a note to Albus Andrew's big red door without a doorknob.
"Tutorials canceled today."
I might have just as well died right then and there.
"Jesus? I know I don't believe in the rapture and I'm sorry for that, but I've changed my mind. I think the rapture is great. Will you please come right now? Please Jesus?"
Why Albus Andrew? WHY?? There was nothing I could do at this point except for cry a little and turn around to go home. Suffice it to say, the walk home was perhaps even worse because my pants were now soaked almost to the knee, and it is much harder to walk up a treacherous, icy hill.
At this point, the crazed look in my eyes could have made the park rapists feel uneasy.
When I arrived home, after an hour and 45 minutes of a purposeless trip. I checked my email.
"Sara and Grace,
I am sorry, but I will have to postpone our tutorials this morning - my daughter's school has been shut."
"Your daughter's school has been shut? Well, as quaint as that is Albus Andrew, perhaps you could have NOT sent this email 16 minutes after I last checked my email before leaving the house to come meet you."
In a point of irony, I noticed that he signed his email, "Best, [Albus] Andrew." I don't even want to speculate on whether or not I should appreciate that or not. What is perhaps the worst part is that the tutorial now has to be rescheduled, and I now feel obligated to make my abysmal esssay better seeing as I have more time. Drat Drat Drat.
However, I guess it's always kind of refreshing to have one of those mornings where you can chant to the beat of your footsteps: "I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life." It's clearly therapeutic to be in the throes of despair.
Well, I feel most joyful that I was able to share that with you. I actually had many other fun stories to share, but they will have to wait because this event clearly deserves a post of its own.
Best,
Sara
If a short film were to be made of my life as it took shape this morning, it would be perhaps the most wonderful short film you had ever seen. Why? Because other people's pain is glorious.
I would now like to tell you about what I will forever remember as:
"the worst morning of my life."
To begin, remember when I fondly recounted the recent snowfall to you and told you it was glorious and made me feel like I was at home? Well, I have quickly learned that snow in Oxford is a wholly different entity than snow in Iowa. People in Oxford do not know what to do with snow. They definitely do not scoop it, but rather think it wise to take care of it by letting passers-by pack it down with their trendy Euro boots. They don't seem to understand that simply packing the snow down turns the footpaths into paths of death.
Thus, after spending an angst-ridden night, and for that matter, an angst ridden week, writing a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad essay on a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad topic, I ventured out for what would presumably be a most dismal tutorial.
Fortunately, the morning offered to me about 5 inches of beautiful, fresh, fluffy snow.
Unfortunately, the snow lost its appeal the first time I stepped in it with my low-rise, white sneakers and ankle socks.
I spent the next 35 minutes making the walk to University College to meet my tutor. This proved especially precarious on the hill that I usually refer to with lots of cuss words, as my shoes have not even a hint of traction. I fell and died only once, but since I was firmly clutching my frayed, red New Oxford Annotated Bible, God took note of my righteousness and saved me from sliding off the hill to be hit by the oncoming buses.
My growing angst at this point can hardly even be translated into the written word. Suffice it to say, within 5 minutes, my shoes, socks, and pant legs were thoroughly saturated. I was cold and with every step I took, continually at the risk of falling to a death I was starting to welcome.
When I arrived at last at University College, I leaned against the building wall with a crazed look in my eyes. Not only was Albus Andrew going to rip me to shreds for an hour, but he was going to rip me to shreds for an hour while I had sloshy, wet, cold feet. Unbridled angst held me tight in its grasp.
Nonetheless, I forced myself to go to his study one minute before 9.00--I no longer arrive early, because that translates into more time for my self-esteem to be crushed. However, when I got to the big red door that led to his office, the door without a doorknob was shut firmly. Since I had one time seen him get that door open by opening it trickily from the top, I thought perhaps he was now testing my physical strength as well as my mental strength. I thought to myself, "Albus Andrew! That is not kind of you! You know that I am really quite short. I cannot reach the top of the door in order to trickily open it like you do. Albus Andrew, I think your trick is beastly."
Thus, I began to knock loudly on the door, but not too loudly in case he was praying with someone or something awkward like that (I mean, he is a chaplain). Seeing as how this was to no avail, I sat dejectedly on the wooden stairs across from his office and thought about taking pictures of how angsty and forlorn I looked so I could entertain you with my most unfortunate situation. At this point, I was still convinced that Albus Andrew was indeed behind that door and was eventually going to come out and upbraid me for being late.
Now, while my angst was dripping on the floor, someone started heavily trudging up the stairs. "Albus Andrew? Is that you?" I put on my most forlorn face so that he would see how neglected and abandoned I looked. I mean, I know Jesus says:
"When you [are angsty], do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are [angsty]. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you [are angsty], put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to men that you are [angsty], but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."
However, I thought: "Screw it, Jesus. Albus Andrew needs to know."
Much to my chagrin, it was not Albus Andrew, but rather an unknown man who looked at me while taping a note to Albus Andrew's big red door without a doorknob.
"Tutorials canceled today."
I might have just as well died right then and there.
"Jesus? I know I don't believe in the rapture and I'm sorry for that, but I've changed my mind. I think the rapture is great. Will you please come right now? Please Jesus?"
Why Albus Andrew? WHY?? There was nothing I could do at this point except for cry a little and turn around to go home. Suffice it to say, the walk home was perhaps even worse because my pants were now soaked almost to the knee, and it is much harder to walk up a treacherous, icy hill.
At this point, the crazed look in my eyes could have made the park rapists feel uneasy.
When I arrived home, after an hour and 45 minutes of a purposeless trip. I checked my email.
"Sara and Grace,
I am sorry, but I will have to postpone our tutorials this morning - my daughter's school has been shut."
"Your daughter's school has been shut? Well, as quaint as that is Albus Andrew, perhaps you could have NOT sent this email 16 minutes after I last checked my email before leaving the house to come meet you."
In a point of irony, I noticed that he signed his email, "Best, [Albus] Andrew." I don't even want to speculate on whether or not I should appreciate that or not. What is perhaps the worst part is that the tutorial now has to be rescheduled, and I now feel obligated to make my abysmal esssay better seeing as I have more time. Drat Drat Drat.
However, I guess it's always kind of refreshing to have one of those mornings where you can chant to the beat of your footsteps: "I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life." It's clearly therapeutic to be in the throes of despair.
Well, I feel most joyful that I was able to share that with you. I actually had many other fun stories to share, but they will have to wait because this event clearly deserves a post of its own.
Best,
Sara
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