It happens as I’m sitting at a table in the Bruin Den, contemplating purchasing a latte. As I’m walking down the tiled hallway to fill up my water bottle. As I’m laying in bed, squeezing in a quick nap before getting back to work. In class. On the phone with a loved one. Enjoying coffee… Continue reading a deep breath
This summer, I signed my first lease. At the time, I felt that it should’ve been an event—after all, it was a life milestone. I was an adult now. I had to pay rent now. But instead it was alarmingly easy.
Most people who know me even peripherally know that I have a deep, deep love of plants. My mom laments that I can’t let a dying plant die, that I have to take it in and nurture it back to health. In my apartment, we joke that we have the best air quality on campus.… Continue reading in the garden
The thick mats that cover the floors of this climbing gym are supposedly not meant for lounging, but no one seems to mind. Hailey and I are on our backs, arms pressed together, chatting about everything and nothing as our boyfriends attempt to climb a difficult undercut route nearby.
In the summer of 2017, in the midst of our mother-daughter New York trip, my mom and I get the chance to visit the National September 11 Memorial Museum. Neither of us know what to expect.
Recently, a conversation with my apartment-mates dragged a long-forgotten song to the forefront of my mind--a Sunday school memory, childish and uncomplicated. With almost alarming accuracy, I began to sing "Jesus the Soccer Star", complete with the dance motions I'd been taught many years prior. I didn't think this was a strange memory. My apartment-mates did.
I've been pulling my cousin Ethan into adventures with our tribe all summer. We've been to a tribal picnic, a language class, a regional museum; we've made plans to attend Dee-ni' Day, an annual social gathering in the fall.
Behold, Israel: your King. There He is, in all His glory: bruised, naked, bleeding, humiliated, betrayed. What outrage; what sorrow. It’s nonsensical, that this would be the death of the Messiah. The cross is no symbol of salvation or triumph; it’s an execution device for common criminals. What agony He must feel, His pierced hands… Continue reading Good Friday, Holy Saturday
It happened as I was getting yogurt, of all things, last Friday morning. I was in my numb mid-morning haze, spilling granola on a laminate countertop and trying not to think too hard about anything except schoolwork, when the music floated its way into my head. It was simple: just a soft, understated melody, a… Continue reading hallelujah
When I was a toddler, my papa popped his dentures out of his mouth right in front of me. Wailing, I desperately tried to try to stuff them back in with my chubby toddler hands, certain that something was very, very wrong. It’s one of his favorite stories to tell now; he always gets that… Continue reading for papa