He is born, God with us.

"It was indeed wondrous that Christ was conceived in a womb, but it is no less striking that he be borne in our hearts."

-St. Peter Damian

What is Christmas without cookies?

I wouldn't know.

I love my family

It's good to be home. There is just one person missing on this post, and that is my brother-in-law, Andy. If he were here, he would be....helping saw the stump of the Christmas tree with my dad, making fun of our continually anxious cat, and playing Christmas duets with me on the piano. Next year...

What can compare to Christmas? And what can compare to home. Nothing.

To Be Alone With You

Tomorrow I move out of my single room into a brand new apartment where I will be living with three other girls starting in January. Then, I am on the plane to come home. God has turned my bitter tears into laughter, and I will miss the quiet moments I had here, alone with Jesus. A new season has begun.

Good-bye to cooking for just one.


Good-bye to hitting my head on drying laundry.

Good-bye to my single burner.

Good-bye to my morning French-press coffee.

Good-bye to you, silent, hidden forest. You were a faithful friend.

"My lover said to me, 'Rise up, my beloved, my fair one, and come away. For the winter is past, and the rain is over and gone. The flowers are springing up, and the time of singing birds has come, even the cooing of turtle doves. The fig trees are budding, and the grapevines are in blossom. How delicious they smell! Yes, spring is here! Arise, my beloved, my fair one, and come away."

Song of Songs 1:10-13

For a song that so perfectly expresses how God gave everything just to be alone with us, listen to the first song after being navigated by this link.

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=sufjan%20stevens

And then God Speaks.

"Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much. Do you know how its dimensions were determined and who did the surveying? What supports its foundations, and who laid its cornerstone as the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?

Who defined the boundaries of the sea as it burst from the womb, and as I clothed it with clouds and thick darkness? For I locked it behind barred gates, limiting its shores. I said, "Thus far and no farther will you come. Here you proud waves must stop!

Have you ever commanded the morning to appear and caused the dawn to rise in the east? Have you ever told the daylight to spread to the ends of the earth, to bring an end to the night's wickedness? For the features of the earth take shape as the light approaches, and the dawn is robed in red. The light disturbs the haunts of the wicked, and it stops the arm that is raised in violence.

Have you explored the springs from which the seas come? Have you walked about and explored their depths? Do you know where the gates of death are located? Have you seen the gates of utter gloom? Do you realize the extent of the earth? Tell me about it if you know!

Where does the light come from, and where does the darkness go? Can you take it to its home? Do you know how to get there? But of course you know all this! For you were born before it was all created, and you are so very experienced!

Have you visited the treasuries of the snow? Have you seen where the hail is made and stored? I have reserved it for the time of trouble, for the day of battle and war. Where is the path to the origin of light? Where is the home of the east wind?

Who created a channel for the torrents of rain? Who laid out the path for the lightning? Who makes the rain fall on barren land, in a desert where no one lives? Who sends the rain that satisfies the parched ground and makes the tender grass spring up?

Does the rain have a father? Where does dew come from?...

Can you hold back the movements of the stars?...

Can you shoult to the clouds and make it rain...?

Can you stalk prey for a lioness and satisfy the young lions' appetites as they lie in their dens or crouch in the thicket?...

Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?...

Who makes the wild donkey wild?...

Will the wild ox consent to being tamed?...

The ostrich flaps her wings grandly, but they are no match for the feathers of the stork...

Have you given the horse its strength or clothed its neck with a flowing mane?...

Are you the one who makes the hawk soar and spread its wings to the south?...

DO YOU STILL WANT TO ARGUE WITH THE ALMIGHTY? YOU ARE GOD'S CRITIC, BUT DO YOU HAVE THE ANSWERS?"

Job 38:4-40:3

When trifling afairs are lost

I come home in just two weeks. I decided to wait a while to write about last weekend, knowing that it would be just about...now....when I would desperately need to remember it. It was only last Saturday that I, along with two other Americans and two Germans, piled into a small, rented car, and drove 3 1/2 hours to a cabin on the Hardangerfjord. We decided to take an entire weekend to celebrate Thanksgiving. After a morning of of windy mountain roads and the always-appropriate Nickel Creek music blaring over the speakers, we arrived to our red cabin, located just 20 feet from the edge of the water.



After unpacking the car, we made our way to the small shed below the cabin that held dry firewood for our small fireplace.


Before we embarked on the meal preparations, we took the afternoon to dwell in this majesty:

And if you were overwhelmed by the misty, damp air, the mountains looked just as beautiful out the many windows of the cabin.

But if you weren't careful, the childish boasting of the mountains would take all of your attention, and you would walk right past the flirtatious drops of rain hanging from each and every leaf and needle. But God knows my weakness for these subtleties that tempt me to daydream and wander from the path, my hand forever gripped tightly around my beloved camera.

That night, as I sat on these rocks and allowed the strength and beauty of God to wash over, around, and through me, I was immediately reminded of a quotation from St. Therese of Lisieux that a friend sent me at the beginning of this fall.

"Later, in the hour of trial, when I am imprisoned in Carmel and able to see only a small patch of sky, I shall recall today and it will give me strength. All my trifling affairs will be lost in the power and majesty of God. I shall love only Him and I shall escape the misfortune of attaching myself to trifles, now that I have glimpsed what He has in store for those who love Him."

-St. Therese of Lisieux

Sheep

Last weekend some friends and I went to a little Norwegian farm just a 20 minute bus ride from the city center. Although the old, country home that served homemade waffles and hot chocolate was enough to make me want to stay, my favorite few minutes of the trip was watching the sheep graze. I had actually forgotten how ugly sheep are. I mean, I didn't exactly want to pet one. They're some of the most helpless animals...they can't run very fast, nor can they pick themselves up if they fall over on their backs. They get scared easily, and are susceptible to so many diseases. They are completely subjected to the care of their owner. These sheep had yellow tags clipped onto their ears so that their shepherd can easily identify them. The pasture they were grazing on was rather hilly, and small. I desperately wanted to ask one of them if they were content with how their shepherd cared for them. Is it o.k. with them that they must wear these old-fashioned bells around their necks that never stop ringing? I can imagine that would get rather old after a while...

All of this made me think about St. Paul, and how he bragged about belonging to the "Great Shepherd." I think it's absolutely hilarious that humans are compared to sheep in the scripture. I can see someone getting extremely offended by this. But I actually think it's stunningly beautiful that humans are so helpless, and whether we admit it or not, are greatly in need of a shepherd. There is so much shame in our culture around this word "need." Ironically, the more we admit our helplessness, the stronger we are. The Kingdom of God is full of so many oxymora, no wonder one must be a child in order to enter.

"God did not tell us to follow him because he needed our help, but because he knew that loving him would make us whole."

-St. Irenaeus

Good with a capital "G"

If ever anything is more than "good"--when it taps into the goodness that can only be found in the eternity of heaven--my dear friend, Rose, describes it as "Good with a capital G." That was today...Good. I woke up with the sun and pulled open my curtains only to be greeted by the glowing moon. As I made my breakfast, I continually checked on him to make sure he was still there. He stayed with me for a whole hour! Next came a delightful walk in the nearby woods. The orange carpet of leaves kept my feet from ever touching the soil. What better way to spend a November morning than amongst the naked trees and the rising sun.

Next came a piece of apple cake that my friend graciously bought for us to share at a coffee house near the Grieg Academy. It was a perfect snack to tide me over as I plunged into the history of the flute school at the Paris Conservatoire. All it takes is a little coffee, a little cake, and a little company to make studying a simply delightful experience.

And how should a Good day come to an end? Well, with some bluegrass of course. A girl I met a few days ago, who will be one of my housemates starting in January, came into my practice room and played "Amazing Grace" for me on her fiddle...in "bluegrass" style. I cried and asked her to play it again. Joy. Simple joy radiated from every note she played.

Amazing grace is...finding home in a little, run-down practice room, on the top floor of an old, vine-covered music school, all the way in Bergen, Norway. God is Good.

Morning Dew

"Does the rain have a father? Who fathers the drops of dew?"
Job 38:28

I'd take a home in the mountains if I could

Last weekend I went on a retreat with a Christian student group here called Navigators. Not quite knowing how to say no to an earnest invitation, I somehow found myself sitting in the back seat of a small car next to a Norwegian boy and his guitar. I was carried off into the snow-capped mountains residing an hour east of Bergen. Little did I know all the adventure awaiting me in this small, isolated cabin in the mountains.

After a long night of attempting my Norwegian, I was one of the first to go to bed. Apparently 1:00 am is still too early for these socializing fanatics. I was also the first one to rise out of all the girls sleeping in my room, which meant that I was the first one to romantically push the window curtain aside and gaze upon the first snowfall of the year. My Narnia was here.

So what better way to experience Narnia than to go walking in it? I finally experienced my first true Norwegian hiking experience. Why?

We chose our path. There were no man-made paths or wooden signs with a map telling you to stay on the "blue" trail if you want an easy hike, or the "red" trail if you want the difficult one. This hike was simply about laughing with nature...participating in the wild, joyful party that happens every day without you or I knowing it. It's always happening, whispering little invitations in our ear to put aside our shovel and dance for a while. What joy comes to those who accept this childish insanity!

And if that isn't enough to tempt you to pull out those old hiking boots, the fresh berries are. Along with these small red berries, there were many patches of blueberries I saw along our hike--so ripe that juice gushed out of them the second you touched them. All day long I got to look down at my red-stained fingers and recall the sweet memory of our hike.


Inside the cabin, there were candles burning continuously in every room, a fire in the fireplace, a bottomless pot of coffee...

and many games of chess.

When not spending time with Jesus, they are spending time with each other.

Who wouldn't take a home in the mountains? A Norwegian home, that is.

When I wear my holey tights...

This past week during my lesson my teacher told me I needed to be more like a child when I played the flute. She said that musicians must be an adult and a child at the same time. If we are not children while we play music, then everything becomes predictable and boring. She told me I must look at the things around me through the eyes of a child...develop my imagination.

Little did she know that all day long I had been thinking about my secret. The secret of the hole in my tights. When I wear my holey tights, I am an 8-year-old girl making her way back home after an afternoon of frolicking through the prairie grass. When I wear my holey tights, I am 14 years old, helping mom with the weekend chores while I eat a big juicy red apple from my backyard apple tree. When I wear my holey tights, I am a kindergartner on her first day of school, desperately trying to find another little girl to whisper secrets to about the cute boy sitting across from her. When I wear my holey tights I'm...Rebecca. Because the idea of holey tights fits so well with a name like "Rebecca."

Maybe next week I'll try to describe my holey tights' characters in my music. After all, one can only keep a secret for so long before she must be vulnerable and blurt it out.

A composer successfully remembered

This excerpt from C.M. v Weber's Op. 28 is drawn in pencil on one of the practice room walls at the Grieg Academy. I sat there staring at it for probably about 10 minutes. I tried to imagine the whole story behind the person who drew it. I bet it was a cellist. Cellists are often the most passionate musicians in an orchestra, and therefore the most likely to get so obsessed with a single line of music to spend hours meticulously drawing it on the wall. And I bet this cellist had stayed in this room until 2 am, studying op. 28, and finally with a sudden outburst cried, "I must write out this beautiful line on the wall so everyone who comes in here can be reminded of von Weber's brilliance!" Well I suppose he succeeded...with me at least.

"The loftiness of man shall be bowed down, and the haughtiness of men shall be brought low"

Last weekend I went to Narnia. O.k., it was technically this tourist trip called "Norway in a nutshell," but I didn't care. I stepped onto the train, anxiously awaiting the adventure before me where I would at last come face to face with some of the most beautiful scenery in all the world. First stop: The small town of Myrdal.

This next smaller train brought us deeper and deeper into the fjords, mysteriously giving us a glimpse here and there of the beauty to come.

The train stopped in the middle of the tracks so we could all gaze on a gigantic waterfall. We all ran to the nearest door in order to get the "best" picture to bring home to our families. The pouring rain didn't seem to stop anyone.

Well, maybe a few...

The next leg of the trip was on a ferry that went through the fjords...the part where the glory of God is Unmistakable. Overwhelming. Fearful. The kind of fear that goes beyond awe. The kind of fear that makes your realize on a deeper level just how small you are, and just how big God is. A conviction that, if forgotten for even a moment, will sooner or later bring you to your knees once again.

The creeks--Tinker and Carvin's--are an active mystery, fresh every minute. Theirs is the mystery of the continuous creation and all that providence implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of perfection. The mountains--Tinker and Brushy, McAfee's Knob and Dead Man--are a passive mystery, the oldest of all. Theirs is the one simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself, anything at all, the given. Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home.

-"Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" by Annie Dillard

When I was not drinking in the mountains, I watched the people--their reactions, their peaceful state, their artistic expression, and the lines in their faces that spoke of a deeper understanding of the eternal.

"Be still and know that I am God."

Fairy tales really do come true...

My feet may reside in a city, but my heart will always be in the woods. Sarah and I decided to get out of Bergen, and take a ferry to this small island called Lysoen (the island where Ole Bull, the famous violinist, built his home). His house was truly spectacular, but even more wonderful were the trails surrounding it. We took 1 hour to explore them, and for just a few minutes I lived out a fairy tale...

This was my reaction when it finally hit me that I was on a desolate island that is (apart from Ole Bull's house) untouched by man. I could have been five years old at that moment. And if you would have asked me if fairies exist, I would have told you that yes, they do in fact very much exist.

So there I was, sourrounded by the greenest moss I have ever seen, not understanding how God could possibly stand creating such beauty when there is a very good chance that not a single person could notice that one sun beam hitting that particular tree stump in that particular way that magically creates thousands more at that exact moment...

I suppose he simply can't help himself.


Later, we decided to rejuvenate ourselves with a snack from the tourist-trap cafe right by Ole Bull's house.

My friend Bernadette told me that when I get a heart-shaped waffle in Norway I should run down the street saying "I got the vaffeler! I got the vaffeler!" Well...I didn't exactly do that. (In the olden days in Norway when a man asks the woman's parents for their daughter's hand in marriage, the parents will either serve heart-shaped waffles, meaning "yes," or flat ones meaning "no.") Perhaps next time...

I'm not sure how amused the cafe clerks would have been, anway...probably written me off as a crazed tourist.

After eating, I slept by the fjord...

Sarah wrote brilliant small essays...

And we took the ferry home.

One day soon I will once again walk down that mysterious trail that leads to the mossy woods...

and find out who lives in this hidden, red cottage, nestled by this hidden, calm pond.

And they will sit me down with some black coffee and tell me stories about the magical land of Norway.