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.