The holidays have got me thinking about the concept of home. Where is home? Maybe a better question would be what is home? The dictionary defines home this way: home - Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[hohm] - noun, adjective, adverb, verb, homed, hom·ing. –noun 1. a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household. 2. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered. 3. a person's native place or own country. After a long evening in the library I will tell a study buddy I am going "home" to go to bed. By that I mean I am going to the residence hall where I pay a little over a grand a semester to sleep and shower. After a three week stretch at school I will tell my friends with much joy, that I am going "home" for the weekend. By that I mean I am going to Moscow, TN where my family lives, a general area. When I punch the time clock at 4:30 I say to my supervisor that I am going "home". By that I mean I am going to my parents three-bed/two bath-house, an actual dwelling. I went to visit my brother yesterday. We rode over to his grandmother's, whom we call "nanny" and ate supper. (At nanny's the evening meal is always referred to as "supper".) The brown shag carpet sagged a little more since I had been there a year earlier, so did the skin under nanny's chin and eyes. Even with the added wrinkles she looked pretty. Her cheeks were red with Dollar Store blush, and she wore a new necklace her best friend, Allie Mae, had given her for Christmas. There were three places set at the table. "Are you expecting company?" I asked. We didn't call before we came. "You, silly." she said and went to work putting ice in the glasses. My step-mother must have called after we left. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and that's when I felt it. No, not nausea or an uncontrollable urge to pee. Home, I felt home. Maybe it was the sticky blue linoleum or the scent of Aqua Net hair spray in the air. I had visited that house only once a year since I was thirteen, but the countless hours I had spent there in the summer as a child had formed a connection in my memory that time nor adulthood could sever. Tomorrow I am meeting my two roommates from Acadia Summer Project in Byrdstown, TN. We are going to stay up late eating ice cream talking about life, love, and spirituality. Saturday we will hike if the weather permits. In June I was amazed at how after only four short weeks coming back to a cold crammed cabin to them at night felt very much like coming home. In fact the anticipation I feel about tomorrow, about driving to a semi-remote location which I have never been, feels like going home.

When coming home from school the first place I go after I pay off my sleep debt and eat real food is my Maw Maw's. The home she and my Paw Paw have built is beautiful. It's a home not of brick and mortar but of the kind of love that teaches children to become good humans who are able to make good choices because they know they are loved. I was not one of those children or even grandchildren. My mother paid Maw Maw to watch me on the week days while she worked. Mom tells me that every penny she paid Maw Maw she turned around and spent it right back on me, buying me candy or clothes. I was an unlikely recipient of her home-ish love. I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way her house ceased to be where my babysitter lived and became home to me.

Sometimes home is a place where you have logged so many mundane hours that the smell of hairspray takes you back in an instant. Other times home is internal--something that no longer surrounds you, but has moved inside of you.

Maybe It's Ok

I think it is safe to say I have been sucking at life for the past few weeks. A couple days ago I was thinking about how selfish I am and beating myself up in general, when I had a neat thought. God knows how much I suck right now. What if He isn't shaking His Holy head at me, but rather doing something in my life that I can't see. I remember this one year I sucked at life all 365 days. I know you are thinking, "Surely not, Ashley must be exaggerating again." But it's true. It was the year I worked at the Bank doing Mortgage loans and going to night school while living with my parents. My times with the Lord weren't consistent, my prayer life had gone to pot, every friend my age had gone to college in distant lands like Mississippi, and I was living for everyone else's approval. I would have never believed you if you'd told me, but God was very present in my life and utter sucky-ness that year. I think there are eternal ramifications of those tweleve months I may never understand this side eternity, but I know in a vauge and cloudy sort of way that God used that time to change my character. So I'm hopeful. Maybe this is another one of those times.

Nice Stationary

Today a friend told me I had nice stationary. And I do, indeed. It was a gift. I got a lot of stationary, coffee, and books for my birthday. It was so nice, and not just because they are things I like and will use, but because they made me feel known. Have you ever gotten a gift and thought, "Do they even know me at all?" I have. When I get a few gifts like that in a row I start to feel like no one knows me. So this birthday when I got two pounds of really good coffee, two sets of stationary, a bag of my favorite Cliff bar, and a journal among other things, I felt really loved (and sort of predictable. But I think that is just me over analyzing.)

Today I was doing some reading for my Fiction Writing class, whining to myself at how much reading I have to do, and trying to remember why I decided to be an English major. Then I came across this quote by Vincent Van Gogh in a chapter about how writer's block is a crock. "If you hear a voice within you saying: you are no painter, then paint by all means, lad, and that voice will be silenced, but only by working." It reminded me of Something Oswalt Chambers said in My Utmost for His Highest. I can't quote it, but basicly he said that if you are experiening spiritual confusion, the only way to gain understanding is through obedience. Chambers said that one cannot reason through spiritual confusion, but only after stepping forward in obedience to Christ, will God grant understading. I think this is what Van Gogh, as well as the author of my fiction writing text was saying. In writing it is much the same. If I try to figure out why I have "writer's block" or look for ways to fix it, I will only sink further. I see this in every writing class I take, the similarity to Christian sprituality and writing. I took my first writing class around the same time God began to show me my need for community. Much of the interaction of my writing group was like a small group bible study. We shared our stuff with each other, being honest about what was good and bad. Pointing out things the writer could not see in their own story and offering help, not judging their work as not good enough. Writing workshops require vulnerability. I remember the first time I read a personal essay aloud to a class of twenty students. I felt naked. When I was finished no one was allowed to say anything, they just thanked me for sharing. No one tried to "fix" my essay, they just accepted my writing. Ah..acceptance. Today's reading brought me back to the place of loving writing, not because I'm good at it, but because the writing community (which can sometimes be so dark) can also be a beautiful picture of what I think Christ desires for His church.

Happy Birthday Ashlet

After arriving home Saturday, I was starving, so I went to the freezer in search of something for a late lunch, when to my suprise I saw a TCBY cake box. My mom had got me a frozen yogurt cake for my Birthday. I yelled something high pitch and unintelligible to show my excitement about the cake, and shut the freezer door. Later over coffee, Mom told me not to have high expectations for the cake. When she got to TCBY to pick it up, the Indian gentleman who owned the store greeted her by saying, "I did it! It look good. It was good practice for me, I will be very good next time," talking about the writing on the cake. When Mom ordered it earlier that morning he told her that his wife was out at a birthday party, but would be back to do it because he wasn't good at decorating the cakes. His wife didn't make it back in time so he went ahead and did it himself. Reaching into the freezer he retrieved and presented to my mother the white chocolate mousse cake which read, "Happy Birthday Ashlet"

Mom swallowed hard. "You did a good job. Thank you." A woman eating a chocolate cone across the room said, "He asked me if I could decorate it. I told him I could bake cakes but I couldn't decorate them." So Happy Birthday to me, or to Ashlet, whoever that is...

Sex in the Classroom

This semester I have found that not only does sex sell, but it also educates. My roommate was telling me over a sub sandwich the other night that her AG professor sets all his power point presentations to the background of male and female swim suit models. He used to only have women in bikinis but then someone complained so he had to find some backgrounds that would be appealing for the ladies as well. He says it's much harder to find pictures of half naked men than women. (Just go to mall, Abercrombie and Fitch has plenty I would say to him were I in his class.) Her professor says the slides help to keep the class's attention. As an isolated event I didn't think very much of this. But today in my Spanish 115 class my sweet Latina Professora throws a Victoria's Secret magazine on the projector to teach the class ropas(clothing) and colores (colors). So today in Spanish I learned that all Victoria Secret models have pelo largo (long hair) and are degaldo and bonita (thin and pretty). I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

Ham and Cheese

I am taking twenty hours this semester. (every time I tell people that I feel like a martyr.) But I really am busier than I have ever been, sometimes too busy to eat, which for anyone knows me, is unheard of. Today I woke and began typing up and preparing for a presentation for my public relations class. After finishing, already late to meet my friend Sam to explicate poetry, I grabbed a Slim fast out of the fridge for lunch instead of making a sandwich. About eleven I popped the top on the slim fast, and was quickly reminded why I never went on the slim fast diet. I couldn't finish a fourth of the can before I tossed it in the garbage, thinking I would grab something for lunch between classes. As a presented my case study about Wal-Mart's new public relations campaign my hands shook, not from nerves, but from low blood sugar. (I didnt have the time between my spanish lab I thought I would.) As if my hypoglycemic episode wasn't enough I know the frat boy half asleep on the back row heard my stomach growling from the podium. I'm not the kind of person that can function without food. I looked at my watch and knew I didn't have time between classes to go back to my room for a bite, I don't carry my wallet to class, and I didn't put money on my school ID this year. I decided my only hope was to find someone in the hall I was close enough friends with to borrow some change for the vending machine. On a campus as small as mine I knew I would see someone...but I didn't. In a last desperate attempt I called my Friend Sam to see if he was still at the BCM. He was! "Sam, can you bring me something to eat? I don't think I can make it through literary style without something to eat. Anything will do, a teaspoon a peanut butter would be fine." He said he would bring me something. Three minutes before class began I started to get nervous. Sam was always early so the only reason he would be late would be because he was bringing me something to eat. I felt the guilt rising up in me. But the pangs in my stomach were stronger. 3:30 on the dot and Sam walked through the door. What was that in his hand? He thrust a tortilla at me. Studying it I saw what looked like Ham, cheese and mustard. "I got creative." he said. Sam walked over half a mile from the BCM with a tortilla in his hand, no napkin or zip lock bag to contain it. Just the flour tortilla flat against his hand on a hot September day. What a guy thing to do. What a sweet guy.

Retiring My Running Shoes

I have a stress fracture in my right foot. To be more precise I've had this stress fracture in my foot for about two years. I trained for and ran a half marathon on it, as well as sprint work on asphalt and concrete tracks. Looking back, I see how stupid this was. I spent the summer in Acadia National Park biking, hiking, and rock climbing, as well as running three-five miles a day. By the time my toes were back on Tennessee soil, I was finding it hard to walk on my right foot. I made an appointment with an orthopedic specialist and he confirmed it was a stress fracture. He wanted to know why I had been running on it as long as I had. Dr. BoBo told me that I would never be able to run on asphalt or conrete again, and that I would have to wear a carbon graphite insert until the fracture healed. This insert was supposed to keep my foot from bending when I walked. It cost me ninety bucks. Ouch. The next few days I walked with a limp as I adjusted to my new ninety dollar insert. The insert reminded me with every step that I am not whole. and that I have needs. I have been ignoring a very real physical boundary-my stress fracture- for years. The insert and the limping it causes, has helped me to realize the truth that I have needs, and most of the time I ignore them. So I have began taking note of my needs physical, emtional, ect. and asking my brothers and sisters in the body of Christ to meet them.

Rupert Johnson ("you had to be there" kind of story I think)

My dad has been in rehab for seven months now. Before that, I thought it would be weird to visit someone in rehab, kinda like visiting people in the hospital or mental health facilities. I visit every weekend that I am in town, mostly Sunday afternoons. I have gotten to know a lot of the other men there as well as some of their stories. Yesterday, Dad and I were sitting out by the lake in our lawn chairs, he was filling me in on what had happened since I had visited last. (I have been in Maine for the past four weeks.) He told me about Rupert Johnson passing the tenth step of the program. The anecdote went something like this... When Rupert was asked if he could traces places with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be, he answered, "Joseph, from the bible. You see, when I was a child I saw a picture of Joseph's wife Mary in my mamma's bible. And that Mary, she was a beautiful woman. Not only that, but Joseph he was a carpenter. The ways I sees it is that Joseph was a rich man. He didn't just build them houses, you see, he was into real estate too. Yes sir, I would trade places with Joseph. " I've read the gospels many times and I never got all that out of Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John. Rupert Johnson sure knows how to read between the lines.

Live at Peace

"If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone." Can I just get something off my chest? God is right. His ways are right. Always. The more I live, the more I screw up, the more I realize the truth that his ways are for us, to show us how to live, how to really live and not just get by. Today at lunch some friends of mine mentioned that they had a venting session the night before and some of it was about me. Let's face it, no one wants to think of themselves as the friend people have to vent about. I mean we all have those friends, but we don't want to be those friends. I'm pretty sure that at some point or another we have all been that friend. I'm trying to take an objective look at these friendships, and I see why they would need to vent. I don't have it together. I have a very real need for Jesus.

Confessions of a Facebook addict

Today I did what most self-respecting Facebook addicts do at 7:30am. I checked Facebook to see who had posted on my wall, updated their profiles, and what was new on mini feed. A Facebook friend of mine, who I happen to think is a pretty cool chick, had updated her "about me", so I scrolled her page and read one of the few genuinely interesting "about me" sections I have found to date. It was the last sentence that got me and wont let me go. "I am currently on a quest to whittle myself down to a certain desired weight. I'm getting there."(Two sentences if you want to be technical.) My heart sank. I was sad and angry. This perfectly healthy, active, beautiful woman was allowing the lie that she needed to be skinny to become her "quest." But what's more, is that she had the guts enough to put it on her Facebook wall, while I hid the same quest deep within my heart.