Alright.  So.  I've been back in the states for about 3 weeks now.  And head back to L'abri in approximately 10 days.    I would like to say that this time at home has been spent processing my time in England, really working through what I have learned and gleaned from the experience.  But, alas, this is not what I have been doing. My brain has been on a bit of a vacation.  A sabbatical if you will.  A well deserved break.  I've been spending my time relaxing with my family and visiting with friends.  The only writing I've done has been in emails.  And although I have read and loved around 2,000 pages of books, they have all been detailing the heartbreaking romance and dangerous adventure of vampires and werewolves (The Twilight Series...Anyone?)  So... it is simply impossible for me to sum up the last three months.  As I am not even sure all that they hold and represent in my life.  I will not try to articulate anything of real substance.  But, now that I have a computer at my disposal I will share with you some pictures.  Some bits and pieces of my life at L'abri.

  

As an introduction.  

This is me.  Enjoying one of my favorite pastimes and the greatest of small pleasures.  Coffee.

Life at the Manor House...


This has been my home for the last three months, and will continue to be for the next three. Pretty nice huh?  Look at all those chimney's.  The set of windows on the far right, in the middle surrounded by greenery, see 'em?  Well that's my room.  I'm pretty much in love with this house.  It's huge, drafty, full of secret doors and stairwells.

The Manor is three stories, here is the landing between the second and third.  Lovely.  I live on the middle floor in a room nicknamed the "Princess Room."  Fitting name.

This is the above mentioned room.  A wee bit messy I know.  I wish I could say that it doesn't always look like this, but... it basically does.  With 10 females and limited space, it's bound to be a bit chaotic.

Here's me in one of my favorite study spots.  Top floor window sill.  There's a great view and very limited foot traffic.  Pretty ideal.

And here is the study room, aka: The Bake House.  This is always the coziest room on the property, you can always count on a fire burning and some peace&quiet.  (Except when people like me are doing something annoying like taking pictures.)

Sigh.  This picture just makes me smile.  This is the table in the Drawing Room on any given Sunday afternoon.  You have some tea, some art supplies, some stationary, a few letters, a practice keyboard and some recording equipment.  It really is some sort of magical land for the creative fairy types.  

This is the little chapel behind the Manor House.  Its walls are lined with hay bails for sitting, there's a stove for heating and some candles for light.  It is the perfect little escape.  It became my secret hideout.  A place to run to when I needed some solo time, some peace or simply a safe spot to have a breakdown.  My own little safe haven.

This reminds me of the Secret Garden.  It leads from the back of the Manor property out to the street.

A view from the top floor.  This is the backyard, including a bench for viewing and contemplating.

At the back of the property  are the remains of a little crumbling church.  And a small graveyard.  I love to wander through this  area on gloomy rainy days.

A nearby lane.  Perfect for walks and leisurely strolls.

Volleyball is a mainstay at L'abri.  Everyone plays it and there are all of these theories about how it represents the community life at L'abri.  Volleyball is an analogy used in many lectures.  It's quite funny.

Pick.  Peel.  Dip.  Slice.  Core.  Soak.  Bag.  This is the process our assembly line followed for a day of apple picking.  We needed to get all of the apples off of the trees and into the freezer before they fell to the ground and began to rot.  The sun was shining and we worked all together for a full 8 hours.  One of my favorite days at L'abri.

A week in France...

Tory, Steven and I took a week break from L'abri in November and traveled around the South of France.  We left the Manor with a general idea of where we wanted to go and what we wanted to see...  But no idea of where we were going to stay, or how we would get there.  So, of course there were many moments of chaos and loads of adventure.

Tory and Steven take their first dip into the Mediterrean Sea.  So beautiful!

I watched and giggled from the beach.  Perfectly content in the sun and on the sand.

Just soaking it all in.

In each city we wandered through, we made it a habit to visit the local markets.  We meandered through the stalls taking in the colors, smells and local people.  I loved it.  Fresh apples often accompanied us along the way. 

Coffee by the seaside became a regular routine...

As did eating gelato.

Dancing on the seashore in Antibes...

We left a note on the beach for future fellow travelers.  You know, like a message in a bottle, but on a rock.

Um...probably one of my favorite moments  in France.  Sitting on a hilltop in Eze Village enjoying our typical lunch of apples, peanut butter, cheese and a baguette.  We had a full circular view of the village and the sea.  Perfectly content.

Waiting for our hostel in Aix en Provence to open for the evening.  Band photo??

Neapolitan movie theatre in France?  Yes please.

American Thanksgiving...

Starting the day with a gourmet Swedish breakfast the House then went on a two hour walk through surroundings fields.  Walking, skipping, talking and laughing together we followed footpaths through fields of sheep, horses, cows and greenery.  The people regularly in residence (maybe 40 of us?) were joined by many extra guests who came for the weekend. The Manor was jam packed, the weather was perfect and I was happy.

Look how peacefully the sheep are grazing...this was before one of the many dogs on our walk decided to go into herding mode.  Poor little sheep.

Aaron reveals his talents as a horse whisperer.

The dining room was decorated extra special for the occasion.  Look how pretty that mantle looks?!  And we used the nice dishes and everything.  It was quite an event.

Here's Helen, Steven and I at the end of dinner.  I am stuffed.  And Steven is happy.  I promise.

Guy Fawkes Day...

Remember Remember the Fifth of November...

So how do the Brits remember the day that Guy Fawkes attempted to blow up Parliament?  By placing him atop a pile of rubbish and setting it on fire.  We created our own  Guy Fawkes from old cushions, sticks, t-shirts and a pumpkin as a face.  We then set the bonfire to flame.  The whole festivities were accompanied by a fireworks display and pots of hot chocolate.  

Marta, my lovely Hungarian friend and tutor.  Here she sits protecting her favorite chair from the fire.  If it went in, she was going with it.  It now sits in the middle of her small flat.  And she is happy.

That's my yellow hat.  And that's rain and probably ash falling from the sky.

Cambridge...

This is my friend Wesley, who was at L'abri for about a month, is from Long Beach and happens to know Eric Appel.  Small world!  So we took a weekend trip to visit Nicki and Eric in Cambridge.

Wesley punting on the river through Cambridge.  Look at that building behind him!

Eric's turn.  Nicki and I sat, giving great moral support to the boys as they punted.

Soo....Steven and I accidently dressed as twins one sunny day.  Everyone was gathered outside to marvel at the blue sky, and decided to marvel at our coordination instead.

Sunday night High Tea.  The highlight of my week.  I can always count on High Tea to bring me some cheer.  Here's a group doing a sing a long.  I think to "Take a Load off Fanny."  The Band.

Tea Time!  Tea is served after each meal and then there are two tea breaks throughout the day.  This specific Tea Time was special as it was my 24th birthday.  See those little scrabble letters?  Those spell out "Happy Birthday Leah."  I felt quite special.

Wellies.  A real necessity for living in the English countryside.  My wellies are green and make me feel indestructible.  I can walk anywhere and through anything.

The End.

I call you Love.

I hesitantly whisper of beauty as the possibility of you.
A beauty that softens. melts.
The wind that tickles the trees and makes them shiver.
The leaves slowly dripping, catching in my hair and scarf.
The far off hills that hold me still. motionless.
The tender human touch that renders me silent.

I call you Grace.

Yet.
This is an abstraction.
A theoretical concept.
A series of ideas to be discussed and debated.
You are an abstraction.

When I am honest.

This is not my reality.
This is not personal.
Not my own.

If I am honest.

I will call you
Distant.

I would call you
Harsh Judgement.

I will call you
Silent.

I call you
Absent.

Eyes burning from heavy lids.
Kicking Television is the soundtrack.
Green and Brown window scenes.
Orange, Yellow, Red falling from trees.
Young boy practicing karate on his father.
Two men speaking to me in words I do not understand.
New wellies under my chair.
Tunnel: Black. Ears popping. Loud.
I pop out to a split world:
It's all yellows and golds on bottom as cornfields lay out a blanket on the earth.
Solid clear blue is draped on top - filling the rest of the canvas.
This is my ride from Cambridge.

Jeff Tweedy and I are trying to process.
Digest and sort all the input of the last few weeks.
Books, films, lectures, conversations...the density is making me heavy.
But there is something I am holding onto. A flashlight to see through the brush.

I am a product of my environment. "A child of my era; ironically an almost obedient child visibly following the mores of the cultural milieu in which it was nurtured." Shaped by Romanticism and the Enlightenment I am simply walking on the path laid out for me.
In this increasingly "Post-Christian" world I am not brave. My thoughts are not 'counter-culture.' I am not 'thinking outside of the box.' I am simply following suit. I am simply falling in line.

This thought. Partially and poorly represented here, was voiced to me in a book I read with love. A book I just finished written by a non-Christian man on his journey through several intentional communities.

It has thrown me off balance.
Add to my brokenness this perfectly chilling perspective and I am left flat on my back. Crying in my sleep.
It has stopped the wind from stroking my arrogant sails and yet given me some sort of irrational hope.

Train. Underground. Switch lines. Second train. Bus.
I am almost home. Almost able to begin my 40 minute walk home.
"Unlock my body and move myself to dance."
The soundtrack plays my favorite line.

I am trying. I am trying.

In an attempt to adapt to my now limited internet access, I will form this post into the shape that comes most naturally to me: a list. A skill I inherited from my mother and then perfected in emails to Chris Meagher...I am a professional and avid list maker. So, here is some insight into my life here at L'Abri in list format.

1. I live in a manor. For reals, a genuine real life manor. It's huge and open and drafty and old and beautiful. The grounds are lush and green and stretch on endlessly. They are covered with winding and narrow footpaths that wander throughout the village of Greatham. They cross through clover fields and pastures filled with cows and horses and gardens.

2. My days are delightfully structured:
8am breakfast
930am work or study
11am tea break
1pm lunch
3pm work or study
430pm tea break
630pm dinner
8pm lecture/film and discussion

3. I have consumed more tea these past couple of weeks than the sum of all of my prior tea drinking experiences combined. As a result, I am peeing more than ever.

4. I am currently in a room with 7 other girls. The majority of whom have just graduated from high school. Imagine high school Christian Camp. Now imagine, if you will, how much I would enjoy living in such circumstances. (Answer: I would not. At all).

5. I have about 3 hours of study a day. Free to study whatever I wish. With a library at my disposal. And no papers to write or grades to receive. Simply for the purpose of learning. There is a whole room designated for study. It is filled with desks and chairs, couches and blankets, and there is always a fire burning. It is pretty much bliss.

6. I have 3 hours of work a day. This consists of either cooking, cleaning, gardening (my favorite), painting, etc. This, I also love.

7. The weather here is nice. Not too cold yet. Quite pretty actually.

8. I have a tutor named Marta. She is from Hungary. She used to be a hotshot lawyer. I most definitely like her.

9. There's a boy here who asked me what music I listen to. Turns out we have similiar taste. We have taken to confessing our guilty pleasure bands. Yesterday I told him Teagan and Sarah. He looked at me blankly and said that was embarrassing. But then I reminded him that he had said One Republic, and I surely think that is worse. He reminds me of Adam Souza. We're friends.

10. Sunday nights are reserved for "High Tea." We gather in the drawing room and participate in a form of creativity together. Reading through a story or play together each acting out the different parts, spontaneously creating music with various instruments and voices, etc...From there the floor is opened to anyone who has something they would like to share -- a song, a poem, a story or whatever. I sit, observe, laugh heartidly and basically love, absolutely adore, Sunday nights.

11. This is real living in community. About 35 people of all ages, families included, living together, sharing together and constantly running into eachother. The dynamic is always changing as many people come and go, staying for a few days or a few weeks at a time. Eating, sleeping, studying, working and playing together can birth certain challenges. Some of which I'm finding to be difficult. But I think I am learning a lot about people, isolation, community, honesty, boundaries, vulnerabiltiy and independence.

12. I am currently reading: The Little Prince. The Art of Loving. Utopian Dreams. and Being Human.

If you're reading this. Three words.

I miss you.

Geez. I seriously miss you.

Just pluck me from my natural habitat and it takes, hmmm, I would say a whole of 5 seconds for me to realize just how great my friends and family are. Just how lucky I am to have you. And how rare it is to truly be known. I always seem to forget just how great you are.

So the internet situation is pretty much impossible here. I'll be lucky to have a half hour time slot once a week. Sad. This (obviously) is not a sufficient amount of time for me to write all the emails I so desperately want to write. So I will turn to letter writing. Which is not so disappointing. It's more personal, you know? And it will be fun to create little bits for you all. This is actually a much better idea than emails, I can tell already. So please, right this very moment send me an email (leahmicheleberry@gmail.com) with your home address. Do it. I like you and would like to be pen pals.

I was thinking. It's probably, no, most definitely a good thing that I didn't have the internet available to me until this moment. Any earlier and you would have had to endure a wallowy self-pitying unhappy Leah. Not pretty. Thankfully it is only the pages of my journal that have had to endure such abuse these past few days. This abuse comes in many forms. Most commonly in bitter self-absorbed teenage angst: "Oh no one understands me." or "I don't relate to anyone here." My pencil has also written in the dramatic emotional state reminiscent, of say, everyone's favorite emo band - Dashboard Confessional: "Woe to me." and "I'm so disappointed." Weep weep weep. What I feel the worst about, oh my poor poor journal, are the long angry unwarranted rants. Me on my high horse articulating exactly how I feel about this house, these people and my dumb choice to come here. I am so glad I had no choice but to spare you of all this nonsense.

And now, at 730am on Saturday when I finally have some computer time, I can tell you I am doing alright. Thanks to Thursday really. I am doing alright. Thursdays are our day off. I forced myself to be social (a new personal mandate after several days of self-inflicted pouty isolation) and went with a few girls into town. And what do you know? It ended up being a great day - filled with all of the things I love most. Here's a rundown of the day that managed to pull me out of my brooding:

Throughout the day we walked and walked and walked. For miles and miles and miles. A favorite past time of mine. We went through green countryside and down muddy paths that were enclosed by trees. We passed quaint English cottages and beautiful old houses. We picked fresh blackberries all along the way.

In town we sat and chatted over coffee in a tiny and charming cafe.

We wandered through a narrow alleyway where a small signless window filled with guitars and album covers caught our eye. We opened the small door and were immediately greeted by tons of old records and used cd's. We dug through this small gem of a store and made friends with the man behind the counter. The same man who was passionately lecturing an old English gentleman about how he can't believe that he doesn't own such and such a record as it is one of the greatest rock records ever produced and how it is essential to any collection. Eavesdropping on this conversation all I kept thinking was, "high fidelity anyone? anyone?"

Then. As if that wasn't enough. We stumbled across the gold-mine. A Huge used bookstore. This baby had books, pictures, old prints, postcards and maps stacked from floor to ceiling. It was set up like some sort of labrynth with narrow halls and secret doors that led to more and more rooms. It was overwhelming. And I was in heaven.

It is amazing, silly really, how much of an affect these small pleasures have had on my outlook. I simply feel as if I now know I will survive here. I will always have that bookstore and record shop to flee to when I need an escape or cheering.

My time is up. Email me your address. Do it.

I sit here in my single bed.

Imitating Kristin I stare at the ceiling panels.

My head falls lazily to the right.

An empty single bed falls into view.  My neighbor.

Hello neighbor.

Clothes, bag, books, bits scattered across it.

I picture fear sitting there among the pieces.

Yes.  Fear lays sprawled out on that white bedspread next to mine.

Fear embodied by my black pants.

Yes.  That's it.  My black pants are now named Fear.

A leg hangs slack over the headboard.

Another drips leisurely down towards the floor.

The waistband is all folds, crumples and gathers.  It sits up straight.

This Fear is rich and black.  

Charcoal spread across white wall bed sheets.

The single silver button eye stares at me intently.  Unblinking.

The bronze zipper makes a crooked, mocking smile.

These Fear jeans and I, we are making unwavering eye contact.

I begin to think back.  To trace our shared history.

These black jeans, they are my favorite.

They fit me perfectly.

I slip them on easily.

I wear them regularly.

I take them everywhere.

As is with these nameless fears of mine.  This sorted band of anxieties.

They fit me perfectly.

I slip them on easily.

I wear them regularly.

I take them everywhere.

Here I sit.  In this single bed of mine.

Staring into the bends, curves, crevices of this black Fear.

Memorizing shape and form.

The silver eye bores into me.

The jagged zipper mouth laughs.

I feel a tear begin its slow descent.

Blink.

I shake my head at this foolishness.

I laugh at the absurdity.

Sigh.

I realize I may have just decided to burn my favorite pants.

Lately I've been avoiding this blog.  My writing has not completely ceased (for it helps me through the day) but now I hold it hostage in my journal.  Words stay on private pages.  Pages where I feel free.  Pages where I am safe.  On these white pages vulnerability is commonplace.  Tears are welcomed.  Fears are faced.  Joy is embraced.  Anger is accepted.  And words are not judged.  Journals are my safe place.  And although I recognize that the role of this blog is not to be a private journal, I do want it to be a place where I feel safe.  I don't want it to be surrounded by feelings of obligation and fear, but rather honesty and expression.  I know it may seem that blogging is more difficult for me than most, and that's because, well I think it is.  In this life I regularly allow fear to guide my steps and dictate my path.  This blog represents an attempted rebellion against fear.  Therefore these little chats where I remind myself  simply to be honest and write will likely continue to occur.  So bear with me.

In an attempt to put my new resolve into action (before it dissolves) here is a journal excerpt:  

Friday.  September 12, 2008.

Fashion Collages.

Creating fashion collages.

Ripping the pages of magazines.  Tearing out my favorite outfits, items, accessories and excerpts. 

Placing them on the pages of my journal in a visually pleasing way.  Taping them into place.

Meaningless.

I leave tomorrow on a new journey.  A journey whose designated purpose is to search.  To search the meaningful depths of life, humanity and this small world.  To ask all of the crucial yet annoyingly cliche sounding questions that accompany this purpose.  My hope was for this to be a time released from the bondages of routine every day life.  Free from materialism, consumerism, technology and pop culture.

So how do I prepare?

Fashion Collages.

This new past time seems to have been inspired by a current obsession with packing.

I am convinced that I need new things to prepare for this journey.  I cannot, must not, simply transfer a portion of  my overflowing closet into a suitcase.  I must purchase, collect, acquire and stockpile new clothing.

Meaningless.

So why have I become absorbed with the task of packing and drowning myself in meaningless fashion collages?  Well. Two reasons.  A)  This is simply what I do.  Packing has always been and will likely continue to be quite an ordeal for me.  More interestingly, there is B)  Packing is all I can control at this moment.  It is all I can plan for.  It is all I have.

I am walking in the dark here.  I have no idea what I am stepping into.  As I reassure others with shallow words, "I'm excited." and "It will be good." and "I'm looking forward to it."  My real thoughts flutter in a different fashion, "What am I doing?"  and "What if I hate it." and "Oh geez.  Mistake."  I don't know what to expect, and therefore in many ways I am at a loss as to how to prepare.  So I busy myself with what I can command:  the contents of my suitcase.  I most certainly can plan, prepare and manipulate my attire for the next 3 months.  This I can shape.  And so I have.  With an intensity that should surely be reserved for things of greater significance. 

Fashion Collages. 

As I prepare for a time of internal reflection and meditation, I become fixated on the external.

Oh so Meaningless.

Wandering.

This past month has been spent wandering.  From state to state.  From friend to friend.

Its got me to thinking about friendships.  About people.  Relationships.  Mostly, its got me feeling thankful.  Its got me saying, "you lucky girl you."

A care ride with Kristin.  California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Nevada we traveled. Smiles on our lips, hellos with our hands, beauty in our eyes, adventure on our minds and sweet Conor in our ears.  Kristin speaks to me of literature, of nature and of life.  She inspires me to take the time, to make the time, to read, to write - to process the experience I am walking through.  Independent.  Intentional.  Intelligent.  Secretly sentimental.  A good friend.  A close friend.

A weekend in Sacramento.  A tradition of girls' weekends.  A face is missing.  Laughter, late nights, shopping, the lake, chewy's, fondue, tears and conversation.  Hours of conversation. Endless conversation.  Nicki, Krichele and Krysta.  These girls, these women, are pure refreshment.  I am spoiled in refreshment.  Their mere presence speaks to me of wisdom, self-confidence and peace.  Their lives speak to me of the qualities that matter.  Of integrity.  Of respect.  And of love.  They inspire me to search what I believe, seek.  They remind me of the value found in the journey itself.  I admire the conscious way they travel through this world. Deliberate in their actions.  Aware of the risks taken.  And confident in the path laid.

Down to San Jose.  An imposed nights stay, gracefully received by dear friends.  Dinner, a musical, a husband on the couch.  Shane is a champion.  I steal his wife.  Jacqui and I spend the night giggling.  In those wee morning hours we travel back to the easy light-hearted days of yee and jack.  Jobs, school, fears and future are forgotten.  Innocence and silliness take their place. She called today.  My Jack.  Tears in her eyes.  She speaks to me of beauty and pain.  Of honesty and depth.  She inspires me to bravery.  To embracing potential.  To not be afraid.  To leap.  I recognize in her my childhood friend.  A friend who knows me completely, who sees all of me, and yet loves me still.

A visit from Canada.  Four friends.  A weeks stay.  Lazy days filled with Board games and Beaches.  Silliness and S'mores.  Hikes and Hugs.  Lounging and Laughter.  Walks and Waves. Handstands and Happiness.  They are counselor, brother, mentor, sister and friend.  Jeremy and Christina speak to me of theology.  Accountability.  Acceptance.  Of faith.  They inspire me to ask questions, and dig for my own answers.  Not to expect, or accept, the predictable.  They inspire me to trace my steps back to the basics.  To trust this journey I am on.  To stretch myself.  To trust myself.  These two shaped a significant part of my life.  They shaped a significant part of me.

A phone call from a friend.  She guesses what I'm going to say before the words are formed.  She laughs hysterically.  She shreaks.  She makes my belly hurt with laughter.  My cheeks sore with smiles.  Lauren speaks to me of goofiness and freedom.  Of curiosity and genuineness. She inspires me to abandon all pretense.  To forget the elements of image.  To embrace my inner kid.  To laugh freely.  Easily.  Loudly.

My inbox shows an email from an old friend.  Her words are full of hurt, misunderstanding and confusion.  In 10 years of friendship, this is our first "squabble."  I press reply.  I write honestly, describing my own hurt, misunderstanding and confusion.  Another email.  A phone call.  We explain our feelings.  We clear things up.  Wipe the slate clean.  I tell her I love her.  Laura tells me we are best friends.  We agree we need each other.  We laugh at our sentimental words.  At our lovers quarrel.  Laura speaks to me of kindness.  Of a quiet still strength.  She inspires me to humility.  To gentleness.  To selflessness.  So much of our lives have been lived side by side. This is a new chapter.  It looks different.  It is harder.  But Laura, I will always be by your side. 

These people I have collected, I have plucked and gathered, I now store them closely in my treasure-chest heart.  Each unique.  Each comes bearing gifts.  I take what they offer me.  I glean all that I can.  I am greedy and grateful.  These friends reach deep.  Digging, exploring through my insides, they each pull out something different.  Withdrawing a new side, revealing a different aspect of this self.  

This month friends have spoken and inspired.  Its got me to thinking about friendships. About people.  Relationships.  Mostly, its got me feeling thankful.  Its got me saying, "you lucky girl you."

My time spent at the hospice Sarah House over the last year has impacted the depths of me in ways words cannot express.  I feel as if I have barely begun the journey of unpacking and processing all that is to be gleaned from that experience.  The House has brought to me many dear friends.  Some who still remain and several who have passed.  One in particular who took hold of my heart.  Ron Sachs died in the early morning hours of June 3rd.  To work through my tangled emotions I took pencil to pages.  The mess that follows are the words that spilled out of me and into my journal in those difficult days.  It is long, confused, unedited - full of mistakes and ramblings - yet it is honest.  It is raw.  And it is for Ron.  He always did love to be the center of attention.

Ron Sachs ::June 3rd 2008::

Thursday May 29th .The Day I Saw You Last.

You were eating breakfast in the dining room.  I was in the kitchen.  You heard my voice.  You followed it.  

Through the doorway you came.  Tall as an oak, yet fragile as a flower.  Dressed in the usual black attire, purple scarf around your neck, black patch over your right eye.  Long gray wavy hair.  Ear piece in its permanent place.  Your presence is intimidating to most.  Your stature and demeanor often breed apprehension: large, strong, outspoken, opinionated... You see me from the doorway.  Our eyes catch.

You see me.  You breath in.  "Aaahh" you breathe.  My mouth parts into a smile.  It has been more than a week.  You bring your palms together at your chest and bow deeply.  "Namaste Leah."  "Namaste."  The Divine in me salutes the Divine in you.  I walk to you.  A smile on my face and an affectionate greeting of "Ron!"  We embrace.

We embrace.  Even then this hug felt different.  I tucked my head under your chin.  You put your hand on my head.  "Bless you."  You whisper to me.  We were both glad to once again be in the other's company.  It felt genuine.  Real.   I was reminded of how much I like you.

"Come have breakfast with us?"

"Of course.  Let me get some coffee."

We sat and ate together.  I mostly talked to David's girlfriend.  I did not talk to you.  But I watched you.  You could not see me as I sat at your right side.  But I stared at your face.  I saw your right cheek was now protruding.  The tumor had grown drastically in the past week of my absence.  It was not only your eye now affected.  I saw the small pool of blood dripping from your nose and resting upon your gray mustache.  I saw you struggle to eat your potatoes.  I saw the effort it took to lift your fork to your mouth.  I saw your English muffin and hard-boiled egg drop from your hand.  I heard you sighing heavily.  I heard your struggle for several breaths.  

You were so different from only a week before.  Debbie had warned me that morning of your recent rapid decline.   She told me to be prepared.  I wasn't.  I was surprised.  Your were not my feisty friend.  You were sick.  You were a man living in a hospice.  You were dying.  I had forgotten.

You said you wanted to lie on the couch.  I told you people were in the living room, but the couch was free.

"Will the noise be too much?"

"I don't think so," I replied.

You slowly pushed yourself back from the table.  Grabbed your walking stick and left the room.  Your plate, your plate Ron, it was still full of food.

I went to organize the linen closets.  One down.  Debbie stops me.

"Feel free just to sit with Ron on the couch.  He would like that."

"Okay."  I say.

But Ron.  My dear friend Ron.  I did not want to sit with you.  You were sick.  I was afraid.  I did not want to see you so sick.  I had forgotten.  I thought I would see you the next day.  Come and read to you when you were 'feeling better.'  I did not accept your current state.  I couldn't.  It was too soon.

George, a new resident, was in the living room.  I went and introduced myself.  I sat with him while you slept nearby.  You awoke.  "Ahh Leah."  We began to talk.  You would begin thoughts and sentences then slowly drift to sleep before finished.  You had been sleeping a few minutes.  I went and got our book.  I came and sat next to you on the couch.  I read silently by your side as you dozed in and out of slumber.

In this, peace was found.  Simply to sit.  To be.  I felt a peace.  The fear disappeared and contentment filled its place.  I like to remember these last moments.  Us just breathing next to each other.  I like to think of this.  I like to think you also were filled with peace and contentment in these moments.

I slipped out as you slept.  Assured I would be seeing you soon.

Wednesday June 4th .The Day You Left.

6:30am.  My phone wakes me up.  I let it ring.  It's an unknown number.  7:00am.  Curiosity gets the better of me.  I check my voicemail.  It's Debbie.  "Call me as soon as you wake up."  45 minutes of restless slumber.  Dreams of Sarah House and Laura.  7:45am.  I call Debbie.

"Hello."

"Debbie it's Leah."

"Oh hi honey.  I have some really sad news.  Ron died last night."

.SILENCE.

"You there?"

"Ya, ya I'm here.  What?"

"He didn't speak much all day yesterday.  His family was here.  I would have called you but his whole family, 3 large people were in there.  I thought we'd have more time.  I would have called you.  It just all happened so fast.  It all happened too fast."  [broken tears]  

"And I'm sorry to say it was a hard death.  That happens sometimes.  I wasn't there. [tears]  But he was in a lot of pain, and we couldn't find the source.  There was a lot of crying out.  All I can think, rest in, is that he's at peace now."  

"He'll be here until mid-morning if you want to see him."

"I do.  I do.  I'll be right there.  Thanks Debbie."

I get up and begin to get ready.  I was okay.  I was dealing just fine.  I was reassuring myself that I knew this would happen soon enough.  Black pants.  No shorts.  I was fine.  Gray and black striped shirt.  Ron liked black.  He loved black.  Leopard shoes.  Comfortable for walking.  I would walk later to a park.  To write of Ron.  Carmel scarf.  Almost done.  I was fine.  Time to wash my face.  Teeth brushed.  Hair up.  I turn on the water.  I look at my reflection in the mirror.  Water running, fan on, door closed, I am alone.  No one can hear me.  I am not fine.

The tears drop into the running water.  I watch m y face turn red, it's expression distort into one of anguish.  Sobs begin to escape my lips.  I bend and rest my forehead on the cool sink.  I am not fine.  This is not fine.

8:30am.  Don't bother with makeup.  I decide to walk.  I will walk to see Ron.  I will listen to his music along the way.  I will think of him.

I arrive at the house.  I am crying.  I see Laura.  She asks if I know.  I nod.  Hug.  I see Darlene.  Hug.  I will go see him now.  I meet Debbie in the hallway.  Hug: a long, tight, comforting embrace.  She does not allow me to resist.

"You want to see him?"

"Yes."

"We will go together."

She hooks her arm in mine and clasps my hand with both of hers.  She is compassion.  She is broken by death yet is a symbol of strength.

"Meet Ron's brother."  "Stew this is a volunteer, she used to read to Ron."

.Shake hands.  "Stew."  "Leah."

"Leah? Oh."  .HUG.  "I've heard about you.  Thank you for reading to him, he enjoyed it so much."

.Second brother joins us.

"This is Leah, she used to read to Ron regularly.  Ron really cared for Leah."

"Oh I'm sure he did.  My brother wasn't stupid.  I've heard about how beautiful you are."

"Yes, Leah was one of his Jr Goddesses.  As you can see, they were close.  Well and Leah's young, it makes a difference."

.Leah = crying like a child.

"We're going to see him now."

I open the door.  Suzanne is there with Ron's nurse.  Her eyes are wet.  Hug: long and reassuring.  I walk around to the other side of the bed.

"She's going to sit in her reading chair."  I hear someone say.

You, Ron, look beautiful.  Your eye is taped - to keep the 'enemy' at bay - and your purple scarf is spread across your chest.  A single flower rests atop.  Your music is playing.  A candle is lit.  Your wild hair is tamed.  Your black and white blanket covers your outstretched body.

The tears begin to quicken their pace.  Falling down my face faster than I can catch them.  Debbie and Suzanne come and sit on either side of me.  Both on an arm of the chair, with one of their arms around me.  I am suddenly hot.  I begin to sweat.  What's happening?

I tell them how I had not seen you since Thursday.  How I was going to see you Friday, but then went out of town.  And how I was going to see you yesterday, but the cramps and a friend coming into town.  It was Tuesday.  Wednesday is my day.  I thought, oh just one more day.  I was going to see you today.  Yesterday things came up.  Insignificant things.  I could have ignored the cramps.  I could have made the friend wait.  But I didn't.  I didn't and now I missed you.  Now you're gone.

Debbie and Suzanne comfort me as two mother hens.

Debbie says it's okay.  Other things came up.  You can learn from this.  You are young.  Next time trust your instinct.  Stop by for even just a moment.  Learn.

Suzanne says as she gets older she more and more believes everything has its own timing.  Things happen.  They unfold as they should.  The way it is is the best way.  It is as it should be.

I nod my head.  Thank you.

We all laugh at their mothering.  "Look at us.  Poor Leah.  Listening to us."

They go to leave.  Hugs.

Suzanne:  "Let yourself grieve.  Do not be embarrassed.  Do not hold back.  We all have made deep connections with certain people, and the deeper it goes, the more we opened ourselves to them, the more it hurts."

"But it's worth it.  It's worth it."

"And that's a profound thing to recognize at such a young age.  Call me anytime if you want to talk.  No censor."

"Thank you.  I'm glad you were here."

It's just you and I now.

Me in my chair.  Your music playing.  The tears are unceasing.

I reach out my hand, rest it on your shoulder.

I begin to talk to you.  The first words that fill the air are a broken "I'm sorry."

This becomes my mantra.  "I'm sorry."  "I'm sorry."  "I'm sorry Ron."

For not coming yesterday.  For going out of town.  For not coming more often.  For not taking your condition more seriously.  For not staying longer on Thursday.  For failing to try yoga for you.  For writing you off.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.

I am crying uncontrollably.  Thoughts playing at the back of mind:

You look like a crazy person Leah.  You sound ludicrous.  This is morbid.  What are you doing?  Morbid.  This is not Ron.  This is a dead body.  Who are you talking to?  Morbid.

Other, more unsettling thoughts begin to dance:

If this is not Ron, this body, no longer human, no longer soul, where is Ron?  Where is this mean, harsh, drug addict, friendless - lovable, gentle, beautiful friend of mine?

As I stare at the candle burning, the wick yellow, red and orange above the wax, I think of love.

If I love him so, how much more does Love itself cherish him?  Ron must be with Him now.  He must.  In paradise. In peace.  At rest.  Finally experiencing his worth.  His true being.  I cannot accept anything else.

If this is delusional, then well, I suppose I am delusional.  If this is too complicated, if this is not in the spectrum of black and white, then I choose to live in a land where various shades of gray roam free.

My words change.  Regret turns to gratitude.  The apologies become "Thank you's."

Thank you.  Thank you Ron.  Thank you.

For teaching me.  For accepting me.  For inspiring me.  For encouraging me.  For seeing me as worthy of your title Jr. Goddess.  For demanding me to be decisive.  For telling me all I have to offer.  For allowing me to be apart of your journey.

I sit awhile longer.  Touching your shoulder.

I get up to leave.  Walk to the other side of you and look down at your face.

Staring.

It's time.

I turn and open the door.  Take one step out into the hall.  Then.  Panic hits.

The reality sets in.  This is the last time I will see your face.  Ever.

I step quietly back into the room, closing the door behind me.

I stand by your bedside.  Crying again.

I touch your hand.  A proper farewell is in order.  One recognizing this as the very last moment:

"Goodbye Ron."

Is all I could think of to say.  I turn and leave you there.

"Goodbye Ron."

The next step in this journey of mine is attending L'Abri in England.  When I contacted L'Abri about possibly joining them in fall, they asked for a brief biography.  What I sent them those two months ago seems to sum up where I come from and where I am at.  I thought it a good introduction into this space...

A Brief Biography.  Alright.  A short amount of personal background information.  A Brief Biography.  You ask for a Brief Biography.  Okay.  This is seemingly a simple task.

But let me be completely honest with you, let me tell you a secret:  I have no idea where to begin.  I cannot even come up with something to say.  It is a brief statement of my own personal individual biographical data, and my mind will not cooperate.  It's like my brain decided to go on sabbatical or something.  Each sentence I begin to construct - doubts, questions and uncertainties tear it apart before it makes its way to the page.  I cannot seem to formulate anything concrete, or further, anything I sincerely believe to be true.  Let me be even more honest with you:  I have been having this problem for quite some time now.

Here are the superficials:  raised in a Christian home in small town suburbia, California, I am a 23 year-old female who recently graduated from college.

Here is some history:  Straight from high school I moved from California to Canada where I attended a one-year program at Columbia Bible College.  I see this year as marking the beginnings of an exploration into the faith I have professed since childhood.  The next two years were spent at a community college in San Luis Obispo, California.  It is here that I learned of community, it is here that I discovered what it means to truly gather.  And the past two years, well they have been spent at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California.  And it is here, at this Christian College, where I have gained the courage to stop, turn, and face all of the questions that have long surrounded my faith.

Here is the current status:  I am at a place on this journey where I am no longer content to convince myself to believe...in anything.  This means I am no longer ignoring and placating the questions and doubts that have plagued me for years regarding Christianity.  This means I no longer find reassurance in the words of prepackaged Christian rhetoric.  This means I am skeptical, critical even, of all things that stink of Christian jargon or commercialized Christianity.  This looks like, me searching for meaning elsewhere.  In my volunteer work at a local hospice, in philosophical conversations with friends, in relationships, in reading classic literature and in believing in and valuing love - I am searching for more, for depth.  I suppose that in the end, what this really means is that at my core, I am deeply lonely.

You see, what I truly want, what I truly desire, is to believe.  It seems I cannot let go;  I cannot wipe my hands of this Jesus and walk away.  And so here I sit, for about a year now, in this dark room of uncertainty that has become my home.  I cannot accept the answers that Christianity provides, and yet I will not deny Him.  And so I sit.  Paralyzed.  The only thought that seems to escape my lips with any clarity or conviction is formed in the quiet and defeated words, "I don't know."