What have we but each other?

It is difficult for me to fathom the changes that have been taking place in my life lately. I have started (albeit half-heartedly) my senior year of college, and the events that have unfolded to get me to this place are completely different from what I expected. Rather than strutting triumphantly into one more year of academic conquests, I am tiptoeing in hoping that my professors will once again be merciful and that I will leave this place with at least part of my pride intact.

But really, that is not the change that I contemplate when I look upon these last weeks. All matters academic pale in comparison to the fact that on Sunday, my best beloved asked me if I would marry him.

[edited version]
So that's pretty sweet.

In Christ alone my hope is found;
He is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground,
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace,
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My comforter, my all in all—
Here in the love of Christ I stand.

In Christ alone, Who took on flesh,
Fullness of God in helpless babe!
This gift of love and righteousness,
Scorned by the ones He came to save.
Till on that cross as Jesus died,
The wrath of God was satisfied;
For ev'ry sin on Him was laid—
Here in the death of Christ I live.

There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow'r of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow'r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow'r of Christ I'll stand.

le toi du moi

I am home.
This means sharing a bed with Amanda. Finally having good coffee for breakfast. Wandering into CPO whenever I damn well feel like it. Calling and texting people at will. Not using a converter anymore to charge my computer. Eating delicious snap peas from our garden. Getting tipsy with friends if I want to.
Best of all, though, it means seeing Robb every day. Resting in his arms for blissful stretches of time. Seeing his face in the morning, afternoon, and evening. No more computer screens between us, no more desperate emails, no more daily letters. Never again will I leave him for such a stretch of time. Or any stretch of time, if I can help it.

eleven hours.

Injoy

We are back from the Lake District, which was lovely- so lush and alive. But it is wonderful to be back at St. Anne's, because it means that day after tomorrow we will be in London, and then two days after that I will be on a plane.
Going. Home.
Home meaning my loved ones, not any geographical place, of course. I will be picked up by someone I love (hopefully) and then go to Wheaton to more loved ones and there will I stay. This trip has made me never want to part ways with my beloved one(s) ever again.

feist is such a geek.

I wrote this before I came to England.

The England of my imagination is a place where murders abound, where animals talk and where women are forever searching for a husband. In this place, men have brilliant witticisms at hand for any occasion and weave learnèd quotations into mundane conversations. “Wake Duncan with thy knocking,” says Lord Peter to his man pounding on a door. “Faugh!” says Bertie Wooster, when he is a great deal overwrought. Here we find spinsters with uncanny abilities for tracking down murderers. Here charming bears of Very Little Brain become wedged in a Great Tightness. Here it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

My England is a land of words well crafted. It is a place where men manage to talk the most charming piffle imaginable. The ring of a doorbell prompts Algernon to declare that “only creditors and aunts ring in that Wagnerian manner.” Happiness elicits “o frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” and a chortling of joy. Even animals speak well in the England of my imagination. “I like your clothes awfully, old chap,” remarks Rat to Mole. “I’m going to get a black velvet smoking suit myself some day, as soon as I can afford it.” How could I not fall in love with a land where the likes of Lord Peter, Albert Campion, and Bertie Wooster abound? I know intellectually that such a land is impossible, and there is a reason these men are fictional characters. Yet there is something deep inside me that fully expects to step off the plane in London and be greeted by a “what ho!” from an unassuming well dressed man with particularly polished speech.