Rachel E. Watson

“A Prayer for Owen Meany,” by John Irving, (William Morrow, 1989) packs a punch. Friendship, love and ironclad faith characterize one of the most unusual fictional characters I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.

Owen Meany is small for his 11 years, with a voice “not entirely of this world,” “a strangled, emphatic falsetto,” that sounds like a scream and is always written in capital letters. His big opinions and commanding personality more than make up for his missing inches.

The book is narrated by his best friend, Johnny Wheelwright. When they are boys in 1953 (not a spoiler, it’s on the back cover), Owen hits a foul ball at a Little League game that kills Johnny’s mother.

The rest of the book is divided between snippets from adult John’s life and flashbacks to the years following “the incident,” as Johnny and Owen’s bond remains undiminished even as family dynamics change and the Vietnam War encroaches.

Unbeknownst to his best friend, Owen is preparing for his destiny, a fate he sees spelled out in the unlikeliest of places.

Through a story that is soaked in the mystery of the divine, Irving shows how doubt is the essence of faith, not its enemy — and the most painful parts of life can lead us to the ultimate truth.

"All the Colors We Will See," by Patrice Gopo

I’m ending the holiday feeling grateful for the beautiful words of Patrice Gopo.

I can’t emphasize enough how powerful and deeply thoughtful this essay collection was and how enriched and broadened I feel for having read her poetic and fluid reflections on race, identity, inclusion/exclusion, family, place and culture, marriage and divorce, and faith and spirituality.

Definitely read it!

This quote is today's call to action: Go have yourself an adventure.

In my particular faith tradition, Sundays are for resting. I always thought that meant taking naps. Not even kidding. I now understand it's a broader concept. It's about resting from work and restoring the soul.

And where does the soul head when it wants restoration? Out into nature.

If you're looking for me the next several Sundays, I'll be out in the wild. Soaking up creation. Embracing play.

Go forth and do likewise!

No, I'm not about to tell you a silly joke. I stole today's blog title from the opening anecdote of the Memorial Weekend sermon at my church, Ada Bible. It was called "Your God Response."

Listen to the sermon here.

Here's a recap: Guest speaker Marcus Bieschke shared about the musicality and beauty of Psalm 19, one of my favorite Psalms ever. According to C.S. Lewis, it's "the greatest poem in the Psalter and one of the greatest lyrics in the world."

Bieschke is lead teaching pastor at the Crystal Lake campus of Willow Creek Church in Illinois. He is a music lover, just like me, and asked us in the sermon's opening minutes to turn to our neighbor and tell him or her our favorite song. I dislike that game because I have too many favorites, so it was awesome when he admitted he himself has about 83 favorite songs and can't narrow it down.



For his talk at Ada, Bieschke selected three of the Top 500 Songs of All Time, as compiled by Rolling Stone Magazine in 2011. And he held those songs, full of pain, despair and hopelessness, up to the light of Psalm 19, written by King David thousands of years ago.

Here are the songs he chose to compare against Psalm 19. I'm embedding videos in case you haven't listened to the songs before.

No. 3 from the Rolling Stone list: "Imagine," by John Lennon:



Bieschke said he imagines King David sitting down with each songwriter, one by one, and having a conversation about the merits and philosophies behind each work of musical genius.

To Lennon, he imagines King David would have said something like, "This is beautiful. Your longing for a world free of pain and united by peace is a truly worthy aspiration. But let's start with a new premise. God is not the cause of our pain. Sin is. Eliminating Him from the equation won't fix our world. God sees the pain that we humans caused, and it breaks His heart. In fact, he promises that in heaven, he will wipe away our tears, and there will be no more sorrow and pain." (Isaiah 25:8, Revelation 21:4)

I love that. It reminds me of the deep heartbreak I felt when I attended the funeral of a dearly loved mentor three summers ago, and a colleague of his sang "Imagine." It frustrated me to hear that message at a funeral. The lyrics are wistful and beautiful, but they offer no hope to grieving hearts.

No. 9 from the list: "Smells Like Teen Spirit," by Kurt Cobain:

I am always finding new truths about life, faith and creative pursuits in the music of Brandi Carlile, a Seattle-based folk rock singer-songwriter. (Photo: NPR.org)

I hopped in the car to visit a friend recently. Brandi Carlile’s “Bear Creek” album was in the CD player. The day before, I was listening to it for the first time in a few months. I said to my husband that Track 8, “I’ll Still Be There,” is a beautiful picture of friendship.

Then, while listening to it on the road to my friend Pam’s — holy waterworks — I realized something.

“I’ll Still Be There” is not just a sweet picture of human love. It also describes my relationship with the Holy Spirit. Especially lately, as I’ve emerged from a difficult season. Grief. Shame. Depression. Anxiety. I have a new appreciation for the Spirit’s role as The Comforter and Power-Giver.

To understand what I mean, listen to “I’ll Still Be There”:



I imagine this as a conversation between me and the Holy Spirit. I am talking to him and he is responding.

I tell him, “There never was a better love / to see the light of day” than his. He replies, “If the world should let you down / if the sky should fall and never make a sound,” he’ll be there.

We are both brokenhearted. The world let us down. I am brokenhearted by my suffering, yours and ours.

He is brokenhearted because he never wanted us to suffer. It was a known but not wished-for consequence of giving humanity free will. He wouldn’t take free will back, but our pain breaks his heart.

Otherwise, why would he say this through the Apostle Paul?

“In the same way, the Spirit himself helps us in our weaknesses. … (He) intercedes for us through wordless groans.” (Romans 8:26)

Wordless groans. That sounds intense. Does the Spirit of God care for me so much he would put himself through the pain of wordless groans on my behalf?

I am forced to conclude he does. All the evidence in my life points to it. And Scripture backs me up.

I am like King David in the Old Testament. I say to God,

“Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am faint; heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony.” (Psalm 6:2)

Today's Easter message at my church, Ada Bible, was one of the best I've heard our lead teaching pastor, Jeff Manion, preach since I started attending there five years ago.

You can watch it here. Or, if you'd like the short version, read on.

"The Road to Emmaus," by Robert Zund (1877)

The Disciples on the Road to Emmaus 

Instead of a sermon on the discovery of the empty tomb, or a look at the resurrection through the eyes of one of the Twelve, Pastor Jeff's message zoomed out a bit and took a look at a conversation between two of the disciples in Jesus' outer circle, as they walked from Jerusalem to a small village called Emmaus on the Sunday of the resurrection. On that seven-mile hike, the pair were discussing Jesus' execution and their disappointment with the way things had apparently turned out.

[By saying these disciples were in the "outer circle," I mean they were more like groupies than bandmates. In other words, they weren't part of the chosen Twelve.]

These two groupies, Cleopas and another unnamed person, had believed Jesus was the one who would redeem Israel. But when Christ was crucified that Friday, it seemed to them that all of that had fallen apart. They were rudderless. Losing their faith.

But then, Jesus joined them on the road, alive, in the flesh. They were prevented from recognizing him, so he took the opportunity for a teachable moment. Luke chapter 24:17-27 has the story:

17 He asked them, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?”
They stood still, their faces downcast. 18 One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, “Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?”
19 “What things?” he asked.
“About Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied. “He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people. 20 The chief priests and our rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him. ...
25 He said to them, “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the prophets have spoken! 26 Did not the Messiah have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?” 27 And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself.

After this, they invited him to dinner in the village. As he gave thanks for the meal, the two disciples finally recognized him. Just like that, he vanished. They were so excited, they trekked all the way back to Jerusalem in the dark to tell the other disciples he had risen from the dead.

What's amazing to me about this story is that Jesus cared so much about these two that he took the time to personally explain everything they were so slow to see — all that the Scriptures had foretold but that they had either misinterpreted or forgotten. And, in so doing, he helped them regain their moorings.

Lost and Found 

A.N. Wilson

The existence of language is one of the many phenomena — of which love and music are the two strongest — which suggest that human beings are very much more than collections of meat. They convince me that we are spiritual beings, and that the religion of the incarnation, asserting that God made humanity in His image, and continually restores humanity in His image, is simply true. As a working blueprint for life, as a template against which to measure experience, it fits.

I can't think of a better truth to reflect upon this Easter evening.

That, and the unparalleled beauty of Bach, some of the most stunning and spiritual music you'll ever hear:

Today, I'm celebrating with a friend and former roommate, singer-songwriter Sarah Lamb, who last week released her debut EP, "Waiting," under the name .ara.
After graduation — during the time we were roommates — Sarah spent a few years managing bookings and tours for West Michigan bands and singing background vocals for other acts, as well as working full- and part-time day jobs.

David Bazan and the Passenger String Quartet.

On Saturday, my husband and I met up with some friends who were in town from South Bend to see a singer-songwriter perform a concert at the Ladies Literary Club here in Grand Rapids.

I'd never heard of David Bazan, a Seattle-based indie musician, but apparently he's been performing shows in town for 16 years, throughout all the stages of his career, first as frontman for Pedro the Lion, then as his solo singer-songwriter career developed.

Bazan currently is touring with the Passenger String Quartet, a neo-classical outfit of two violins, viola and cello that have backed acts such as Suzanne Vega and Macklemore & Ryan Lewis on tour. They're now on the road with Bazan, playing songs from their new album together.

The music cracked my heart open as I sat spellbound, eyes glued to the stage. Bazan's writing deals with themes of faith, doubt and bitterness. He is honest on his website about his struggles with alcoholism and his personal faith crisis from 2006 and beyond.

What I appreciate about Bazan is his unwillingness to tidily resolve these struggles in two verses and a chorus. The open-endedness in his music is heart-wrenching but resonant for me, a person for whom faith and joy do not come easily.

It's funny to note that despite its deep melancholy, his music brought me so much comfort. I felt, "Yes! This guy gets it. I'm not alone."

As he says on his website, "It's like my guts are on display in a museum, and I'm willing to keep paying admission night after night."

Here are two of the songs that struck the deepest chords for me:

"The Fleecing"

Deep green hills whose shoulders fade
Into the gray tall wet grass
Whose flesh makes fools of grazing sheep
Whose fleecing makes a fool of me

And who shall I blame for this sweet and heavy trouble?
For every stupid struggle, I don't know
I could buy you a drink, I could tell you all about it
I could tell you why I doubt it, and why I don't believe

But I can't say it like I sing it
And I can't sing it like I think it
And I can't think it like I feel it
And I don't feel a thing, oh no, I don't feel a thing

And who shall I blame for this sweet and heavy trouble?
For every stupid struggle, I don't know
I could buy you a drink, I could tell you all about it
I could tell you why I doubt it and why I don't believe it

And why I need it and what the pharisees don't see
And we'd have more drinks, we'd speak of so many things
But I don't know you and you don't know me

"Hard to Be"

You've heard the story, you know how it goes
Once upon a garden we were lovers with no clothes
Fresh from the soil we were beautiful and true
In control of our emotions 'til we ate the poison fruit

And now it's...

(chorus)
Hard to be
Hard to be
Hard to be
A decent human being

Wait just a minute
You expect me to believe
that all this misbehaving grew from one enchanted tree
And helpless to fight it we should all be satisfied
With the magical explanation for why the living die

And why it’s...

(chorus)

Childbirth is painful toil to grow our food
Ignorance made us hungry
Information made us no good
Every burden misunderstood

I swung my tassel to the left side of my cap
Knowing after graduation there would be no going back
and no congratulations from my faithful family
some of whom are already fasting to intercede for me

Because it’s...

(chorus)

(Stock photo: Free images)

I'm a perfectionist. If you know me, this won't come as a surprise to you. If you're also a perfectionist, who, like me, has good taste but little artistic ability, I recommend you try something new: social painting.

Here's my painting! (Photo: Faith Watson)

What do you make?

These are thumbnails of pages I recently coordinated/edited for MLive. (Photo: Rachel E. Watson)

I get to read for a living at my job. I'm an editor who does a lot of little things that boil down to one basic responsibility: Aim to leave every story better than you found it.

This fits the meticulous, detail-oriented side of my personality perfectly.

But there's another itch that gets scratched all day long: I get to learn something new about a wide range of topics every day. From the wild and weird to the cool and quirky to the fascinating and moving, my day is one discovery after another.

Wild and weird

Today, for instance, I learned that Paradise Funeral Chapel in Saginaw recently added a drive-thru viewing window for funeral visitations. People drive up to the window, and a motion sensor causes the curtains to draw back for 3 minutes to reveal the casket containing their dear, departed loved one. Visitors then may sign the guest book and send it inside via a Pneumatic tube like the ones used at banks. Or, they can write a check to the memorial fund and drop it into a metal deposit box mounted under the window.

My co-workers and I were all horrified and morbidly amused by this idea. I wondered aloud whether there's a fast-casual ambience to match the concept.

We all agreed it's a bizarre idea. Funerals are for mourning the deceased. They also exist to bring comfort to the family and friends, by the family and friends. You can't do that properly while idling in your car 10 paces outside where the family is gathered.

Cool and quirky

MLive hosts an always enjoyable, frequently thought-provoking guest column called Ethics & Religion Talk that's coordinated by a local rabbi. He forwards readers' questions to a multi-faith panel of experts, who aim to answer each question in about 200 words or less, using evidence from their faith traditions and doctrines to back their answers.

 This week, a reader mailed an anonymous question in an envelope with no return address. And can you blame him? His question was, Is it OK to go to nudist beaches?

The topic, though silly on the surface, gets answered in thoughtful, yet divergent ways by each respective member of the panel. No one treats the reader's question as anything less than a serious one. I'm thankful the rabbi has created a safe space for questions about the nagging things that keep (some of us) up at night.

Fascinating and moving

I always feel lucky when I get to read a story that fully engages my heart and mind. I coordinate the Health section for The Grand Rapids Press print edition, and the content I come across in my "travels" is full of surprises.

I particularly love Sue Schroder's Living with Cancer column. Sue is a retired Press editor who now freelances. About five years ago, she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. In the years since, she has written weekly from the heart about the travails of cancer. She shares her own quip-laced, whip-smart, funny insights and generously tells the stories of others walking through Cancer Land.

Recently, she featured an oncologist who blogs in his spare time about his discoveries, triumphs and failures while practicing medicine.

The story of "Doctor Blogger," as Sue calls him, taught me the best way to bring humanity into your work is to show yourself human. He doesn't mince words about himself, and his patients find this incredibly compelling and relatable. What if every doctor tried this? What kind of impact would that make on the health care field?

A second moving story I remember reading in the Health section was about couples who find true love while in assisted living facilities. One of our monthly community contributors, JoAnn Abraham, from Porter Hills Retirement Community, wrote the story. I can't share the full story here because it's not available online, but I can tell you about it.

The headline was "It's never too late for love," and the couple pictured were Bob and Lois Hardesty, 95 and 91, who met while at Porter Hills and have now been married 13 years.

Here's an excerpt:

Bob Hardesty, a resident of Porter Hills, was the leader of Magic Carpet, a volunteer service to drive people to their doctor appointments. He had been a widower for two years when Lois, also a widow of two years, showed up to be a driver.

“I knew I was interested right away,” Lois said.

How cool is that? Finding a new flame when your clock is winding down.

This is what keeps me coming back

Thanks for reading!

I recently "met" someone who died before I was born. My paternal grandmother, Donna Marie Watson.

In this digital age, it's easy to take for granted the comparatively recent luxury of recorded sounds.

The first known voice recording was produced on a phonoautograph in 1857. It was more than another century before audio recording became a practical capability for the average American household.

Now, it's as ubiquitous as the smartphones in our hands. It's a marvel, then, that not all that long ago, hearing your deceased relative's voice would have been impossible.

Donna Marie Watson (then Hammond), center, is shown with her two younger sisters, Mary and Pat, circa early 1940s. (Photo from Suzanne Shaw)

My Grandma Donna died in October 1982 of complications from diabetes. In 1979, after she had lost her vision, she enrolled in a School for the Blind at Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo.

My Aunt Kathleen describes it as a "drab place with cinder-block walls," which mattered only to sighted visitors such as my aunt and my dad. They didn't really want to leave her there on the first day; according to my aunt, they wiled away time afterward just sitting by the river, contemplating the sorrow they felt over putting her in a boarding school. They were just 20 and 21. Grandma was 49.

The good news is Grandma learned a lot while she was there. Her instructors showed her how to use tape recorders to "write" letters to family members, which she then mailed in place of written communication.

In the mailers in which the tapes were enclosed, the instructors included directions for family members to record over the cassettes with new messages for the students to listen to in return. Aunt Kathleen said she always hesitated to follow the directions because she didn't want to lose Grandma Donna's original recordings.

So, instead, Aunt Kathleen saved the tapes all those years. She recently had a friend convert a couple of the "letters" from analog to digital so the rest of the family could enjoy listening to Grandma Donna.

I was astonished by how familiar and comforting her voice sounded, and how much her tone and inflection is a perfect mixture of my three aunts', her daughters', voices.

As the tears formed in my eyes over the miracle of "meeting" a woman I've always missed, I thought about how she must have been feeling:

• Handwritten letters were the norm, so it must have been a big leap of faith for her to switch to a taped-letter format to communicate with her grown children. She is recorded sounding nervous that she must speak to an empty room, taping a one-sided conversation.
• Did she worry that she wouldn't be able to edit her "first draft" in the same way that you can do when you're using a pen and paper or typing the letter on a typewriter?
• Did she wonder why the instructors were having her practice this skill instead of phone communication? Was she already contemplating her mortality and hoping to leave part of herself behind?

Thank you for reading

Note: This blog entry is Part I of a series. Check back here for the concluding chapters.

"List 10 books that have influenced your life."

I usually ignore list meme challenges on Facebook, but I couldn't resist jumping in on this one today. 

I like that it wasn't phrased, "List your favorite 10 books," because that would be an impossible task. I'm always discovering new books, and I don't really want to be held to a list of all-time favorites.

Without further ado, here's what I wrote -- and an extra step that I didn't add on Facebook: What I learned from each book.

1. To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. Atticus Finch, the quiet but outspoken fighter against injustice in all its forms, has been my hero since I read this book at a (probably too) tender age. His example instilled in me that the pursuit of justice is worth the personal sacrifice it often entails.




2. The Sea Wolf, by Jack London. I'm not sure I've met anyone as sadistic or amoral as this novel's titular antagonist, Captain Wolf Larsen. But he seems as real as any villain I've encountered. London's mesmerizing story follows literary critic Humphrey van Weyden as he is shipwrecked, then "rescued" by Larsen, a hedonistic, materialistic seal hunter-philosopher-captain, who brutalizes young "Hump" while also drawing him into nightly discussions of ideology and morality. Hands down one of the best books I've read exploring the capacity of humanity to exercise great evil while also showing great kindness. I learned from this book that ideology drives behavior.

3. Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen. This classic illustrates perfectly via the relationship of two very different sisters the tension between feeling and principle. Do I act with my heart, or should I follow my head? Austen's gift to readers is that we are left to conclude which sister ultimately gets it right.



4. Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott. I owe the shape of my writing life to protagonist Jo March -- the playwright, novelist, bookworm, fiery sister and fiercely loyal friend. She showed me how to love what is good, pursue what enriches and value what lasts. (Also: Thank you, Winona Ryder, for portraying Jo so faithfully and giving me such a good visual picture of what she should look like.)


5. The eight-novel Anne of Green Gables series, by L.M. Montgomery. I can't narrow it down to just the first book because the series is basically one long book, and I love it all. Anne Shirley inspires me for many of the same reasons Jo March does. She's independent, creative and charts her own path in life. But she stays moored in herself and her roots. (The image below is actually the same set I own.)


6. Our Mutual Friend, by Charles Dickens. This complex, 928-page tome was Dickens' last finished novel, and in my opinion, is his masterpiece. It weaves together the stories of about 20 major and dozens more minor characters as it explores the deceptiveness of wealth and the spectrum of human values and motives. The lead protagonists, John Harmon and Bella Wilfer, embody one of the most difficult and rewarding romances I've read in literature.


7. The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way, by Bill Bryson. This book was my introduction to Bryson, a travel writer, language scholar and humorist who combines all three areas of expertise in all of his works I've read so far. This book explores the history of the English language, with all its influences, idiosyncrasies and inconsistencies. This book taught me that scholarly work can be fun as well as educational.


8. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. This 19th-century novel is about an orphaned waif who grows into womanhood as a governess while falling in love with her employer. Whatever your feelings about Rochester, I love that he loves plain Jane because of her mind, her intellect, her solid character. Jane Eyre challenges me to develop those traits instead of focusing on physical beauty.



9. The Lord of the Rings trilogy + prequel + appendixes, by J.R.R. Tolkien. This one doesn't really need much of an explanation. It's the ultimate adventure/fantasy trilogy, by the master himself. I love being pulled into his world-building. Tolkien inspires me to use writing to create places people want to visit.


10. Americanah, by a new favorite author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Since I don't at this point have the means to travel much, I like to hear of the world through the eyes of authors who come from other places. I heard Adichie, a Nigerian, speak a handful of years ago at the Calvin College Festival of Faith & Writing, and was blown away by her eloquence and power. I immediately bought three of her novels. I've been keeping up with everything she's written since, and I think this one is her best so far. She tells a tale of a young woman who, much like herself, has a stake in three very different worlds: Black Nigeria, Black America and White America. Places that don't understand each other. Places that need to try.

Earlier this week, I was feeling stuck in the mud of life. I was looking back the way I came, obsessing over choices and mistakes, and felt unable to move forward.

Brandi Carlile, an artist who has a number for pretty much every one of my emotions, pretty well sums it up in her song, "Hard Way Home" from the Bear Creek album:

“The Scent of Water” by Naomi Zacharias, (Zondervan, 2010)

All my non-clothing and non-toiletry items are packed into boxes and sitting here in my basement, looking sadly at me with mournful, boxy eyes. It's unreal to think that everything I own fits snugly into one small house corner's worth of cardboard.

The saddest items on scene are my empty bookcase and overstuffed, worn blue couch. Oh, the butts it has hosted, conversations overheard, popcorn scents soaked up and bedtime dreams inspired. This is its third home since I bought it, and it will soon acclimate to a fourth. So many have loved it despite its homeliness. Will my next set of roommates love it, too?

I think tonight also of my keyboard and microwave languishing away at home, waiting for the day I'll have my own place and can come for them. They have a good home for now, with my family, but there's no place like where Mama is. :)

I think all this prosaic, sentimental furniture-speak functions only one purpose tonight: A vain effort to suppress my deeper feelings of angst about the move next week, leaving my roommates for new ones, and what it all represents. Yet another closed chapter in the life of this solitary sojourner.

There is now no one making my decisions for me, and stepping away from this college-time dwelling place only serves to reinforce that cold, hard truth. Bills, work and responsibility are inescapable facts of of this post-graduation life.

At this point I am reminded of a dream I had a couple of years ago, just before I transferred to Cornerstone University. I only remember a few dreams in perfect detail -- just the ones that left a lasting mark on me. This particular one was significant for its heavy symbolism.

In my dream, I was in Mexico with my family for a festival, and they left me alone one night, insisting I stay behind because I had no walking shoes -- only my slippers.

I sat -- cold, lonely and weeping -- at the base of a stairwell. Through my tears I looked up to the floor above and saw a child with dark eyes, leaning over the railing, looking at me quietly. She stretched out her arm and pointed to a large clock at the top of the landing above and in front of me.

"Stay here and watch the clock," she told me, and disappeared.

I waited, watching, shivering, wondering if my family would ever return, and if I would ever find my walking shoes.

-----------

I remember that dream so vividly, so clearly. I remember the anguish I felt when I woke in the middle of the night to find real tears streaming down my face.

I knew instantly that the dream came from a deep place within to stir so much emotion. I knew I was afraid of leaving community college and home for a new life in Grand Rapids at Cornerstone.

It wasn't so much the school or city I was afraid to face. It was myself. I was afraid of facing my own inadequacy.

Now, two years later, I am so utterly beyond humbled and thankful to report that although I did face my inadequacy nearly every day at Cornerstone, it was a beautiful process that drove me closer with each passing week to a Savior who is more than sufficient for every need I have ever experienced.

Despite often feeling lonely, heartbroken and misunderstood, I learned to cling to the only One who will never break my heart.

In my last bittersweet week as a CU student, I remembered my dream of two years earlier, and wrote a farewell column to my Herald readers, addressing the issue of the need for walking shoes. I don't think anyone knew the back story there or read the subtle connection, but I knew, and I will definitely never forget it.

Please read this link to see the column on the Herald Web site, or see below.

-----------

Why I chose Cornerstone
By Rachel Watson

Two years ago when I was looking for a place to transfer to study journalism, I chose Cornerstone. I don’t regret my decision, and if I could do it all over again, I would still choose CU. Let me tell you why.

At first, some who knew I wanted to pursue journalism advised me to try Michigan State, a school nationally recognized for its excellence.

I wasn’t entirely sure why people were trying to dissuade me from Cornerstone. I knew I wanted a solid journalism education, but I also knew I wanted more than what a secular college could offer. I went to a public community college for my associate of liberal studies degree, and although I learned so much there, it wasn’t exactly a place to get equipped in the fundamentals of my Christian faith.

I chose Cornerstone because I wanted a holistic education — a training for the heart and spirit as well as the mind.

I did want to learn how to be a solid writer, editor and reporter, and MSU probably could have given me that education perfectly well.

But could MSU have given me a caring support system of Christian professors and fellow students to challenge me in my faith? At MSU, would we have opened a semester in Mass Media Law class with a discussion about what it means to glorify God? Would we have filtered ethical dilemmas and difficult decisions through the eyeglasses of a biblical worldview? No. We wouldn’t.

At Cornerstone I had all those things and more. As I struggled to shoulder the responsibility of being Herald managing editor for the first time last semester, I was daily reminded by my adviser Alan Blanchard of what really matters in the midst of craziness.

“Be anxious for nothing,” his e-mail signature said in irritatingly bright highlighted yellow letters every day, “but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7).

It was a message I sometimes didn’t want to hear, because I often WANTED to hang onto my anxiety in the middle of deadlines and miscommunication and lack of sleep. It felt like a friend I could hang onto. But see, that’s exactly what Christian exhortation is — a message you don’t always want to hear, but one that makes you stronger if you choose to heed it.

That’s why I have loved Cornerstone. Whether it was my adviser, fellow Herald editors, professors, roommates, or friends, there was always someone to challenge my assumptions, making me think through and explore and redefine the things I thought were “OK” about myself.

I haven’t been OK. I have been at times bitter, unforgiving, anti-social, a bad listener, a poor communicator, a difficult-to-live-with roommate, and a series of failures, one after another.

But instead of affirming and smoothing over those mistakes, the people of Cornerstone have helped me to face them, turn from them, and move on. I have learned that failure is a part of life — a part everyone experiences at one time or another. I learned the only thing that sets me apart from any other lost person on the planet is the grace of God working in my heart.

So thank you, Cornerstone. Thanks for being the safe space where this wobbly little girl could take her first steps. I think I’m ready to walk now.

In the last couple of years, I have been called Miss Journalist, Miss Independent and Miss Sassy Young Intern-- all of those names, and more I could mention, but I won't.

And yet this last weekend, I was reminded that even independent, almost-college-grads like myself sometimes need parental guidance.

It was about a boy, as most good stories are.

I "met" him during J-term. I qualify the word "met," because we didn't actually meet face to face at first. He e-mailed me in my Herald editor capacity to let me know about his political blog.

Initially I just passed it off as another press release, but for some reason decided to e-mail him back anyway, to thank him for the heads up and let him know I'd pass on the info about his site to my fellow editors.

When I did that, something sparked between us, even through e-mail, and we just kept e-mailing back and forth. We found out we had two mutual friends, and a lot more than that in common. And, after almost two weeks of e-mailing, he asked me out.

We went out. Three times. It was wonderful in every sense. We had this great connection. Total chemistry. We are intellectual equals, passionate about many of the same causes, believers of the same truth, and most especially bound by our common faith.

But we moved too fast, and after prayerfully considering it, he asked me if we could take a step back, to just being friends.

And somehow, I'm OK with that.

A huge blessing that has come out of this is the fact that when he asked if we could hold off on our fourth date last Friday, I decided to go home and spend some time with my parents and get their perspective on things. I hadn't seen them since Christmas anyway, so it was great timing.

For the first time (or maybe it just feels that way because it's been so long), BOTH of my parents sat down with me and had a normal conversation about something important in my life. They gave me advice. I asked questions. They listened. It was so cute... there we were, sitting on their bed, with me all cozy in the middle and a parent on either side, just talking about male/female dynamics in relationships.

The last time I sat between them like that was probably way back when I had nightmares as a kid and would come running into their room to jump into bed with them.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I am so thankful for my parents.

A month ago I was completely content to be single-- LOVING it, in fact. Then this guy came along and shook things up in my life. I don't know if or when it will ever go beyond friendship with him, but I just want to say thanks. To God, mostly, for sending this guy. Even if nothing happens, he was instrumental in bringing me closer to my parents than I was before.

And that, my friends, is something we could all use a little bit more of in this life.



My parents, John and Beth Watson, at Craig's Cruisers during Thanksgiving break 2007.