Sitting down at my desk this evening for the first time since mid-morning, I must admit I was counting on a calm 15-minute repreive from the hectic pace of this crazy day before I would have to pick up once again and head to the SAI house for a meeting. But that wasn't meant to be, for as I engaged in civilized conversation over IM and contemplated the feasibility of receiving any sort of refreshment from an eleven minute nap, a shrill shriek resonated throughout the dorm.

Koon is not a large dorm. Shrieks resonate.
As if that wasn't loud enough, the fire alarm promptly began blaring just outside my door.
So, being the considerate dorm resident I am, I peeked outside my door to see if there was anything gawk-worthy going on in the lobby.
The poor soul responsible for the alarm scampered, shrieking, down the hall to open the microwave door. Smoke billowed out of the microwave. I half expected tongues of flame to burst out as well. The stench was overpowering. Burned popcorn has never smelled so horrendous. Orville Redenbacher himself would have disowned this bag. It was foul.

So the bag was quickly deposited outside the dorm, the fire department promptly alerted of the incident, the doors and windows flung open wide, and once the alarm ceased its obnoxious ringing, Koon returned to its regularly scheduled program.

Except that the dorm smelled awful.
And it still does.
But that's ok, because I'm going to bed.

I really like John Mayer's song "Daughters." Yep.
That's random. Oh well.
Goodnight!

I am blogging now.
I should be writing a paper, but I am blogging.

This perplexes me.

The ease with which my fingers rapidly glide over the keyboard when the goal is a blog post also amazes me.
And yet somehow, as soon as my intentions are good and diligence reigns (read: I try to write my paper), those same fingers fail me.

Synaptic gaps become chasms that neurotransmitters dare not venture to cross.
I stare blankly at the screen and wonder if it is possible to be born with a perpetual, debilitating form of writers' block. And in what kind of world would a person like that be an English major?
Oh well.
I suppose I'll think about that tomorrow. Along with the other eightytrillionfivethousandhundredmillion things going tomorrow. And Thursday.

And yet somehow, I have a feeling I'll be blogging again soon.


** Major Update: Cate Larsen has once again become a part of the blogging community! This pleases me!**

I'm sure this will be no big deal to those of you who grew up in rural areas, toddling around in blaze orange diapers and observing hunting season before you were even potty trained. Perhaps it will even surprise those of you who know that I grew up just a short jaunt outside of Detroit (in one of the safest cities in the nation, however, I might add).

But tonight I held, aimed, and shot a (pretend) gun for the first time EVER.

And it totally rocked my face off.

As in, I want to do it again.
And again, after that.
But not right now, because I'm tired and I have to go to bed.
And I'm going home in the morning.

So... that's all.

Good.night.

Inspired by the refreshing honesty of Tami's latest post, I have decided to make the most recent "Klutzy Katie Moment" a permanent part of cyberspace. Not that I was hiding it before, exactly. In fact, I went around telling quite a few people, just to make sure I wasn't taking myself too seriously.

Anyway, it's nothing too out of the ordinary, I suppose, but Thursday afternoon I was leaving Koon after stopping back to my room after choir before heading up to dinner. As I bounded down the two large steps, I didn't think twice about the surface beneath my feet. I was far too preoccupied with making sure I had my ID card, listening to Adrienne and Dean disdainfully criticize the Thursday night Saga fare, and using one gloved hand to push a few strands of hair behind my ear... and then I hit the sidewalk.

Literally.

Like, plop. Down went Katie.
And I definitely sat there for a second, processing.

Was I actually sitting there on the cold pavement?
Was there actually coldness seeping into my socks and gloves?
Was that actually my butt becoming sore?
Or just my pride?

And then I started to laugh.
Because it was funny.
And it felt good.

And yes, Dean was a gentleman and helped me up. As he laughed.
So the three of us had a good laugh.
So, giggling, I got up and continued on my way up to dinner, sharing my tale with friends along the way. And as I wiped the snow off of my pants and coat, I realized how important moments like this really are in life. They don't seem like it, but they are. Because they are moments in which the Lord offers us a precious choice. We can choose to take ourselves too seriously and thus resent the blows to our pride, or we can embrace them as God's subtle (or not so subtle) reminders to seek humility and a constant sense of dependence on Him.

He got my attention on Thursday.
I pray it won't be the last time.
I'm fairly certain it won't be.

I had a lovely weekend.
Full of refreshing conversations, baking, Oakley, girl time, studying with new-ish friends, a midnight Wal-mart run, Irish dancing, more Oakley, *goosebump-inducing piano music,* a Koon" Emma" girly-movie night (a cup of tea and Mr. Knightly... :: sigh ::), sledding, a snowball fight, a birthday celebration, a good talk with Mom, more Irish dancing, a little SuperBowl, Catacombs, and Dante before bed.

Yes, my weekend was simply delightful.
And yours?


Oh, dear ones, I must share this as well.
The Lord is doing a beautiful thing in my life right now, something that's giving me a lot of joy. And I'd like to tell you about it.

He's letting me dance for Him.


I would be remiss if I did not tell you how dancing has been a part of my life to this point.
I started Irish dancing when I was 13 years old -- very late in the dancing world. Like, ancient. Anyway, I was blessed to advance very quickly, and was soon moving up into higher level dance classes and competing regularly during the summers. But as I basked in the limelight and hoarded my medals, I quickly forgot that these were not really my victories, and I certainly wasn't remembering Who should have been getting the glory.

The Lord tried to remind me by grounding me with a stress fracture my sophomore year of high school, but after I recovered from that, I was back in action... and it was all about me. I was practicing non-stop, I was all set to compete at my first regional Oireachtas for a chance to qualify for Nationals, my parents had just paid for a new dress for the competition... my dad was even installing a stage in our basement for me to practice on. Then, the night before Mom and I would leave to go to London, Ontario so I could compete in the last competition before the Regional -- Dad had just finished putting up the stage -- I was going over my steps "just one more time." That's when it happened.

God had had enough. He was tired of taking second place to my dancing.
So He took it away with a botched jump. As soon as I'd landed, I knew the foot was broken. So were all my hopes for dancing.

There was no competition in London that weekend. There was no Regional Oireachtas. There were no Nationals. There were no more feisanna after that. When I did go, I watched from the sidelines. Sometimes I cried and had to leave. I only went to a few dance classes after that.

My foot healed, but my heart didn't.
And even though God had taken me off my feet to bring me to my knees, I still wouldn't turn my tear-stained face to look at Him. I blamed Him and resented Him for taking away the one thing that had been bringing insurmountable joy to my life. Dancing was my passion, and I hated Him for taking it from me.

My parents saw me becoming removed and depressed, so I got put on medications. I talked to counselors. I saw pastors. They recommended that I see it as a coincidence and that I try to ease my way back into dancing. But I still wouldn't go back because I was "too behind" and I'd "never catch up." And I knew in my heart why this had happened -- and it wasn't by chance. I had left God no other option. So denial and bitterness became parts of my daily wardrobe, and as much as I desired the comfort and peace I knew God wanted to offer me, I couldn't bring myself to turn back to the One Who had allowed me to hit bottom.

Somehow, at last, I turned. My stubborn, broken heart turned back to the Cross and embraced the warm welcome that had been waiting for me all along. That same stern Father Who demanded that I should have no other gods before Him lovingly wrapped me in His arms while I finally mourned. I wept over my dancing like I would have mourned a beloved family-member. And He was my Comforter, reminding me that it truly was His infinite mercy that took Irish dancing away if only to bring me back to His fold.

And that's how I thought the story would end, friends.
Pride is a detestable thing, and I knew that I could not risk it coming between myself and my Lord again. I held out on Him and it is by His grace alone that He found me worth beckoning back. My heart has only one throne, and Christ will sit on it alone.

But my heart has never stopped aching for dance. My heart pounds when I hear the beat of hardshoe dancing and it leaps at the sound of a jig or a reel. As much as I've tried to suppress and deny it, my love for dancing just can't be shut away. And I am coming to realize that through this refining experience, the Lord has changed -- strengthened -- my heart so that I no longer have to see dancing as an all-or-nothing option. I tend to forget it, but just as He took it away, it was also the Lord Who brought the joy of Irish dancing into my life in the first place, and just because He will not let it be my idol does not mean He will not let it be my passion. This perplexes and excites me.

The great Provider is providing opportunities, and in faith, I am responding. I've started teaching a small class of children the basics of Irish dancing, and although I have no formal qualifications for teaching, they don't mind in the least, and I am finding myself just as blessed by the whole situation. There are no medals or stages or fancy dresses or judges or bright lights. Only bright eyes and eager faces. Let that be enough.

And so, my friends, for the first time in far too long, I am dancing for Jesus.
It pleases me. It pleases Him.
It pleases me because it pleases Him.


You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever ~Psalm 30:11-12

Pair of soft shoe ghillies: $30

Warm-up CD: $15

Highland X Press socks: $5.75

Watching an Irish dancer attempting to deny her inherently contradictory tendencies to dance the Scottish Highland way: priceless



Oh, and thanks for the comments, girls.
I feel inspired, almost.
Love!