Jean Valjean

Les Miserables is one of my favorite books. It’s definitely in my top 10, maybe even in the top 5. I love the musical, too. While it fails to encompass the depth and breadth of the novel, I think it does justice in capturing its spirit. And it’s exciting and the music is fantastic!

I’m sure innumerable essays have been written by college English majors on symbolism in Les Mis, so I don’t expect to be breaking any fresh ground with this, but I was thinking about Jean Valjean’s character earlier as I blasted the Les Mis soundtrack on my way to work.

I thought, he isn’t a Christ character, he’s an us character. He’s arrested for crime – he committed it for the sake of his sister’s family, so we think, hey, he’s not that bad. But after he’s released from prison, he’s so embittered and corrupted by his time in the galleys and society’s refusal to reintegrate him that he takes advantage of the only people who’ve shown him kindness and steals their only items of value (their state of relative poverty isn’t really known in the musical/movie but it is in the book). When Valjean is caught with the stolen silver, the priest from whom he stole it lies to the police and gives Valjean the silver in order to save him from returning the galleys.

He tells Valjean to use the silver to establish himself honestly. In the musical, he says, “I have bought your soul for God.”

Valjean is dumbfounded in the face of such love, for him, a convict, who stole from the man! Again, in the musical he sings, “He said I had a soul – how did he know?” (I’d make references from the book except I don’t know where my copy is…the musical will have to do.)

As we know, Valjean takes the priest’s gift, gives up his old identity and begins living his life in the service of others. In the book, he begins to uphold the priest in his mind as his standard of love and goodness, a standard he wants to emulate.

The priest is the Christ-figure, and Valjean, like us, becomes Christlike when someone makes the sacrifice to redeem him. He even goes so far as to turn himself into the authorities when they arrest a man they think is Valjean, sacrificing himself in order to save the wrongly accused. Valjean still has some selfish patterns, but he repeatedly shows sacrificial love and grows more selfless. He cares for the people cast aside, the prostitutes, the orphans, the poor, he even spares the life of the man who’s hunted him for years.

Just some hastily written thoughts. If you like reading, and you’re a determined reader, not to be put off by 30-page descriptions of the battle of Waterloo (I skimmed that part), you should definitely read Les Miserables.

Jesus is not American

“…Jesus appeals to the soul as light appeals to the eye, as truth fits the conscience, as beauty speaks to the aesthetic nature. For Christ and the soul are made for one another, and when they are brought together deep speaks to deep and wounds answer wounds.” – E. Stanley Jones

I’m reading a book called Christ of the Indian Road. It was written in 1925. This small book, my copy of which was published in Lucknow, India, is full of beautiful truths about Jesus (at least so far…I’m only on chapter 3). The main truth so far is one that has been so widely missed, misinterpreted, lost, ignored, and neglected that it truly makes me grieve. That truth is this: Christ is not nationalistic, he doesn’t belong to a culture. Jesus isn’t Western, he’s not American, he’s not European.

Past (and current) efforts to take “Christianity” to places that have never heard of Jesus do those people, the church, and Jesus himself a disservice, and can even eclipse the good news. Jesus never preached Christianity. He said he himself is the way, the truth, the life. He said man lives on every word that comes from the mouth of God. He never said we needed church buildings or liturgies or a creed. Those things are’t bad, they’re just western, and they don’t save. Jesus saves. He’s the way, he’s the answer.

What’s more, Jesus appeals. We were made for him, and his kind, loving nature and sacrifice appeals. He’s beautiful and good. A friend said to me earlier: “I’ve never met anybody who didn’t like Jesus, once they really knew who he was,” and I haven’t either.

Maybe we should resolve, as Paul did in 1 Corinthians 2:2, “to know nothing but Christ and him crucified.”

No, I’m not in high school…or college

“I’m actually older than I look.”

Words which have escaped my mouth both as a reaction and as a preemptive action, on too many occasions to count or keep track of. I look young. When I was a junior in high school, someone assumed I was in 6th grade. Just yesterday, someone said they thought I was 19. The week before, someone else assumed I was in high school.

“I graduated from university 2 1/2 years ago.”

“What?! I thought you were in high school. You look so young.”

“I have a master’s degree!”

“How old are you?!”

Twenty-four. I am twenty-four. I’m not old, but I pay my own rent and taxes and health insurance. I’ve been to college. I’ve been to grad school. I am, quite technically, an adult.

And yet, on a consistent basis, people think I’m on average 5 years younger than I actually am. Maybe this is because I don’t walk around in high heels and power suits. But I do try not to dress like a high schooler. When I shop for clothes, I think, “Would one of my students wear this?” If the answer is yes, put it back on the rack!

What’s more, WITHOUT fail, people tell me, “Be happy you look so young! You should be so grateful! Just imagine when you’re older and you still look young!”

I get it – when I’m 34 I’ll look 29 and feel smokin’ hot. Well, when I’m 34 I’ll be thankful for that. Right now, looking 5 years younger is the opposite of fun or convenient.

For one, it’s not convenient to look the same age as your students. People tend to assume you are a student, and then things get awkward.

Think of how you would carry on a conversation with a teenager versus someone in their mid-twenties. (I’m not disparaging teenagers; it’s just a different stage of life.) You’d talk differently to the teenager, regard them differently, expect something different from them.

Until recently, I thought the lowball estimation of my age was dispelled once people started talking to me, but recently people have been expressing disbelief after we’ve been talking. It leaves me wondering, what is it about how I look, act, and talk that makes people think I’m so young? (Besides the fact that I’m short.)

I think this is such a sore spot with me because I was the youngest child in a family/extended family of intellectual people and few children. I wanted desperately to be taken seriously!

I have a visceral reaction to the idea of trying to change myself in order to be perceived differently, with the exception of being conscious that my behavior should be a reflection of Christ. So I’m not really into making a great effort to be perceived as my real age. A small effort, maybe. Mostly I’m just frustrated, and I’m asking you, dear reader, not to tell me to be grateful for what is actually unhelpful to me right now.

But if you do have any ideas on how to seem older…

Oops, I did it again…again

It’s not that I don’t have anything to write about. I just haven’t taken the time to write. So I missed two days of writing. I promise, I will give you those 200 words and more…later.

There’s a good post brewing. It’s just still in my head. Steeping.

After almost a whole week off due to Snowpocalypse and a second week off (a scheduled winter break), I am not ready to go back to a normal schedule. I’m not crazy about routine. I like having things to do, being busy, etc, but routine is tough for me to get into, especially when I’ve been out of it.

Well folks that’s my minimum 100, so stay tuned daily for more disordered soliloquy, and keep an eye out for those promised 200 words.

Hello

I promise that, one day soon, I’ll write something thought-out and deliberate.

But right now I’m busy. Busy Vacating.

I really love people-watching. People watching in D.C. is great. The nations are in D.C.

Different demographics, people groups, ages, different reasons for being in the district or for taking public transportation or for walking down the mall.

I love to speculate about the people I watch. (Am I creepy?)

I wonder what their jobs are, where they’re from, what brought them to D.C., what they’re doing today, etc. Are they an introvert or extrovert? Driven or laid-back? What’s their family like? What do they dream of doing?

I want to know who they are. I may not be a “people person” but I love to know people. Small-talk takes you nowhere: I want to get to the significant stuff.

But I don’t ask. I just wonder. I don’t strike up a conversation with a stranger on the train. I wish I did. Maybe I will.

Going “home”

Over the last few years, my parents have been almost as migratory as me. Thus, their home is not my childhood home; it’s not even the home I lived in with them a year ago, though it’s not far from there. Some of the furniture is new, but there are some classics. Like the twin & trundle my grandfather built for my mom when she was young, which was passed on to me in my early childhood. Ikea could take notes from its sturdiness and simple reassembly.

I don’t really say “go home” anymore in reference to visiting my parents, since their house is new and unfamiliar. But visiting them, wherever they are, is a kind of going-home. My mom still makes the best chicken soup in the world. We still watch movies together. The dinner table is still a place where we eat together and talk.

At 9:30 PM tonight, which was really 8:30 PM for me due to the different time zone, I conked out on the couch while we watched “Sherlock.” I woke up and the end and expressed bewilderment that I was so tired.  My trip was not that difficult.

“You always sleep a lot when you come home,” my mom said, “you and your sister both do that; you just come home and sleep a lot.”

My best guess is, on a deep level my body knows we’re in a good place for a break.

I’m too young for this

I have, swirling around in my mind, several good ideas. But, yet again I’ve waited until late hours to post. Waited is perhaps not the right word: forgot is more like it.

I have a tendency to forget semi-important things. Things that fall under “must be done.” I suppose you could call it selective memory, only the person in my brain who’s doing the selecting is a person I very much resent for making me forget things until right before a deadline, or even after it.

Blogging falls pretty low on the semi-important scale, just so you know.

But then sometimes I even forget very important things. For instance, I have this week off from work, something that slipped my mind on at least 3 or 4 distinct occasions. That’s not even the half of it. I have a round trip ticket to go visit my parents, which I’m really excited about (mini vaca!). Seriously. I am looking forward to this trip. But I’ve accidentally planned, or starting planning, things for this week, at least 10 times!

What’s up with that, brain?!

Good news, though: I remember now that I am going to the airport in the morning.

Two Suitcase Life

I do not have a two-suitcase life.

Someone postured to me the concept of a two-suitcase life. Which is something I don’t have.

I have, like, a four-suitcase and 15 book boxes and 5 large tubs and a small Uhaul’s worth of furniture life. And this bothers me.

On the one hand, I don’t want possessions to clutter up my life; I don’t want them to fill up my sight so that I don’t have the perspective to see what really matters.

Also, it’s a HUGE pain to move, and I seem to be in the stage of life where moving happens every 1 – 1.5 years.

On the other hand, having lived a one-suitcase life for about a year, I really love having my kitchen stuff, and the books I want to read, and the movies I want to watch, and all of my musical instruments, pictures my grandmother painted, and extra towels just in case. And I don’t think those things are inherently bad, or evil. 

I just find myself asking: where are they on the scale of priority?

Somebody’s Black Bean Brownies

Again, I am going to post about how I used somebody else’s recipe and changed it slightly. I found this recipe (via Pinterest) on Food.com. You can find the original there! Kudos and thank you to the user who shared it.

I eat kind of gluten-free and completely dairy free, and my roommates also eat gluten-free and dairy-free, and one also only eats natural (/unprocessed) sugars. Therefore, we are all about the weird, alternative, and delicious recipes. Flourless brownies made out of black beans? Why not!

The first time I made the recipe I did as commenters suggested: I added 1/2 teaspoon each of baking soda and baking powder. I mixed the batter entirely in my food processor.

What resulted was light, chocolatey…cake. Cake. I don’t know your philosophy of brownie but mine is not cake. I immediately went into research mode, to find out how I could make the brownies less cake and more fudge – like they’re supposed to be.

I am pretty pleased with the result. Rich, deep, chocolatey, fudgy, melty brownies. You’d never in a million years think they were black beans.

My modified version is below.

Preheat oven to 350 Fahrenheit/175 Celsius

Ingredients:

1 can low-sodium black beans (rinsed and drained, very important!)
2 1/2 Tablespoons fake butter, melted
1 tablespoon coconut oil, melted
2 eggs and 2 egg yolks, slightly beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
4 tablespoons cocoa powder
1 pinch salt
1/2 (or more) semi-sweet chocolate chips
3/4 cup sugar*

After you rinse the black beans, pour them into the food processor along with the butter and oil and process until creamy. Then pour the mixture into a mixing bowl and add the rest of the ingredients. Make sure you mix well enough to combine everything. Pour into a greased 8×8 pan and stick in the oven, probably for 30 minutes but check it at 25. After you remove it, let it sit for 10 or 15 minutes, as long as you can stand it…then dig in and enjoy! If they’re still hot they’ll be quite gooey, but if you let them cool completely they’ll have a soft, fudgy texture.

*I made them once with 1/2 cup coconut sugar and 1/2 cup honey. They were plenty sweet but if you go this route I suggest pure maple syrup instead of honey: the honey gave them a distinctly fruity taste

photo actually by me this time

Snow Glory

With the glee of a child, I woke up before my alarm went off this morning, eager to see the splendor of the snow in the daylight. I pressed my face up against the window to see the white snow-laden branches against the blue sky and decided that simply wasn’t good enough; I needed to get out in the snow.

Booted and hatted, I slipped out of the quiet house into the likewise quiet winter wonderland. Snow in Alabama is one thing, but 3 inches of it? It’s kind of amazing.

I wandered around our apartment complex and down the street, marveling at the trees, the gleaming snow-blankets on every car, icicles on signs, and the noisy, cheerful birds.

For someone who isn’t used to snow, snow is still magical and beautiful. I wanted to roll in it, make snow angels, be a part of it. (I stopped myself because I realized I’d get wet – I guess I’m officially an adult.) Just looking at the snow wasn’t quite satisfying enough.

Contemplating my desire to be a part of the wintry beauty, I recalled a section of C.S. Lewis’s essay “The Weight of Glory” that addresses that very desire. He recognizes that the desire we feel when looking at something beautiful, like a sunset, is a desire to do more than just behold the beauty: we want to participate in it. Lewis suggests (and I would agree) that this desire to participate in beauty is an indication of how we’re made to participate in God’s glory. Not just behold his glory, not just look at how awesome it is, but actually to be a part of God’s glory.

The snow is almost all melted now. But God’s glory doesn’t fade.

“At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of the morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.”

– C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory