#26: having unspoken (but never to be broken) rules of modesty

As a senior in high school, scrambling through that giant pile of college advertisements, my list of "things I look for in a university" had to get super specific. I mean, if I was going to be feeding my kids soup for the next 20 years until I finally gave those student loans the boot, I wanted it to be for the sake of a worthwhile educational cause. So, I started getting choosy, thinking about what really mattered in a college. I even developed a system for sorting pamphlets into the "heck no techno," "hmmm...probably not, but I'll dangle that admissions counselor by a thread a little longer," and "yeah, I think you could make all my varsity dreams come true, so I'll definitely give you a shout out this Wednesday at prayer meeting when peeps ask me where I'm thinking about going" piles.

Some colleges made it into the final rounds of the decision making process, only missing my tuition check by a few yards. John Brown, had you not roomed me in an "we-secretly-have-Mennonite-sympathies" suite during your version of SCOPE/GROW, you might have been the one. And Hardin-Simmons, you almost had me with that free CD; it's not your fault you had to go and locate yourself in (excuse me as I spit) Texas. U of A, you were definitely in a close second; if only you had appreciated my papier-mache volcano project as much as you did that Japanese-Indian-Korean-Pakistani-American kid's independent cancer research and given me that Fellowship instead, we could have had a beautiful life together.

Other universities were a no-brainer, their fliers going straight from the envelope to the shredder. Wellesley Private Women's College, thanks for the invite, but you just didn't comply with my stay-at-home-mom fall-back plans. Yale, it was fun going on that emotional roller coaster with you, but some acceptance rate statistics would have been nice along with the bumper sticker, personal interview, and 2007-2008 handbook you mailed me. And Liberty, ooohhh, Liberty. You had me for a split second with that colorful add frequenting the pages of WORLD magazine. Your mission statement and scholarship options were pretty legit. You just made one slip up: you included a picture. Yeah, sure, the girl standing on the steps of your chapel was really pretty, and some might have been fooled by her super relevant t-shirt complete with ambiguous slogan and tree graphic, but I was cunning. I knew what to look for, and my scrutinizing eyes could not miss the blaring statement sent by that floor-length khaki skirt...DRESS CODE! You went straight to the "heck no techno" pile, Liberty, faster than I could flip channels from 700 Club to MTV Cribs. Yes, yes, I know. I did ask for a Christian liberal arts education, but I had no intention of getting doc martins, an IMB logo-polo, and a head prayer-shawl in the mix. Better luck next time.

So, after months of googling, GROW-ing, alumni-facebook-stalking, essay writing, campus-visiting, and the occasional session of spontaneous weeping, I finally decided that Ouachita was it. With my down-payment on its way to Arkadelphia, I took comfort in knowing that I had made the right decision. I had been told that, in fact, Jesus went to OBU. And "by golly," I thought, "if it's good enough for Him, surely it's good enough for me."

Naturally, I struggled to suppress my shock when I arrived on campus to discover that, in spite of boasting to be as good as Liberty except "like not fundamentalist and stuff," Ouachita did indeed have its own set of clothing do's and don'ts. Sure, you might not find them printed in the Tiger Handbook, but you would find them engraved somewhere else: on the hearts and minds of Ouachitonians.

Perhaps that spaghetti strap and jeggings combo I rocked last week wouldn't land me in Keldon Henley's office, but it would merit me a concerned spot on the Wednesday night prayer line-up, if not by name, under the not-so-unspoken heading of "those girls." You know "those girls:" "those girls who have not yet had the 'being-sensitive-to-the-struggles-of-their-brothers-in-Christ' revelation." We need to really keep "those girls" on our hearts. Perhaps, if worst comes to worst (i.e. leggings as pants or heaven forbid, something strapless!) the situation may call for a little loving dose of confronting via a friend, an anonymous 'girl-don't-you-know-that-outfit-is-only-suited-for-street-corners' note, or better yet, a passive aggressive blogpost. :)

Freedom, grace, no longer being a slave to sin? These are all grand concepts, and Ouachitonians like to help keep them happenin' through intensely specific social conventions. Though at first I was wary of the subtle clothing regulations, I have come to realize their benefits. I mean, it is nice to be able to sleep soundly at night knowing my righteousness is still intact. Not to mention that it majorly cuts down on the number of quail that I have donate for my personal atonement every spring. (I especially appreciate this latter repercussion around tax time. I can never figure out if temple sacrifices are deductible!) Said conventions also sure do make all those passage about sexuality and adultery and stuff a lot more comfortable to sit through in Sunday School when I know that I am guilt free thanks to extreme personal discipline, the gouging out of one of my eyes, and the commitment of my brothers to gloves, turtlenecks and MC hammer pants.

I only have one suggestion I would like to submit for Ouachita Dress Code consideration. I feel that my addition would be immensely helpful in our striving toward modest-is-hottest communal living. Two words: Invisibility Cloaks. In fact, why not just replace all previously unspoken rules with just this one? We could rid ourselves of a lot of ambiguity by simply investing in a campus-wide set. We're already giving incoming freshman beanies these days. So why not throw a little 100%-purity guarantee into the mix, Harry Potter style?

#25: mail time

It's Tuesday, post-lunch, and I've got a good 30 seconds to kill. What am I going to do? Check mail, of course! Maybe I've already checked it twice today, and maybe there wasn't anything to be found. Ir-relevant. Anytime is the perfect time to check mail. Who knows what distant relative, WOM lady, or sweet my-spiritual-gift-is-writing-encouraging-notes-on-craftastic-homemade-cards friend might have felt so led in the last 120 minutes to send a little love over to 410 Ouachita St., box 4493.

So, I head over to the student center, avoid eye-contact with 40+ potential acquaintances lining the couches and corridors (I am on a mission here) as I scurry down the stairs, turn right, duck under some stairwell architecture jutting down from above (and threatening to concuss many an unsuspecting freshman), hang left, and finally reach that blessed small, silver square--a tangible representation of all my post officinal hopes.

I stop. My breath catches as I dream about what could be awaiting me inside box 4493. A giftcard? An Emilee Wade original bird-gram? or perhaps...homemade chocolate chip cookies? Do I dare to dream? I do, I do indeed.

I try my combination, not once, not twice, but seven times until finally I hear the melodious click of success, and I throw open the door to find...Huzzah!...there are contents within the vault!

But wait! Are said contents for moi? Alas, 3 are for my blasted boxmate. Foiled once again. Does he not know that mail checking is a daily--albeit hourly--responsibility for every self-respecting Ouachita student? How could he be so inconsiderate as to raise and crush my hopes with his postbox negligence? I know that mass-mailed tiger serve day announcement is not fresh. I mean, I recycled mine ages ago--hours even!

Gasp! But what's that!? Do I spy with my little eye an orange slip? Orange slip, orange slip! Blest be thee, orange slip! Art thou for me? Yes yes, you are indeed!

I hastily grab said orange slip as joy fills my heart. I slap my box shut and skip over to the post office window where a friendly work study worker greets me with a smile. She takes my slip and darts behind the wall to retrieve my glorious parcel. She returns carrying a box that, much to my heart's delight, is twice the size of my backpack! I check the return address! Alas, it is from my mom! She does love me!

I rip open the box only to find a bookmark, my medical insurance card, and three socks I left at home over Christmas break. I sigh, trying to suppress my disappointment. I check my watch. 30 minutes until my next class. Perhaps I should take my non-chocolate-chip-cookies package back to my room. It really is quite cumbersome. But wait! My friends are still in class. If I head back now, how are they to observe that someone loves me 12" by 14" by 6" and $6.47 S&H's worth? They don't have to know that my box's contents are far less exciting than its exterior.

I decide to stick around student center for a while. I choose to sport my package on my shoulder rather than risking the floor's dust or the couch's obstruction of the view of my box to peers passing by. I mean, I would hate for someone to lose out on the blessing of getting to congratulate me on my mail-time luck!

As I wait, a song fills my heart..."here's the mail....it never fails...it makes me wanna wag my tail. When it comes I wanna yell: Maaaaaiiiiill--lllll!"

**The idea for today's SOL was submitted by James Taylor. Thanks, J.T.!

#24: squirrels

I would like to take this opportunity to affirm my fellow Ouachitonians. Overall, I would say that we are a pretty reputable bunch. We serve the community in many ways: chillin' with the elderly, taking internationals to walmart, pickin' up trash once a semester on Pine St., and making Arkadelphia at least 400% hipper just by gracing it with our v-necked presence. We have passion. We have com-passion. We have compassion children. We eat. We pray. We love.

However, there is a group in our midst for whom I feel we have not reached the level of brokenness that is due.

Daily they wander around our campus unnoticed and unloved. All they ask for is a safe place to hunt, gather, and raise their kids. Usually, they are pretty inconspicuous. If you're especially astute and an early riser, you might just might spot one scurrying--naked and cold--through the grass, nervously, desperately, searching for something, anything, to take back to his family for sustenance. And oh to be a fly on the bark at night, when anguished fathers and mothers whisper of the coming winter, when there may be no walnuts on the table for dinner and no acorns in the children's stockings at Christmas.

Sure, they may not be as cool as the rest of us. Maybe those coats they usually sport look just like the one's their ancestors were rockin' back in '85 BC, but does mean they don't deserve our respect? Does it mean they don't still need acceptance?

Ouachitonians, we are called to care about the "least of these." I just don't think we have even begun to understand what this means when it comes to the furry ones among us. Our responses to them may vary. Some of us choose apathy. Others choose ignorance, pretending not to notice
when we see a furry brother crawling out of the trashcan with a chic fillet wrapper in his paws. Others are even downright cruel, making them objects of pranks and "relocating" them to new homes down at Degray. Did they ask for that? What have they done to merit such unjust treatment?

As much as I want to keep patting you on the back, friends, I just can't with the situation at hand. Something has got to give. Love, diversity, tolerance, antidiscrimination. These are not just words we throw around in ethics class. Whatever happened to personal application? What happen to faith+deeds? I have a dream, my friends, a dream that one day this tiger nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all (ver)-men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the gray side-walks of Ouachita, the sons of former squirrels and the sons of former squirrel hunters will be able to sit down at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Arkansas, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, sweltering with the heat of 90% humidity 9 months out of the year, sweltering with the heat of mediocre dormitory temperature control, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children (yes I do indeed have four of them just in case you didn't know but I have to keep it on the DL since I'm pretty sure Francis Crawford rooms are only supposed to house two so they all secretly sleep on pallets under my bed and only leave at odd hours of the day when no reslife staff members are around...let's just say I have a past) will one day live in a tiger nation where they will not judge others by the color of their skin and/or fur but by the content of their character.

#23: the sexy prayer voice

The concept for today's post was submitted by Jacob Watson and Sky Howard. However, Jacob and Sky are not to be implicated in any sacrilege that may have snuck its way into today's post. For that, the writer of SOL is entirely to blame (and apologetic).

Thanks to the writings of those like John and Staci Eldredge, Susan Campbell, Hillsong, and many creative interpreters of Song of Solomon, phrases like "being in Romance with Jesus," "Jesus, lover of my soul," and "Dating Jesus" are now regulars in the world of Christian dialogue. This kind of lingo can become confusing to those of us Ouachitonians who depledged from the exegeting club after taking that Bible Interp final. As inspiring as these phrases may be for some, I often find myself wondering if, when I pray, I should be envisioning an image of that wimpy, creepo Jesus depicted in many Baptist Foyer paintings, or rather, something more along the lines of Will Smith. And should I change my facebook relationship status from "single" to "in a relationship with Jesus Christ?" For me, talking about Jesus in an eros kind of way leaves room for implications that make me just a little squirmy. But, maybe that's just me.

However, though I may be the only one wrestling with these particular questions, the discussion of romancin' it up with the Creator of the Universe has definitely had some subtle effects on the way we Ouachitonians express our faith. I would now like to call your attention to a phenomenon that has been sweeping Ouachita prayer circles for some time now...the Sexy Prayer Voice. The Sexy Prayer Voice (let's call it SPV, for short), has a dramatic way of entering the scene whenever someone decides that, yes, right here, right now, we're going to take things there. We're going to invite the Lord into this conversation we are having, even though we secretly know that He has been here the whole time.

You've heard the SPV before, likely you've even rocked it before: voice drops at least half an octave, words become more slowly and emphatically enunciated, aspiration of consonants dramatically increases, and ending "s's" are held just a little bit longer. Everything sounds at least 250% more heartfelt.

There are many reasons to rock the SPV. Perhaps God will be quicker to answer if He knows that you are really feeling it for that someone on whose behalf you are interceding; I think I read somewhere once that His ears are in fact more attuned to words spoken in the style of Morgan Freeman. And I can guarantee that your lowered pitches will be more easily heard by all the elderly ladies and cocker spaniels in your prayer circle. Furthermore, your slower speaking speed will be greatly appreciated by all the non-native English speakers around you.

However, the greatest reason to bust out the SPV when you are having quality time with the Lord in the presence of others is to sky-rocket your level of matrimonial eligibility in the eyes of those who are both members of your prayer circle AND the opposite sex. The SPV reveals that you are sensitive to the needs of others in an I'm-not-obligated-to-say-this-I-really-do-weep-myself-to-sleep-nightly-for-the-orphans-of-Africa kind of way. Furthermore, it proves to those available co-eds that you are lovin' Jesus in the same kind of way you'll be lovin' them. Forget about having to prove your awesomeness through expensive, eternally insignificant means like flowers, chocolate, fancy dinners, and original song serenades. All you need is love. And nothing shows your capacity for love like the sexy prayer voice. You're welcome.