Second day of real college (I say "real college" cause I attended JCCC for a while but that was for dual credits and it felt like more of a purgatory between high school and college than an actual university experience). The number of activities they have us running to and fro between should be considered freshman abuse.

I'm making myself take some pictures, cause even though right now I don't have any friends here and I don't feel like a part of things, I know (at least I hope) that I will eventually and I'll probably want to remember my first week.

I'm sure every other freshman is feeling this way: I can't see myself really being part of this community. It's hard to imagine, when there are no familiar faces; no go-to group where I have a place and a character part. It's hard to imagine that it will ever be that way. It never got that way at JCCC, but I didn't live there (though I practically did) and that school was huge and not Christ-focused like MNU. So I'm hoping that living at a smallish school that centers around something close to my heart will make for a good place for me; a setting in which I belong.

I haven't had that feeling anywhere (except home) for a long time, probably since Faithwalkers week in December of '05. An essential part of an essential group, full of life and passion, making innocent trouble and eating tea bags, just because they were there and we were hyper. Not worrying about anything. Not about looking good or looking bad or appearing immature or seeming like an "attention whore" (yes, I have been called that) or how many calories is in that. Just doing and being and no thinking past "is this morally ok".
People think it's hard to think about what's "right" and "wrong"...and it is, but think about how much simpler things would be if that's ALL we had to worry about.

There were times before that week that were like that too. Ugh, I miss those times more than anything.

So now I'm hoping and praying that times like those will come again with starting school here. If they never come again...I don't know what I'll do.

When the road finally gives me back, I don't think I'll unpack, cause I'm not sure that I live here anymore.

I'm moving to MNU tomorrow, and I haven't packed a thing yet. I'm about to get started though, as soon as I finish this post (and the next episode of "Arrested Development"). Just for kicks and giggles, I'd thought I'd share a few of the more random things on my packing list:

1. Singing black lab stuffed animal
2. Lion King collectable plates
3. Glow-in-the-dark hang-from-the-cieling thingies
4. Robotic parrot
5. Bottle of dirt from the Garden of Gethsemane
6. Cool menu from a Chinese restaurant
7. "Cricket in Times Square", "The Incredible Journey", and "Hank the Cowdog" audio books
8. Simone's (a deceased ferret) paw-print impression
9. The painting by an elephant I got on my 18th birthday
10. Fake vines
11. Pink teddy bear Dad got for me the day I was born
12. "Clothing Optional Beyond This Point" sign

And it goes without saying that I'm bringing my favorite stuffed animal, my tiger Peploava (I got her when I was four, and made up the spelling of her name when I was six, so don't ask me why it's spelled that way). And, I went to Toys 'R' Us the other day and got this awesome robotic lion cub that's crazy realistic (since they don't allow real pets in the dorms, I had to get something that was as close as possible to a real animal. Eventually I'll probably get a fish).
I think that's everything especially unique.

Steadier Footing

The sky has been gray for awhile now. A few days, anyway. I like it. And I'm looking forward to winter, when iron clouds will hang above me most of the time. I'm thinking of it as a trial run, because lately I've been thinking I'd like it in Portland.
I lived there when I was little. I don't remember much about it, but I like what memories I have. Blustery beaches and big waves, steel-tented cobalt with shredded white edges beating themselves against wet-blackened rocks to shake the salt spray from their roiling backs.
They were all around me once, and so was my brother and my dad and Otto and Gretchen, our two Dobermans. Their black fur was beaded with seamist and fine salt crusted their whiskers. They looked old and dignified, like Poseidon's hounds, in spite of the long pink tongues dangling from their mouths.
The tide had come in, and the five of us were stuck there, on that rock in the sea. I think the rock had a name, but I don't remember it now. And I think there were pictures from that day, but I've lost them.
I know I wasn't afraid. I don't remember how we got back to shore, but it wasn't frightening.
I was only four years old then. No, maybe I was three. I thought our house was called Portland. It made sense to me. Everyone said we lived in Portland, and everyone referred to houses as places in which a family lived, and so it follows quite logically in a child's mind that her house might be called Portland. No one else seems to understand the logic in that thought process, but I still do.
And I understand why, for a few years, I was sure I would grow up to be a pony. My parents would tell me, "You can be anything you want to be." And I wanted to be a pony. I imagined myself as a pony, yellow-gold with long, flowing, white mane and tail. In my vision, my eyes and hooves were blue, and I reared on my hind legs on the brown shag-like carpet of our living room, whinnying in celebration of what it was to be a pony.
Now I want to be a criminal profiler, or a dolphin trainer.
Or a pony. Those were simpler times.
I wouldn't have to go to college to be a pony. I wouldn't have to move away from home.
Everything is here. It seems like such a waste, to have built such a life here, only to leave it so soon. Why did I bother with painting my room green with jungle vines, or hanging pretty things from a tree by the creek, or carving secrets into it's trunk? Why did I bother to invest so much of myself here when it is only a place for me to wait out the first quarter of my life? Always knowing I would leave someday soon, why did I let this become home to me? Only to uproot. I know that's the way things are done, but maybe it shouldn't be that way. Maybe the focus of "home" should be directed more towards that ambiguous place where you'll end up. The place you move into, planning to stay forever. Even if you don't end up staying forever, it's better than tethering your heart to a place when you know for sure you'll leave it.
And how can I feel at peace in a bed where a dog has never been and will never be? It isn't right to sleep without a dog. It's lonely and cold and just...not right. All my life there has been a dog at the foot of my bed. Or at the head of the bed with me, fighting for my pillow. There's always been twitching paws in the dark, deep groans of contentment, a heavy warm body to guard me from the cold, and sharp-toothed protection from things that go bump in the night.
My loyal companion sleeping beside me now--a black mass of softness and friendship sprawled across the blankets--he has no idea that in three days his master will abandon him. That she'll leave him to occupy this king-sized bed by himself; won't be there throughout the day to offer a scratch or table scraps or a soothing voice.
He has no idea, and it will take him by surprise and he won't understand why. He'll be pitifully happy to see me every time I visit. Me, who chose a white-washed dorm room over him, my constant, loyal dog.
He'll be old when I graduate. Almost eleven. But then, wherever I go I'll take him. Maybe we'll go to Portland and find a rock and let the tide trap us there.
Because, frankly, I'd rather relive childhood than go on to whatever comes next. Nothing is as blissful as childhood; nothing as care-free as ignorance. Knowledge cannot be unlearned. Maturity can't be ungained.
The avalanche has begun and time won't stand still for me.
There is no steadier footing.

On Saturday I move to MNU. 30 minutes away from home, but hey, I'm not a fan of change of any kind so I'm still quite apprehensive.
I get a private room, so I am looking forward to having it all to myself. Decorating, playing music, etc. without having to allow for another person's taste.
I know that sounds pretty selfish, but with my health and energy levels, I really need my room to be a place where I can completely rest and relax, mentally and physically. It's hard to do that, sharing a room with someone. Believe it or not, it does take energy just to have someone else to worry about "will this or that bother them" (I am generally a people-pleaser so I will inevitably stress over this). And there is the risk of the roommate bothering ME, waking me up at night or even during the day when I'm napping, or having a bunch of people in the room making noise etc.
So yeah, God answered prayers when He granted me a private room.
I'm still worried though, especially about the first week when they'll have a bunch of activities for freshmen. I really don't know how I'm going to have the energy for it. I'm trusting God to provide me with extra strength and energy so that I can be a good student as well as have a social life. That is hard to comprehend, though, when I hardly have the energy for life right now (no school, quiet house, parents to help me with laundry and shopping and all the rest of the things I will have to do on my own once I move).
And, of course, I will be terribly homesick (yes, even though I'm only 30 minutes away from home). I'm very close to my family, and my pets too. I'll be hard to get used to not having a dog to sleep at the foot of my bed, a cat to curl on my lap while I watch a movie, ferrets to jump on my ankles, a mom to talk to at breakfast, and a dad to read Redwall with at night.
I'll survive though, just like every other freshman.
And I am a little excited. About my own dorm room, being up in town, and I'm really looking forward to my psych and criminology classes.
I guess this isn't an interesting post for anyone who happens to read it, but my college apprehensions have been building up for over a month now so I had to let some of the overflow out.

You can paint your nails lime green...

Today I got a pedicure for the first time today, and last night I painted my fingernails (yes, lime green). That's getting really, really girly for me. I think I've painted my fingernails five times ever (if you don't count coloring them black with a Sharpie during my punk phase), and I've never painted my toenails.
So while I was sitting in the massage chair with one foot in a hot tub and the other being painted red, I had lots of thoughts about the concept.
At first, I felt bad for being so "girly". The "tough girl" image has always been important to me (stupid, I know). But then I started thinking about how being girly sometimes makes every girl feel pretty (God made us that way; I'm afraid we can't help it), and when girls feel pretty they feel more confident, and sometimes I need that. For example, even though I prefer more casual clothes, if I need a confidence boost a pretty blouse will help in five seconds, whereas losing five or ten pounds will take two months and use up a lot of my limited energy.
And, God made girls the way we are because He liked it like that. There is no shame in femininity. Of course, like everything else, it can be taken too far, and when femeninity is taken too far it becomes vanity. Celebrating God-given femeninity is different than indulging in vanity.
That got me thinking about what can happen when femeninity turns into vanity. It can happen for lots of reasons in a variety of life circumstances, but no matter the reason, the results are never good. Irresponsible ammounts of money spent on clothes, spending hours in front of a mirror, even becoming obsessed and developing an eating disorder (eating disorders are developed as a result of psychological trauma, and the rammifications of that trauma manifest themselves in vanity-like qualities, egged on by society's glorification of vanity).
Why are girls and women prone to vanity? Sometimes it's pride, but I think that in most cases it is our lack of self-worth. It causes us to turn to trendy clothes, expensive jewelry, weight loss etc., because we think that if we're prettier we'll be worth more. Not that clothes and jewelry and healthy weight loss etc. are bad things; not at all. Like I said, they can be an effective confidence boost, and the former two are good tools for celebrating femeninity (weight loss can be a good tool for improving one's health, but not femeninity. One does not have to be any thinner than they are in order to be femenine). But it is sad when those things are used in exess because a girl/woman feels that she is not worth enough without them.
In a song called "White Shoes" by Conor Oberst and The Mystic Valley band, there are lines that go "You can wear your new white shoes in the dirty afternoon; walking through the traffic fumes, a flower in your hair" and "You can paint your nails lime green, rent yourself a lemosine". To me, these lines can be interprited as speaking about the way some of us (girls/women) throw ourselves into fashion and nail polish and make up, but we are still unfulfilled.
Because we, as women, are supposed to find our worth by seeing our beauty through God's eyes. Every one of us were made exactly how we are because God thinks we are beautiful that way. We are tailored to His taste, not to that guy who made fun of our hair or that girl who made a catty remark about our pants size. We should wear pretty clothes and polish our nails and put on some make up in order to celebrate the beauty and femeninity that God has already given us, not to try to make ourselves "worth more" to small-minded humans.

That turned out way more rambling than I'd originally intended, but the points are: a) I'm getting a bit more girly than I used to be, and I'm ok with that, and b) I got my first pedicure today and it was a lot of fun and it felt really good!

At Every Occasion I'll be Ready for a Funeral

Funerals get a bad rap, I think. I think they're healthy; they provide closure.
The word "closure" gets a bad rap too, because of its association with pop-psychology, but it has validity as well.
But back to the funeral thing.
I have lots of private funerals. For animals, mostly. But I've also had funerals for people who haven't died. They just ceased to be part of my life. I think that kind of loss is underestimated.
Another kind of loss that I think is underestimated is the loss of a time in one's life, or the way one's life used to be.
If you find yourself constantly bogged down by the memory of "better times"--those times before that out-of-control pivotal point that changed everything forever--I think you should have a funeral for it. For the loss of the "before" days, I mean. Get some mementos, put them in a box, write a poem or something, and get rid of all of it. Even if the things you put in the box are hard to get rid of. The things that are the hardest to get rid of are usually the things that need most to be gotten rid of in order for one to let go.
Like a certain green guitar pick, but that's still pending.

"Life is a comedy for those who think. Life is a tragedy for those who feel."
True. But I think that, in general, life is richer for us "feely" types.

I haven’t seen the sea for a long time, but I try to make up for it by walking by the pond or watching the fish in my mom’s fish tank. I’ve named them all after artists or authors: Andy, Monet, Leo, Edgar, Vincent, Lewis…they’re sick, though; a flesh-eating fungus. It must hurt them, because they aren’t moving as much as they used to. I think Lewis is contemplating suicide. He swims by the filter, barely resisting its sucking grip; won’t even come away to eat fish flakes with the others.It makes me sad when fish and bugs are sick or hurt. They suffer as much as any other creature, I think, regardless of their significance. They suffer just the same, but there’s not much anyone can do about it besides put them out of their misery. Most of the time people don’t even care.I’ve read different things about whether or not fish and bugs can feel pain. From what I’ve read, I think they can. And even if there is no absolute scientific evidence, the best one can say is that we don’t know for sure. But, based on the fact that all the rest of God’s creatures are capable of feeling pain, it seems cruel to assume that fish and insects are not and thus squash them more freely. Even depriving them of the sympathy one would feel for a wounded mammal seems more callous than I would like to be.But I’m more than I’d like to be in a lot of ways. More selfish, more lazy, more prideful, more....me. So what difference would it make if one more flaw was added to the mix?I don’t know; I suppose there are some things that are good about me. But they don’t seem to be as relevant as the flaws, sometimes. I remember them, see them in myself or absent in other people; watch others excel as I stay the same.I used to have more talents to my name. I used to be better. Before I got sick I had the focus and energy to make myself into the person I wanted to be. I used to run six miles every day; I was fit. I used to practice singing every evening; I had potential. I used to play my guitar often; my fingers didn’t get sore so fast then. I used to ride Spirit over jumps every time I rode him; we could ride anywhere. I used to lose myself in complex literature; my brain functioned better in a healthy body. I was less inhibited; seven months of near-isolation during diagnosis built a maze in my mind that still confuses me four years later. I used to be a great friend; I had the strength and energy to be there for people to lean on. Now I can’t be there consistently. I’ve become unreliable, a part-time friend, and so people rely on others and it kills me not to be the one anymore.Often I want to announce to the world, “I used to be someone! I used to be exciting and fun and full of life! It isn’t my fault I stay at home now. It isn’t my fault my grades have slipped some. It isn’t my fault these dark circles under my eyes won’t go away; still show through my makeup. It isn’t my fault that I’m not the person I used to be. I used to be someone; don’t forget who I was. Remember me like that, please; not this crippled racer, struggling to keep up with everyone else."I know it will work into God’s plan; I know He works everything for His good. And because of that I wouldn’t change it. But I may still mourn every now and then, and I don’t think that’s wrong, is it? Even Christ sweated blood as He mourned His fate. So might I do the same for mine, on a smaller scale? Might everyone?And I don’t think it’s “punishment”. Maybe it’s not even about lessons, though I have learned a lot. I think it is bigger than that; bigger than me. Part of the grand Plan no one can see yet. That can make it both easier and harder to accept at the same time. Easier, because I know it is not purposeless. Harder, because I can’t see the purpose. All I see is a rough outline in my own little world. All I see is a height above me, one from which I’ve fallen.I suppose I can’t blame all regression on my illness. I can say that it weakens my resolve and makes progress slow; makes it hard to make myself do the things I’m still capable of. But, I should be able to rise above and, progress is not only slow; it’s nonexistent. It’s negative. As if I never was the person I used to be. Like she never existed. Maybe it would be better if she never had; then I wouldn’t have so much to let go of.I’ve let go of lots of things; everyone has. Even if they don’t mean to. Time just does that; pulls things from their grasp as their grip loosens, cause it matters less and less. A dream shatters and slowly you pick up all the pieces; sweep the tiny fragments up and throw them all away. As you move on with life, occasionally you might step on a piece you missed and get rid of it. Eventually they’re all gone. Right?I thought so, but I’ve been dreaming lately—dreams from nearly six years ago—about old wishes coming true. And dreaming makes me wish again, a little. Just a little. Does it mean anything? How much stock can one put in dreams, anyway? Sometimes they’re revealing a deep part of subconscious psyche. Sometimes they’re indications from God. Sometimes they’re just random. How can I tell the difference? How can I make them stop? I’m already in my head too much when I’m awake; I don’t want to hang out in there when I’m sleeping, too. Not that I sleep much, but when I do it just confuses me instead of being restful.And home is no more restful than a strange bed, I’ve found. Nor a strange bed more so than home. Dreams find me still; little films of hopes and dreads, past and present, playing out on the backs of my eyelids.So even in my sleep I’m reminded of how horrible I am at meeting new people. At finding ease in a crowd. Red campus or yellow, I still feel separate from it all. Watching but in a separate dimension. Thoughts go through my head…things I would say if I was who I had been. If I was still the girl who used to participate and even be the life of the party sometimes; or at least part of it. Giggles the Otter. Not anymore. Why can’t I be her again? I miss it. The words come to me, the words she would say, but I don’t say them. I know what she would do; I can see her doing those things as if her ghost was before me—my private phantom. But I can’t follow her. I should be able to. To order my tongue to speak, my lips to smile, my legs to take me where the life and action is. But somehow I can’t. I know I’ll never make my own life in the world if I don’t do these things, but I can’t.Maybe because my situation is not yet desperate. Maybe when I’ve hit the rock-bottom of loneliness-- when I am no longer content to be the hermit I am now—maybe then I’ll be able to push myself into the light where the others are. Where I used to be. My eyes have adjusted to these shadows, though, and the sunlight will inevitably hurt them.I know that, and even though I know it I still don’t want to shut my eyes. There is so much to see and I want to see it all, even the ugliness that is there, because in order for it to be judged ugly it must dwell amidst beauty.Just like now, though it’s late and tonight I feel like I might get real sleep for once, I don’t want to turn out the light. I don’t want to close my eyes. It’s been this way for the past few nights. By halting my pen or closing my book and lying down for the night, I feel as if I am ending some story prematurely. The close of the day no longer seems to fit where it comes. It seems too early; there’s too much left but I have to follow just hours behind the sun, though the moon illuminates the most inspiring things. I must sleep through them. Or dream in code. Or toss and turn in frustration—too weary to soak up the inspiration of the night, but too wakeful to indulge in its peaceful purpose of sleep.The other night, as sleep evaded me, I read some of Psalm. Lots of them are divided into two parts, you know. The first part is the cry to God; the crisis, the confusion. The second is the joy when God has provided some relief. A beginning of mourning, an ending of praise. Sometimes the line is blurred. There is praise in the suffering; a different kind of praise. A strange, but beautiful kind. As if the pain of the psalmist is in itself a demonstration of faith. Some are about war with others. Some about battling with one’s own humanity. If I were a psalmist, I think mine would be mostly about the latter. I know I’m never there for You, though You’re always there for me. I reached out and plucked the apple. The knowledge is too much for me; let my innocence return. I want to put You first. All these other lovers keep getting in the way; I’m weak and I can’t fight them. Why can’t I let go of things I never should have grasped? Even now they tempt me. Why is everything I do for such selfish reasons? I just want to love You. Such a simplistic request, and still I can’t hide my left hand from my right...Can’t? Or won’t? Can’t, because humans can do nothing good apart from God, or won’t, because of my selfish humanity? What is the balance between waiting on God and not doing my part?I’m tired of concepts; I need a course of action. If climbing Mt. Everest in shorts would change my heart, I’d to it. That seems easier to me than the intangible steering of thoughts and emotions that I have no idea how to control.I’d have a better idea if I could keep my focus long enough to figure anything out, really. There were things I wanted to write, just a second ago, but I stopped to hug my dog and now I’ve forgotten them. They seemed important, too. I thought them out, studying my reflection in the mirror as I waited for the water to warm up. I knew what I was going to say; could almost feel my fingers type. But I can’t remember now.Something about seeking knowledge, and how I’ve been trying to do that lately but it hasn’t satisfied the…something. The wise seek knowledge, Proverbs says, and I’ve been trying. I did well for awhile, too. But it’s like everything else: being “better” requires constant, consistent effort and I just can’t keep it up for long.I start up again eventually, at everything I try to do—eat really healthy, read complex books, read every news article I see, improve my concentration, improve my character—but when I do I’ve lost ground and have so much to recover. Always one step forward, two steps back and I don’t know what to do.The screen is glaring into my eyes but I’ve so much left to say and I wish someone would just answer all my questions.Primarily, am I the only one with so much confusion? I know I’m not; I suppose that’s not really what I’m trying to say. What I mean is, I don’t want to be tieless forever, and I don’t think I’ll ever “have it all together”. At least not for a very, very long time. But I don’t want to wait that long for some establishment. There are things I want in life, things that are within other people’s control; not mine. Will they give me those things when I ramble on and on like this? Or will I not deserve what they have to give until I figure things out? Am I being overly-emotional? Purple prose? Immature? Dramatic? Do I cross the line of acceptable melancholy indulgence? “A fool vents all his feelings, but a wise man holds them back.” (Proverbs 29:11) Am I being a fool, venting my feelings? I can’t tell. Maybe it doesn't matter. It's not like anyone actually reads these anyway. In fact, I don't know why I bother. Maybe it's just relieving to vent without having to be vulnerable face-to-face. Oops, there's that 'vent' word...Sometimes I think everyone has these kinds of raging mental storms. But maybe we aren’t supposed to talk about them. Maybe there’s a reason most journals—even edited ones—are kept secret. Maybe “stability” isn’t reached until one can roll all this up and swallow it, wash it down with a swig of reality and keep it from coming back up. Maybe I’ve said so many things that aren’t supposed to be said and so I won’t get what I’ve been hoping for. Won’t get it for a long long time. If ever.Do I have to be as close to perfection as humanly possible in order to receive fulfillment? Fulfillment. Maybe someone would tell me that my fulfillment should come from Christ. And it does, ultimately. He is my foundation. The durable canvass that upholds my life’s-work-in-progress; allows me to indulge in different colors and try techniques again and again and again because I know, no matter how much I smear the paint, He has reinforced this life-art I’m making.But I still have desires unfulfilled. And I think that’s ok; I think God gives us our desires, partly so that He can give them to us and we in turn will give more glory to Him, and partly to help us accomplish His will. I think He wants us to be happy, and that He won’t force us to go our entire earthly lives without that thing—or the concept of that thing—we want the very most. But I don’t know if I’m right. What do I know? Just because it makes sense to me doesn’t mean it’s so. My mind has a way of making connections that don’t exist in order to stop me when I’m on the verge of freaking out. A subconscious sanity-preservation mechanism; a security measure for complacency. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, before any of my earthly desires will be satisfied, I have to stop wanting them. Maybe I will never know how amazing it would feel to have a desire satisfied when the waves of wanting are most intense. Maybe, when I’ve ridden out the wracking storms of yearning, when I’ve ceased to really care whether or not I ever feel my heart swell with that kind of joyous disbelief…maybe my wishes won’t be granted until then. Maybe that’s the truth. And that terrifies me. But there are promises, right? There are scriptures about fountains of blessings and fulfillment. “May He grant you according to your heart’s desire, and fulfill all your purpose.” (Psalm 20:4). God even acknowledges that receiving desire is good for the soul: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.” (Proverbs 13:12). And He indicates that He will give us what we want: “I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for.” (Jeremiah 29:11). He says we’ll be so happy, we “shall go forth in the dances of those who rejoice.” (Jeremiah 31:4). I know, all of those verses could be referringto heaven, the ultimate fulfillment. But what about his one: “I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” (Psalm 27:13).In the land of the living. Of course, I have seen much of His goodness already, here in the land of the living. But my hope is deferred and so my heart is sick, and its life support is the belief that He will give me my heart’s desire in the land of the living. So maybe the acknowledgement of the fact that He exists--maybe that's not enough for us and He knows it. Maybe He made it that way, so that we could have other deisres and He could give them to us or we could learn from them. Maybe...His existence doesn't fulfill all of our desires, but through His existence all of our desires are fulfilled.When He created everything, He said everything was good. Except for one thing: “It is not good for man to be alone.” (Genesis 2:18). Man had God, but he needed something else, too. Isn’t that an example indicating that we are designed for earthly fulfillment as well as Devine? That the two should work together?Am I reaching? Am I twisting scripture—making false connections—as a guard against hopelessness? Could it be that this wish will eat away, forever ungranted, at my soul until the day I die and it won’t stop gnawing until I get to heaven? I don’t think that He would do that to me; to anyone. I think, either the current wish will be fulfilled, or my heart will change to wish something new and then that wish will be satisfied. Either way, I think He will grant the desires of my heart. But maybe I’m wrong. I’m afraid that I’m wrong. And why shouldn’t I be wrong? I’m no scholar of scripture. Maybe I’m way off. Like I said: what do I know?