Two days ago in my 600-level "theory of religion" course - also known as required-to-graduate-as-a-religious-studies-major course - I was asked to write out a definition for religion.

Now we all know Geertz tried and systematically spiraled our society into a serious shenanigan. But he also structured religion in such a way to leave no room for Freudian liberty.

You have the Vatican. And then you have your 10:00pm (on the dot) cookie-eating devotee. Does our society not ascribe to them both a certain "religious" demeanor? The relativity of the word in and of itself defies the boundaries of an organized, centuries-old construct.

Naturally, the hoity toities in my class affirmed their disbelief in a sufficient definition for the term religion. And then the circle came around to me. My cheeks already started to seep into the redness of premature, anticipated embarrassment.

Nevertheless, I articulated well and with swan-like resolve, I said:

"Religion is the manifestation and articulation of human toil to give order to everything we subscribe to internally and externally."

Bam.

My professor's area of expertise is in Nepalese cultural diversity in the 21st century, specifically in regards to women's modern Christian conversion and evangelical underground church leadership roles. All that to say, she has intellectual authority over us on all aggregate religious topics.

She approved and chalked my definition onto the board in its own category.

I considered it a minor victory in a vast world of postmodern relativity and pompous academics.

The problem, the foundation-cracking issue, with my definition is that mechanistic regurgitation will not solve human toil. Some display of our brokenness exists in that definition. But what comfort do we have in life in death?

"That I with body and soul, both in life and death, am not my own, but belong unto my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ; who, with his precious blood, has fully satisfied for all my sins, and delivered me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me that without the will of my heavenly Father, not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must be subservient to my salvation, and therefore, by his Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me sincerely willing and ready, henceforth, to live unto him." 

Heidelberg Catechism

Love in Hard Places

She’s the whip on the top of a frappe (or froth on a cappuccino) and the chocolate at the bottom of the nutty butty.

She’s everything I prefer.

Distance intimates perfection, but there’s forgiveness woven in our sisterly connection that pulls weeds with care and crying compassion.

Linked in this uniquity we reside in the solace of knowing someone knows, you know?

Stuck in the slanted blue-green checkered labyrinth of separation, but pushed into perseverance and muscularly relaxed, knowing the continuity of what we have is as long as life. 

Downwinded

Sitting, knee up – because comfort and coolness waft up my skirt – watching airplanes collect the rust and the dust of tie down. Windsock gently inflated, runway stays straight. It’s a life=giving line of pavement. Here my mind wanders daily. So the week end’s indulgence is a reward I’ve sought and now enjoy. The thing that can cause so much stress is the thing that provides serious freedom.

This place could be such a gem.

Take me with you.

I want my kids to have a flyer's life.

Held up by atmospheric pressure, horsepower and your own pilotage, it’s so far from miraculous. Nevertheless. So much of it sponsors your every adrenaline-seeking fiber, absorbs your mind’s musings, subscribing them to purpose, system, routine and ensured accomplishment if you follow the process with a dose of finesse and a dash of natural talent.

It pulls you back up for endless amounts of more. 

As with any art, it’s unconquerable and improvement is an exponential goal. And in keeping with the artful characteristic, it grants you a sort of healing. It’s a reorientation of our grounded, heavy, earth-laden perspectives, and expands your every faculty. It attaches steel flaps to your brazen little arms; gives your toes directional control; and your heart – your core – synchronizes to the rhythm of that twirling blade up front. Fuselage links with belly, if you will, and that bobbly thing in your brain that tells you when you’re directionally whopperjawed bounces with every gyro on the bird’s display panel.

The machine is everything you are but allows for so much more. So here I sit, like taking nutmeg for a heroine addiction, looking through my car's windshield at those roped, imprisoned impossibilities, watching others enjoy their version of my hobby. Slave, a grateful, master-abiding one though, to a 100-year-old privilege called flight. 

And this, my aviator's lament.

Mile-long Memories

Privileged, yes.
Chilled galleries.
Yes, simply standing on the principle of the capability to explore.
Chopped basil, smashed pine nuts, grated parmesan.
Explore because travel? Well not just.
Rosemary swinging smoke.
Just as with all things, an encounter necessitates a response to such.
Torn stubs, tossed coins.
Such that I felt, I tasted, I smelled, I reveled, I ran, I tried.
Nickel-worn keys.
Tried to catalogue like a life-long, devoted librarian.
Fuller curves, flatter chest.
Librarians keep the books of scribes.
Noticed and pressed.

Alpine

It was a joyous "embarkation." Like when you're on the cusp of victory without a battle as the required entry fee. I think I understand the sensation because it mirrors my sanctification, and I'm encouraged by these flashes of Zion that inhabit the present earth. Like heavenward-modeled processes. Like a bud being cultivated for ultimate bloom.

And so four trains later we went through Milan to Spiez to Interlaken Ost to Lauterbrunnen. Then we walked to Stechelberg instead of paying for the bus. It was a leisurely hour-long walk, and we saw the first glimpse of our weekend's surrounding from the valley perspective. We took the gondola up to Gimmelwald. It was my first cable car ride, and there we were.

The Mountain Hostel was a 10-yard walk from the gondola station. It was communal in every way of the word: bathrooms, bunk rooms, kitchen... It was festive and equalizing. We were braided together into this organic respite from civilized haste and societal infrastructure.

My bed was bunk #21. We got situated and then walked around to explore. We found this small "honesty store," where you leave money for the items you want. It seemed to be a popular storefront setup. So I stopped in what seemed to be someone's basement and left Swiss franks for a pair of hand-knit socks. We made sautéed sausage and peppers (topped with pesto and Swiss cheese, of course) in the hostel's kitchen and met a friend. He was from Michigan but starts a job in Raleigh in the fall. Part of me thinks the Spirit identified Himself in the other, if that makes sense, because we found ourselves in conversation about a love for the Lord. It was a little gift. And it made me think back on some of the sweetest unplanned moments of my life. Most always do they involve the initial discovery of a unification in Christ with fellow travelers. The richness of those encounters, I think, comes when there is a depth bore in human relation almost instantaneously. That which we hope for in so many friendships with coworkers, classmates and even friends and family is found and reveled in during these meetings. It is largely redemptive of the shallowness and repetitive motion-going that is the normative. For a time, it is the sweetest disposition, like a reminder of your first taste of salvation. A remnant of a sensation that never gets stale. A perfume of Christ to me and to all those around us.

Long before this conversation, a group of five of us began playing card games that oddly-enough broke down geographically: the Texan suggested Pinochle, the Midwesterners taught us Euchre and all I know how to play is Go Fish. So we settled for a game that required you do certain actions based on the card you drew. Naturally, the card I picked required me to stand up on a table and sing "Don't Stop Believing" to a crowd of 30+ beer-drinking, card-playing, fellow mountain climbers. Let's just say it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Turns out this girl has a tune in her after all.

The next morning we woke up to climb - and dance and sing and run and yoga - our way up Schilthorn in the rain and fog. We were freezing. In Mürren we made a pastry and coffee pit stop.

It was one of those days in life that you know you'll never sufficiently catalogue into your memory, but it will always be your definition of ultimate: ultimate freedom, ultimate freshness, ultimate beauty, and the ultimate dichotomous display of God's peace and power. And his desire to be recognized and glorified. Here, that task was made easy.

The next day we headed down the mountain back to Lauterbrunnen to catch a train back to Interlaken for canyon jumping. We immediately missed Gimmewald. It was one of those havens that you never say "goodbye" to, only "see you next time." Probably because the thought of a permanent farewell would be the closing off of a possibility your whole heart hopes will one day be relived. And that is to see it, to breathe it and to experience it all again. Interlaken was touristy, but we went there solely for the jump.

We took a bus to an area where the ravine was perfect for canyon jumping. We harnessed up and initiated our own falls. I did not grab the rope at all during my free fall, which, according to the guide, was "WICKED!" I guess that's my inner-bird being released from her cage. The whole time I must have been wishfully trying to fly. So arms wide-open, I embraced gravity and all it had to offer, which was mostly air rushing into my face... and maybe a bug or two. You free fall for so long (the equivalent of a 7-story building) that your heart seems to stop, and it is hard to even breathe. And then the swing commences, and you cannot believe you physically survived and mentally withstood the totality of the experience.

That night we stayed in the (in)famous "Balmer's Tent Village," which was like a M.A.S.H. military camp and hippie compound combined. All the tents were named after major cities around the world and contained three bunks. I was #13 in the Bern tent. We met some friends: Magic Mike was the tall, curly-blonde, lanky Brit who was traveling solo looking for mountains to climb. The entire night everyone thought he was twins with my friend. And they really did look like siblings. Then there was Ellery, the triple major from Cornell University, who kept buying us beer because "he missed his girlfriend and just wanted friends." So between the four of us, we enjoyed a few Swiss brews, did some late-night slacklining and enjoyed philosophical conversation, cigar smoking and star gazing from hammocks. Per usual, I won the contest for who could identify the most constellations.

On our way home the next morning, we left behind the tent village and our newfound friends for Spiez, a small summer-vacation town in Switzerland. At this point we were looking like mismatched hobos, wearing every clean piece of clothing we had left as layers to keep warm. But after 4 hours of Coop shopping, swinging on a child's playground and journaling to kill time before our next train, we were en route back to Florence.