ISSUE SIX FALL 2023 AT THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA
Bearings is a student-run journal of Christian thought at the University of Virginia that seeks to provide an interdenominational and interdisciplinary forum for spiritual conversation on Grounds.
Annelise Wolfe Sea Meadow ,2023 Gouache
Growing up, Sundays were my favorite day of the week. My family and I would pile into my mom’s deep green minivan to make the trip to church. I didn’t understand the standing, the kneeling, or why the men in front were wearing white robes, but I liked picking out a dress and singing with friends. After church, my family would go to Grace’s Pizza where the waiter would give us pizza dough to play with while we waited. Looking back, I remember Sundays spent in a booth with good conversation, delicious food, and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
Tish Harrison Warren, an Anglican Priest and best-selling author, wrote, “the crucible of our formation is the anonymous monotony of our daily routines.” 1 When reflecting on my life — my Sunday, my week, my semester, my childhood — I realize that my day-today routines and rhythms have shaped my experiences and identity in profound ways. That’s why, for the sixth issue of Bearings , we have explored this idea of “Rhythms.” Whether it’s the pattern of the Psalms, Jesus’ teachings, or forty days of trial, rhythms saturate the Biblical story.
As Christians, we bear witness to these rhythms, both secular and sacred. At UVa, we take part in the “work hard, play hard” atmosphere and answer the question, “how are you?” with “busy.” But we also find rest and community during Sunday morning
church services and weekly small groups. In the pages you are about to read, you will encounter poetry that calls you to look at the world through a new lens, prose that explores the concept of time and space, and visual art that depicts heartbeats and musicians.
I am grateful to the Parent’s Program, the Center for Christian Study, and our anonymous donors for their financial support. I am deeply thankful for our graduating Executive Team members, Annika Reynolds and Peter Larsen for their guidance, leadership, and most of all, friendship. I also want to thank the entire team of editors, writers, poets, artists, and designers who contributed to the journal.
Lastly, thank you to you, dear reader, and may you find joy and rest in the rhythms of your life.
In Christ,
Meredith Hicks Editor-in-Chief
Meredith Hicks
Editor-in-Chief
Mary Bleech
Brett Carey
Anna Heetderks
Sarah Lambert
Maddie Mislock
Maggie McDermott
Emily Nicely
Peyton Rabb
Annika Reynolds
Lauren Campbell | Illustration & Photography
Nate Diemer | Photography
Ashley Fan | Illustration & Photography
Lydia Kim | Visual Art
Harmony LaJeunesse | Visual Art
Thomas Laughridge | Photography
Jack Miller | Photography
Peyton Stallings | Illustration
Carey Thomas | Illustration
Annelise Wolfe | Photography & Visual Art
Lauren Campbell
Ashley Fan
Catherine Judd
Peter Larsen
Thomas Laughridge
Jack Miller
Peyton Stallings
Carey Thomas
Mary Bleech | Editor, M.A. in Linguistics ‘23
Brett Carey | Editor, Col ‘23
Peter Larsen | Design Chair, Col ‘23
Maggie McDermott | Editor, Col ‘23
Annika Reynolds | Editor-in-Chief, Col ‘23
Sophie Burk President Carey Thomas Design Chair
Nick Cummings SUNDAY MORNING
Grace Whitaker
CATCHING YOUR BREATH
Lauren Campbell
THE EDDY
Grace Jackson
WHEN SECULAR BECOMES SACRED
Brett Carey ARROWS OF THE ALMIGHTY
Katie Mead
MY MOTHER’S DAUGHTER
Ashley Fan
THE CLOCK, THE MAKER, AND THE BOY
Emorie Howard
I WOULD LIKE TO WRITE ABOUT CRICKETS
Claire Huchthausen
“Is it possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon? It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them.”
G.K. Chesterton
attend to the breeze sunlight chilled, whispering trees why are you surprised?
take out your airpods slow down. be still. lean in. hmm. i miss my music
the stones are speaking it is so hard to listen i would rather be chatting
once again i stop i gaze at the tree above nuts, leaves, sheddings fall
arboreal fragments glint, whisper, and meander cascading lightly
like ants belting song art emerges from the kiln with soft, silver voice
like stringed instruments freshly fired pottery, cools and breathes and audibly twinkles
the little around softly requests attention stop, listen, heal
notice the little
Iwas in the seventh grade when I first fell in love. I was sitting in orchestra class, and I heard her before I saw her. She sang a wondrous song of joy and beauty that you would probably recognize. Her maple skin glistened in the fluorescent light as a bow danced across her strings. I am not sure how I had played the cello for three years without ever hearing Cello Suite No. 1 by Bach, but in that moment, I was acquainted with what has characterized my life ever since — a love and passion for the cello.
When I think of ‘rhythms,’ my mind immediately jumps to the cello. Not only is rhythm a crucial part of cello music, but the cello has been a consistent rhythm in my life. I have been playing cello for twelve years now, and it has become an extension of myself. When words cannot express my feelings, it has steadfastly spoken on my behalf. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows, I have been blessed with the ability to use the cello to feel and process what I cannot on my own. The simple act of playing provides peace and release. Oddly enough, I would not consider myself a good cellist. While I may be in love with the cello, I am not the
most technically proficient. It started off as something my mother encouraged me to do, and I only continued because I thought it would look good on a college resume. Over the years, though, my commitment to the cello, as well as its presence as a daily rhythm, led to an affection that has changed my life. It has taken me across the country, placed me in new circles, and even put me on Spotify.
My experience with the cello has something unique to say about the power of rhythms. It is an idea that is quite contrary to how we think, but it’s one that is deeply embedded in our daily lives. Often, we think our natural affinity toward certain things forms our love for them. Either we click with something, or we don’t. This feeling then leads us to action: we pursue what we feel we love. I’d argue against this idea. Instead, I believe our loves are formed by what we do. We create affections towards things by first committing to them. How? By adding them to our daily rhythms.
Over time, my commitment to the cello has grown my love for it exponentially. I believe it is the same with any habit we take on. We can create love for something by committing to it until we get good at it, or at least until it becomes a consistent rhythm. Our feelings do not simply form our affections, rather our actions reaffirm those feelings. This also means that what we do shapes our desires. It shapes what we think is worth loving and what we value.
As I look back on my life, I see an amazing story of persistence, leading to an affection, which reaffirmed my actions, further perpetuating the feeling, and so on and so forth. I see a hobby that I committed to falling in love with, and I see a God who was willing and able to use my desires for a good college resume to change the course of my life.
What is true of my relationship with my cello I have also found true in my relationship with God. Nowadays I find myself heavily devoted to spending time with Him. What this produces in me is a desire to daily come to Him, and to fit Him into my daily rhythms. Throughout my day I make a conscious effort to acknowledge His presence within and around me. This
looks like us spending time in the morning together, praying throughout the day, and recounting the day together before bed. I seek to bring Him into my relationships and find friends who are like minded to me for encouragement and support. Have I earned a relationship with God through my actions? Hardly. But to foster the relationship that He has given me, I have created disciplines that are integral to my day.
I challenge you, reader, to ask yourself an important question: What are you looking for, and have you found it? What are your values? If your actions and habits form your desires, are they set up in a way that reaffirms such values and aspirations? As a Christian, I believe that the Lord is working all things together for good. This ‘good’ is that through God’s work we should become like Jesus (Romans 8:28-29). So, we can play a part in this work by gearing all circumstances, relationships, and habits towards this goal.
What is our job? To use our daily rhythms as practices that turn us once again to the Father, practices that create in us a greater affection for Him and His desires for us. The change that happens in us is a task He willingly takes on. It is His work to do. Little by little, He allows us to turn what was once a duty into a beautiful relationship — a story of love and passion for a God that we commit to.
Reflect on your daily rituals: what do they say about you? Do you like what’s being said? Are you hungry for something that can trump your momentary feelings and lead to committed action? I encourage you all to pick up a new habit that is geared towards making you the person you want to be. Add it to your routine, and watch as you take agency over the person you are becoming.
Who are you becoming? Does that question make you excited? Nervous? Confused?
What if I told you that there was a rulebook from which we could determine our destiny? Sounds a tad mystic, but stay with me here. We all understand that there are certain rules to reality. If we touch a hot stove, we assume we’re going to get burned. If we jump off a staircase, we’re going to get hurt. That’s just the way the world works. But what if the rules of reality don’t stop at the physical? We all accept the laws of motion as known facts, but there is no such consensus when it comes to laws of the soul.
The concept of the soul can seem fairly abstract, but it doesn’t have to be. Prominent philosopher and theologian Dallas Willard defines the soul as “the entity within a person that integrates all of the components of his or her life into their life, one life.”1 It is the whole self. Just as there are rules to the physical self, there seem to be rules for the spiritual self. Knowledge of these physical rules help us accomplish incredible feats like launching spaceships and harnessing the power of electricity; imagine what a knowledge of spiritual rules might allow us to accomplish. What if the spiritual and physical rules are more closely connected than we might think? A reach, I know, but keep reading and see what I mean.
the direction of our souls. Every day we’re barraged with countless things demanding our attention. Like a kid in the middle of Times Square, our souls are pulled in every which way, overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds. It’s no wonder so many of us are plagued by anxiety and exhaustion: if we’re not doing something, we’re thinking about doing something or thinking about what we’ve done. We’re thinking about the next project due, the last interaction we had, and on a heavier note, the range of traumas that take up so much headspace. How many of us can truly say our souls are at rest when we’re inundated with endless outside forces?
Our souls are constantly in motion. Throughout our days, there are innumerable outside forces influencing
In other words, you get out what you put in. Our thoughts become words become actions become habits become character become destiny.2 We have an incredible amount of agency in determining the type of people we become; unfortunately, we often don’t act like the people we want to become. We say “I’ll do x when I get older, but for right now I’ll keep doing y.” But here’s the problem: if you keep doing y, you will become a y person. It shouldn’t be surprising when our generation that is so enthralled with hookup culture struggles to hold down long-term relationships. We cannot hope to be the type of people who have meaningful relationships if we only practice the meaningless. Thankfully, in our present reality, we are capable of change (and are given grace, thank God). This is a great power; and with great power. . .
3. To every action there is an equal but opposite reaction.
Everything has consequences (good or bad). When a force meets an object, the object either pushes back or gets deformed. So what does that mean for us? You get to decide what you surrender to and what you push back against, what forms you and what doesn’t. We can find a balance between being blown about by every breeze and brick-walling our way through life. Diamond, though hard, shatters. Clay, though resilient, has no definitive structure. There’s a reason there are no tools made out of diamond or clay.
Our choices matter. It’s not just about being a “good” person; the people we are becoming has eternal consequence. As C.S. Lewis puts it, “every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different than it was before.”3 Are we becoming more heavenly or more hellish? More harmonious or hateful? Who are you becoming? Are you becoming the person you desire to be? We have been given incredible agency and we ought to steward it well. It is not enough to wish upon a star to change; we must practice being the people we want to be. What a remarkable opportunity. Godspeed.
3C.S.
Nick Cummings graduated this spring with a major in Economics, and is now a masters student in the Batten School of Leadership and Public Policy. Outside of academics, he leads with Chi Alpha, reads books, and enjoys a good game of pickup basketball.
1Dallas Willard, The Great Omission: Reclaiming Jesus’s Essential Teachings on Discipleship (New York: HarperCollins, 2014), 139.
2The exact source of the quote, “Watch your thoughts. They become words. Watch your words. They become deeds. Watch your deeds. They become habits. Watch your habits. They become character,” from which this sentence is paraphrased is unknown, although some have attributed it to Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Lewis, Mere Christianity (New York: HarperCollins, 1952), 92.
You get to decide what you surrender to and what you push back against, what forms you and what doesn’t.PHOTOGRAPHY FROM JACK MILLER
It is 9:28 on a Sunday morning
In a small town in Upstate New York
And a 41-year-old woman stands bracingly
At the ornately carved double doors of Our Lady of Victory’s Chapel.
She is too old to be considered young
But far too young for anything but A tenuous grasp on the eternal and the divine. Over 30 years have passed since the last time She passed through these doors, nodding in Response to the priest’s murmured greetings. She remembers the soot from burned incense
Settling into the rivets of the wooden floor,
And she remembers light streaming in
From the high warped windows, baking
Gritty dust into the faded velvet kneelers.
The air was thick and stagnant and hot and holy
And she would always hold her breath
When she entered the chapel—
Whether to keep the holiness out
Or the sin inside, she never knew—
And she would fix her eyes on the floor
As she made her way down the aisle, Scratched by women’s heels and stained
By drops of holy water, and she imagined
That every creak pronounced her wicked.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
When she would finally reach her family’s pew, The second row on the right, she would risk A glance upward at the Crucifixion in stained glass, Translucent shards the color of sacred music, And she’d fix her eyes on the man on the cross— Not the Christ-figure, but the one to His left, Clothed in rags and drenched in pain of crucifixion, But on his face the expression of one who had Been searching for something for many years And had finally found it— And she’d follow his gaze back to Christ. Back then she was a child, innocent and penitent, And now she is 41, guilty and defiant, And she does not know which state is better. She nods at the new priest, about her age, And as she nears the doorway, she braces herself Against the thickness of holy atmosphere— But she inhales, steps inside, and exhales. And then she inhales again. And she takes careful, measured steps Down the newly refinished wooden aisle, Eyes darting nervously across the old pews, Silently daring a parishioner to call her bluff, To recognize the stench of her guilt as pollution And banish her from their hallowed ground, And when no one does, she carefully sits
In the familiar second-row pew on the right, And she stares once more into the stained glass, In the desperate hope of finding whatever it was The man had long been searching for.
It is no secret that UVA is run by runners. A culture of aerobic exercise is certainly celebrated and widely practiced. Without a doubt, Grounds sees its fair share of runners at all hours. Take for example, “Run With Jim,” as exhibit A. Our very own university president has run twelve consecutive Boston Marathons. Nonetheless, it does not take much mileage for one to become well-versed in running’s rhythms: the cadence of the heartbeat, quickened respiration, pendulum-like strides, and the temporal succession of seconds. It is while running that we become acutely aware of these physiological timekeepers which accent our humanity.
However, in my experience as a runner, I perpetually failed to acknowledge the discipline of breathing. I remember running cross country races in high school and my teammates would yell, “Keep Going! Breathe!” from the sidelines. It is kind of a funny thing to be told to do something that is involuntary. Our breathing muscles are purposefully designed to operate automatically. While we don’t have to focus on breathing in order to do it, breathlessness is still a reality we face. When our bodies are under stress, the sympathetic nervous system kicks in. Whether it be approaching a finish line in a race or approaching a deadline in school, our stress response manifests itself physically. The activation of the sympathetic nervous system causes an increase in heart rate, blood pressure, and respiration rate.1 Our natural rhythms are elevated and intensified when the sympathetic nervous system is engaged. So, in these moments of stress, what are we told to do? Take a breath.
It seems like such a simple, almost annoyingly primitive, response. But, slowed and deep breathing stimulates
PHOTOGRAPHY FROM ASHLEY FAN
the parasympathetic response. The parasympathetic nervous system is regulatory and guides the body toward homeostasis.2 When we focus on returning to the rhythmic inhale and exhale of breath, we return to the very heart of being. We focus on our temporality, and subsequently, we return to the rhythm of remembrance: that we are both physical and spiritual beings. The rise and fall of our breath animate our finiteness. It pressures us to: Pause. Be. Breathe.
On an anatomical level, breath is essential for the intake of oxygen and life. The rhythm of breath is fundamental to the human experience and thus points to the Creator of breath. Scripture says, “God, the Lord, created the heavens and stretched them out. He created the earth and everything in it. He gives breath to everyone, life to everyone who walks the earth.”3 The Creator of life and breath designed deep and rhythmic breathing to be a mechanism for calming the mind, body, and spirit. In drawing deep breaths we are drawn to an admission of dependence and invited to return to the present.
Needless to say, we are incapable of operating at a mile a minute — though we try. Inevitably, we regularly succumb to short-winded and exhausted living. We try to burn the candle at both ends only to encounter our insufficiency. The resulting interruptions to our circadian rhythms are sufficient evidence. In spite of this reality, long-distance runners can actually train to run for quite a long time. Ultra Marathons can range anywhere from 30 miles to over 100. So, what is the key to avoiding burnout? Veteran runners are attuned to a different rhythm: pacing.
Pacing requires breath control and slowness. Runners are familiar with finding a rhythm between their gait and breath in order to maximize oxygen efficiency. Studies show that with each footstrike, the force of impact is two to three times your body weight. Stress is greatest when the foot strike and beginning of an exhalation coincide.4 Thus, correctly timed and rhythmic breath is an injury prevention technique. It is the opposite of what you think of when you imagine racing. Instead, it is measured, unhurried, and patient. It is similar to how Jesus describes his kingdom: paced
living is an upside-down and countercultural lifestyle. This discipline is foreign to our bodies and minds. We are inclined to come out of the gate running. But paced breath is not a confession of weakness, rather it is a testimony of endurance. Cultivating the discipline of being still in moments of high intensity is uncomfortable and quite frankly, feels unnatural. Conscious breath, however, slows the racetrack of our mind and conditions us to rest in our temporal state.
God doesn’t come and go. God lasts. He’s Creator of all you can see or imagine. He doesn’t get tired out, doesn’t pause to catch His breath. And He knows everything, inside and out. He energizes those who get tired, gives fresh strength to dropouts. For even young people tire and drop out, young folk in their prime stumble and fall. But those who wait upon God get fresh strength. They spread their wings and soar like eagles, they run and don’t get tired, they walk and don’t lag behind.5
While deep breathing is a built-in, stress-reducing and endurance-producing technique, it is not a panacea for the chronic breathlessness we face. It is a way to become grounded, not rooted. When we do eventually run out of breath, it is the Lord who ultimately provides fresh strength. God doesn’t need to catch His breath, but He graciously holds our every breath. The rhythm of breath is an exhale of hope. Consequently, respiration’s oscillation forces us to understand where our hope lies — because it brings us back to one of the core pulses of existence. It is the first thing we do when we are born, and it is the last thing we do before we die. And, in the in-between, whether we acknowledge it or not, we are holding fast to the Sustainer of breath. Rhythmic breathing is humanity’s enduring melody of faith.
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Lauren Campbell is a third year studying English and Arts Administration. She is on the Design Team for Bearings and a servant leader in Chi Alpha. She loves calligraphy, running (mostly), and sundaes!
The leaf tilts this way and that Shivers and sighs
It twirls around and around Circling in its pause
Shuddering as it waits
In an instant something changes
The leaf is pulled into the current And speeds down the creek
Dodging rocks
Bumping into other stream-swept debris
I ponder that leaf
Whether it is as anxious to get on its way
As I am
I ponder its leaning
How it manages to keep itself right side up And afloat
I ponder its spinning
Whether it is delightedly pirouetting
Or spiraling uncontrollably
I ponder the leaf’s pause
I ponder my pause
How I might honor the One who guides me in my waiting
To point to Him even as I watch
The others speed past me in the current
How I might sing songs of praise
Even as my emotions spiral out of control
To glorify Him here
When I want to be there
I ponder the eddy
As UVa students are well aware, unlike so many other institutions of higher education, Thomas Jefferson’s university was not built around a central church building. Rather, it has a library, the Rotunda, as its architectural focal point. Jefferson, the author of the phrase “a wall of separation between the church and state,” desired education at UVa to likewise be separate from religion.1 At the time, this vision stood in marked contrast to other schools, which still functioned primarily as seminaries for
various Protestant traditions. In the following twohundred years, it seems that Jefferson’s vision of higher education has won the field. His own university has stayed the secular course, and once-religious schools, like Harvard and Yale, have themselves become bastions of secularism.
And yet, rising up out of the ground next to the Dell Pond is perhaps a crack in the façade: the soon-to-be Contemplative Commons. According to the building’s
website, it “embodies a new model of higher education. . . that is based upon immersive, experiential, and participatory forms of deep learning that facilitate student flourishing.”2 It is also the embodiment of UVa’s Contemplative Sciences Center (CSC), which, since its founding in 2012, has promoted mindfulness, meditation, and yoga on Grounds. What the Westernized jargon of the CSC obscures is its foundation in Eastern religious traditions for many of its insights and methods. The website goes on to say of the Contemplative Commons that “no other site on Grounds so faithfully corresponds in design and intention to Thomas Jefferson’s vision for the original Academical Village” (emphasis added).3 I believe that this new building reveals blind spots in this vision which assumes that the secular can be cleanly walled off from the sacred.
The Contemplative Commons will be a prominent feature of Central Grounds upon its completion, with a new pedestrian bridge over Emmett Street leading students directly to its entrance. What will set it apart from other buildings on Grounds is its heavy incorporation of indoor-outdoor space, natural light, and gardens into its design. A ring of indoor spaces will surround the center of the Commons, which will be a multistory open-air space lined with trees. It will certainly be a stunning contrast to many of the other academic halls that can feel more like bomb shelters after one has spent all-day learning under their artificial light. The rooms, or rather, “flexible learning studios,” will house activities both academic and extracurricular, and are particularly designed to facilitate quiet reflection and physical activity. I envision it being a nice place to reserve a room for a club meeting or to study and socialize in-between classes, especially during the warmer months. It will also host the various programs of the CSC billed to encourage student flourishing like yoga, tai-chi, mindfulness meditations, and more.
The building and the center exist thanks to the donations of Sonia and Paul Jones. Paul is a UVa alum and Wall Street hedge fund billionaire whose funding of the John Paul Jones Arena granted him the right to name it after his father.4 His wife Sonia no doubt played a large role in making the donations as, according to
the New York Times, she is a yoga enthusiast.5 The CSC has nine instructors listed on its website, with each specializing in yoga or another traditionally Eastern discipline, while the executive director of the center is a Buddhist studies professor.6 Given the development of contemporary mindfulness practices out of Eastern traditions, it is unsurprising to find similar roots for the CSC.7 Would Jefferson be rolling over in his grave? Perhaps, but it is also important to note that Grounds has long had a distinctly Christian chapel located in a non-central but still-prominent location by the Rotunda, which certainly clashes with Jefferson’s original vision. The chapel traces its origin back to the time of the Second Great Awakening when a group of faculty wives who were upset by the lack of a chapel
came together to raise funds for its construction.8 The additions of the chapel and Commons to UVa both show that people, be they concerned spouses or wealthy philanthropists, have felt the need over the years to reintroduce forms of religion to the secular university.
Winston Churchill once said, “we shape our buildings; thereafter they shape us,” expressing the notion that the architecture in which we learn, work, study, and socialize forms us.9 This leads to the question: how will the Contemplative Commons shape future UVa students? The intention of its visionaries is that its serene design and the contemplative programs it hosts beget flourishing students. Rerouting the pedestrian bridge traffic from going directly to academic buildings
to the front of the Commons is a clear attempt to center the new building in the daily rhythms of students. The many contemplative activities that will take place within it foster the hope of creating habits of mindfulness amongst the student body. The outdoor areas and gardens are Edenic spaces to find rest from the buzz of Grounds. The follow-up question would then be: why does a university need to have a space like the Contemplative Commons? I think its creation reflects the reality that, in many ways, students at UVa are not flourishing. Yes, most students graduate and go on to have successful careers, but if you speak to them, you are likely to hear them express feelings of burn-out and struggles in maintaining their mental health. UVa is like a little hyper-America: we have a deeply competitive and achievement-oriented culture
that encourages restless and busy lifestyles. Mindfulness practices attempt to address this culture by encouraging students to focus on the present moment instead of being constantly caught up in the competition of highachieving UVa.
The problem is that the Contemplative Commons and the CSC’s methods only address the symptoms of restlessness and not its deeper cause. The University is already home to beautiful gardens and outdoor spaces, and, while a few more are nice, they are not going to radically alter the lives of UVa students. Mindfulness practices have been shown to have positive physical and mental health benefits in research, but they do not address the deeper restlessness of human hearts that desire status and seek it above all else. What is a student to do ten minutes after a mindful breathing exercise when his feelings of anxiety rush back because he’s the only one of his friends without a summer internship? Mindfulness cannot grant an identity that is resilient against the highs and lows of life at UVa.
Flourishing is an admirable goal and one that Christians should be happy to join with organizations like the CSC in achieving. Yet Christians also recognize that achieving true flourishing requires more than behavior modification. It is here that St. Augustine’s words of prayer to his Creator ring true: “you have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”10 The root of humanity’s problem is that we have chosen to love the things of this world (including and especially ourselves) above God. Our modern world’s narrative is that we must work hard to find satisfaction in the things of the world with our limited days of life.You only live once — why not sacrifice a little mental health, intimacy in relationships, and rest for the chance of glory in this life? The result is the lonely, anxious, and divided society in which we all live.
Christianity presents a counter-narrative: that of trust in the providence of the God who created everything and then invited it to rest. Humans were made to reflect our Creator, so, of course, we have a desire to work, but we also need to reflect the God who rests. That is why Jews and Christians have for millennia incorporated
rhythms of rest, such as a Sabbath day, into their lives. Christians like Augustine have recognized that they can experience a taste of this restful peace in this life when they turn away from the idols of success that lead to restless lives. Instead, Christ invites people to take up his yoke and receive “rest for your souls.”11 This means living out the counter-narrative by believing that the love of God is more important to who we are than our achievements. This love is powerful because it is the love that created the universe, so it can and will abundantly provide the fulfillment we seek. Still, so many people, Christians and non-Christian alike, live by the anxiety-inducing lie that this life is their only chance to satisfy their deepest desires. The truth that this lie seeks to hide is the hope of eternal life. In the life to come, Christians have the hope of experiencing God’s new creation with Him and with no time constraints that breed “life is too short” mindsets. Jesus in fact said that his followers would “have life and have it abundantly.”12 This captures the fullness of flourishing
that the Christian hope of eternal life promises. It is not simply temporally unbounded, it is the life we would live if we were flourishing in every way.
Augustine could have predicted that Jefferson’s secular vision for the university was destined to show cracks. A university is at heart a community, and communities are made up of human beings created by and for God. The Contemplative Commons will be a welcome addition to Grounds, but it will not solve the fundamental problem it points to: the God shaped hole in the heart of each person who will inhabit it. Christians on Grounds should take the opening of the Commons as a sign that there is a deep desire for flourishing at UVa and seek to come alongside people to show them the way that leads to eternal life.
1John Ragosta, “Thomas Jefferson and Religious Freedom,” Monticello.org, April 16, 2018, https://www.monticello.org/research-education/thomas-jefferson-encyclopedia/thomas-jeffersonand-religious-freedom/.
2“The Contemplative Commons,” Contemplative Sciences Center, https://csc.virginia.edu/feature/ contemplative-commons.
3“The Contemplative Commons.”
4Brian Coy, “New Contemplative Commons Will Enable Collaboration, Experimentation,” UVA Today, December 3, 2019, https://news.virginia.edu/content/new-contemplative-commons-will-enable-collaborationexperimentation.
5Randall Smith, “After a Dazzling Early Career, a Star Trader Settles Down,” New York Times, March 5, 2014, https://archive.nytimes.com/dealbook.nytimes.com/2014/03/05/after-a-dazzling-early-career-a-star-tradersettles-down/.
6“Staff,” Contemplative Sciences Center, https://csc.virginia.edu/about/staff.
7“What is Mindfulness?,” Greater Good Magazine, https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/topic/mindfulness/ definition#what-is-mindfulness.
8Peyton Wall, “A Chapel on Mr. Jefferson’s Grounds,” BackStory, September 19, 2016, https://backstoryradio. org/blog/a-chapel-on-mr-jeffersons-grounds/.
9Winston Churchill, “Debate on the House of Commons Rebuilding” (House of Commons, London, United Kingdom, October 28, 1943).
10Saint Augustine, Confessions, translated by Henry Chadwick (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 3. 11Matt. 11:19 (ESV).
12John 10:10 (ESV).
Renderings: “University of Virginia Contemplative Commons,” VMDO Architects, Accessed June 2023, https://www.vmdo.com/university-of-virginia-contemplative-sciences-center.html.
Brett Carey graduated with a degree in Economics this spring. He was an editor of Bearings and a small group leader in InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. He is now working for FTI Consulting in Northern Virginia.
This poison is seeping into me
And my blood is flowing where He didn’t intend Back when man was a stranger To life’s so imminent end;
God, how could You command such skilled archers
To target arrows at Your child, Your own creation?
I thought You would send angels
To tend to wounds You did not cause.
But these wounds are from You,
As You slowly demolish the one descended from dust By the power of Your hand; My breath is Yours, and I’d rather be dead.
Yet now I sit in ashes
Among broken pottery to be my only comfort
Because none did I find in You.
Relief comes from the potsherd
And reminds me of how the thunder shatters
When it originates from heaven
And how the light blinds
When it resembles Your darkest parts.
God, please just look away from me!
I cannot even look at myself;
I am disfigured, Distorted,
And prefer perfect destruction, But that is a grace You do not give to me.
Do You watch to observe my distress?
Do You listen to hear the misery in my cry?
Why do You refuse my prayer that You crush me?
What is it that You are wanting?
What is it that You are waiting for?
I know You see it all. But God, what did I do to deserve this?
I’ve asked for sleep and You’ve scared me with dreams, I’ve asked for delight and You’ve taken it away— Lord, You’ve taken so much away.
You say I am to laugh at the days to come But Father, they are all laughing at me, And how I wish I didn’t have to grieve the absence Of laughs from those who were lost, Because, God, You let them die.
How am I to trust You now?
A Man reaches out to bind my bleeding body, To be caught red-handed in each laceration, To cover the scratches which have yet to become scars If by the impossible mercy of settled time to pass.
He asks where I was
When the earth was formless and void, Where I was when He carefully knit my flesh together, When the cosmos sang to Him, And He responded “good.”
Adonai, You can do all things, So bring me to repent in dust and ashes. Let me know You as Jehovah Rapha And feel this rhythm of Your give and take. Let me know that I cannot understand Your ways And that the Crafter’s clay is not mine to make.
As a child, I loved watching my mom cook. The food my family ate was a constant in my life and a lasting reminder of my identity. I had very few tangible identifiers of being Chinese, as I don’t speak the language and have never been to China or met any extended family. Though I knew that my heritage could not change, I had fears that I would dishonor it in my efforts to be American. I saw these two identities as being in conflict with each other — as though I had to choose one or the other. I sought out ways to prove I was Chinese as if I was in danger of forgetting. But I grew to love and appreciate the unique parts of being Chinese-American through the things I used to be ashamed of.
Cooking was one of those things. It became an active choice to be a part of a generations-long story that I would otherwise struggle to find my place in. I didn’t escape comments about having ‘weird’ eating habits or an unfamiliar-smelling lunch, but those seemed easier to forgive than my own doubts about my identity. In middle school, my mom started teaching me how to cook in the only way she knew how: the way her mother
taught her. She taught me how to make stir fry, noodle soup, and a few of the less-complicated Chinese dishes that now remind me of home. We adopted our own little rhythm of cooking, sticking to our roles each time we cooked. To me, it was somewhat of a chore, but I came to see that this was the perfect opportunity for my mom to pass on traditions before I grew more independent. My mom’s teaching redefined my idea of what it means to be Chinese through something as seemingly simple as food.
I connected to my culture through food because I felt like I had little else to which I could cling, and I put pressure on myself to protect what felt like the one certain piece of my heritage. For a long time, I hated that I couldn’t speak Chinese. I thought that fluency would make me Chinese enough for others to figure out what I am. Now that I am older, I understand that there is both a sort of privilege and naivete behind the choice not to use Chinese at home since not all immigrant families have that option. My parents knew English long before immigrating and believed they were protecting us from the struggle against assimilation they
had endured. I never heard specific stories of racism, but there were times I could tell my mom feared for our futures if we didn’t assimilate properly. My parents had good intentions, but their gesture didn’t deter my peers from holding unreasonable expectations of me. In my white classmates’ eyes, I was too Chinese, and my Chinese classmates had no trouble telling me I was whitewashed. I internalized the ignorance they showed me and held it inside for years, not knowing what damage it would cause me as it attached itself to my preexisting insecurities. In those insecurities, I started to look to less obvious parts of my life that affirmed my sense of who I was.
Though it certainly was a major one, food wasn’t the sole connection to my family in China. On occasion, my mom would tell me stories of her childhood. She grew up on a farm with two sisters and one brother. Hearing about her childhood always gave me an indescribable, warm feeling. I know that, in reality, her life has not been as idyllic as I imagine it to be, but to young, daydreamer me, her life was a fantasy. I loved picturing my mom, young and carefree, weaving baskets of dried corn leaves for her family to sell or climbing on the roof of the house with her siblings to dry peppers in the sun. Maybe it was because I had never seen my mom with any other family but ours, but it was quite the escape to lose myself wondering about her life before us.
After Christmas in 2021, my mom calmly said that her mom had passed away. She seemed just fine. She had talked to her over the phone the day before and was assured that she was not in any pain. I never knew my grandmother, couldn’t pick her out in a crowd or photo or even tell you what her name was, but I was devastated. It felt like I was mourning her more than my mom was. As with most situations, I think my mom was just better at hiding it. Losing my lǎo lao felt like losing the potential of getting to discover a piece of my identity. Though I never met her in person, I knew my lǎo lao through the stories my mom told me. The more I reflect on these retellings of my mom’s life, the more I feel an appreciation for the woman who raised my mother, even if I never knew her face. I can’t say for certain what tendencies and characteristics my mom
got from her mom, but I trust that there is some part of her that has made its way down to me.
The day after the news of my grandmother’s passing, my mom and I were making dumplings. We defaulted to our usual roles in the routine: me rolling out the dough, her filling and sealing. It was one of the things that I got to do with her that was just ours. Normally, I would roll the dough, we would chat, and we would run out of filling. I would wander away, and my mom would boil them. This day was different. My mom told me she would show me how to boil them to make sure they were cooked. I remember her saying that her mom taught her, “when the lid is off, it cooks the outside of the dumplings. When the lid is on, it cooks the inside.” She then told me she wasn’t sure if it was actually true, but the smile of remembrance on her face was enough for me to believe it.
It hasn’t always been easy feeling connected to my heritage. For most of my life, it felt like something fluid, easily stripped away or covered up. In society, there was no room for me to be my mother’s daughter. Inside, I didn’t want to be American. I didn’t know how to allow myself to be fully one or the other, and I thought I could never be both. Two halves did not yet make a whole, but in the time following my grandmother’s death, I began to see that I wasn’t forsaking one identity for the other. I found freedom in realizing that I didn’t need to choose. I could just be. I have my mom’s stories, a fraction of her skill, and even if I never learn Chinese, I am proud of my multicultural identity. Food is no longer just the sole connection to my heritage; it’s a comforting reminder of the stories my family recipes tell.
PHOTOGRAPHY FROM ANNELISE WOLFE
The wavering shadow of the candle danced merrily along the grooves of the worktable, melting over the wood grain and polishing the gears that were scattered about like discarded jewelry. A faint tsking sound broke the silence and a pair of knobbly fingers deftly plucked a gear from the growing puddle of melted wax near the base of the candle, quickly rubbing it against a dirty rag. Bright beady eyes peered down from behind a pair of wire rimmed glasses, turning the small piece of metal this way and that so it caught the orange glow. Satisfied, the man put it down once more, this time safely outside the candle’s reach.
The clockmaker pushed his glasses further down his long nose and rubbed his watery eyes, feeling the pressing weight of the night like a sack of grain on his shoulders. He desperately missed his energetic youth, when night had been indistinguishable from day and sleep was a luxury that he could afford to miss. Now, his old bones cried out for his soft quilts and his arthritic fingers ached. Despite that, he knew he could not sleep — not tonight — not while the sweet but insistent boyish voice in his head urged him on. Years of experience crooned encouragement in his ear. All thoughts of sleep became inconsequential as he once again picked it up and began rubbing it gently with a soft rag.
It was a magnificent dark-wood clock, gleaming in the candlelight as it was polished with a shiny varnish. Compact yet elegant, the clock exhibited all the best
features of its kind, from the delicately carved paw-like feet to the slender gloved hands, made of intricately twisted thin sheets of metal. Already the hands were ticking within the ivory face, pointing out the black dashes of time with the rhythm and grace of a conductor.
It’s like my own heartbeat, the clockmaker thought to himself, feeling his own pulse thumping within the pads of his fingertips. Warmed by this thought, he hummed a little tune to himself, his voice barely a murmur as the rag continued its steady circles.
Outside was damp, gray, and jammed with the shouts, honks, and crashes that perpetuated daily London life. A heavy yet mercifully brief spattering of rain dripped condensation down the foggy window panes, making the steady stream of black umbrellas below appear fuzzy around the edges, like a reflection in an old looking glass.
Tucked into his usual stuffed armchair and wrapped snugly in a blanket, the little boy barely noticed the dreariness of the outdoors. He was happy and warm and his mind was racing. On his lap rested a large covered object, quietly ticking beneath its wrappings like a sleeping giant. The boy patted the top, feeling the smooth surface glide beneath the soft fabric. He silently wondered how long he would have to wait until he could put it on the small little mantelpiece above the brick fireplace in his room.
“How many sugars?” came from near the small kitchenette.
“Three!” Always the same question, always the same answer. At home, his mother usually told him to stick to two, but the same rules never applied here. The house with the chipped pine green door had rules of its own.
The cups of tea were brought over by his friend, an old, kindly looking man whose eyes were always smiling and who always had metal grease underneath his nails. His wire-rimmed glasses were foggy with steam, making him look like an antiquated ghost, and the boy laughed.
After he had placed the teacup and a large candle on the boy’s side table, his friend went to his own chair and pulled out a thin leather bound novel, its crimson cover faded and gilt spine flaking. At a nudge, the book fell open easily to where a bookmark was nestled snugly between two chapters. The boy thudded the base of his heels against the chair as he waited for his friend to finish getting comfortable.
“How many pages is this one?”
The sound of flipping pages. “Eighteen and a half.”
“Is that long?”
“No longer than most.”
“Alright.”
His friend smiled knowingly, his scrunching cheeks making the glasses rise higher on his nose. He pushed them down again with one stained finger, regarding the boy quizzically. “Are you waiting for something?”
The boy hugged the bundle to his chest, feeling its heartbeat against his own, and tried to guess how many chapters were left in the fraction of paper that flopped on one edge of the book. “You will only read one chapter, right?”
“As usual.”
“Alright then.”
“Do you not want to hear it?”
“Oh, I do, very much.”
A bushy white eyebrow almost disappeared into a receding hairline. The boy watched with growing distress as his friend rested the book face down on his lap and crossed his feet upon the small ottoman in front of his armchair, clasping his hands across his ample middle. He knew his friend was expecting an answer, but he didn’t wish to be rude so he kept his mouth shut. The precious parcel was hugged tighter.
“Shall we save this chapter for another day?” his friend asked. “I can just read you two chapters tomorrow if you’d prefer that.”
The boy didn’t. The story needed to be continued and he couldn’t leave until he heard it. That’s how things worked. Soon, with a laugh, the red novel was picked up again and his friend started to read aloud. And when the familiar calming, semi-monotonous voice began speaking and every other noise became quieter and quieter, the boy felt himself once again being gently pulled into the fantastic world of the little red novel. As he listened to the story unfold, the boy watched the candle seated on a stool beside him flicker and dance. For a little while, the dancing flame, the sounds of reading and the faint thumping of the parcel were the only things that mattered.
Time ceased to exist.
But just when time always seems to stop, pause, take a breath, the next tick starts it up again.
Soon the spell was broken, the finale softly and firmly delivered, the faded cover closed once again.
As the realization of freedom struck him, the boy sat upright, feeling slightly like he had just risen from beneath his soapy warm bathwater and back into cold clear air. Casting the blanket aside, he barely had time to shout a thanks and goodbye before his feet were carrying him down the winding staircase and into the streets below, his clock held tightly in his arms.
The clockmaker bent down to fold the blanket that had been hastily tossed in a crumpled mass to the ground. He had only succeeded in folding it in half before something on the armchair caught his eye. He sighed and tossed the blanket back onto the armchair. The little boy had forgotten his coat.
As the bell above the pine green door jingled behind the clockmaker, the small candle flame near the armchair flickered, hungrily reaching for the knotted fringe of the blanket, discarded carelessly over the armrests. It stretched and shrunk, maneuvering and twisting like a wounded snake until, at last, a thin stream of smoke drifted through the dust motes into the wooden rafters above.
sleeve, the wool of his coat scratching against his mouth. He squinted up at the second story windows above, belching black smoke like the baker’s ovens, and tried to imagine the small room within slowly turning to black, gray, white ash, like what he saw in the grate of his fireplace every morning. He saw the two armchairs, the little ottoman, the china tea cups. He knew, somewhere in the inferno, a little red novel with the faded cover was on fire. Only the thought of his lovely new clock sitting safely on his mantlepiece kept him from bursting into tears. He stared down his little boots, the laces trailing in the crevices of the cobblestone road, still untied.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a much larger pair of boots alongside his own, one leather toe smudged with spilled metal grease. The little boy looked up into his friend’s old, weathered, familiar, sad face, his eyes glistening behind his glasses. The eyes weren’t smiling. He looked like he needed something to hold onto, so the little boy offered his hand. His friend gratefully accepted it, cheeks shining with dampness, and squeezed it lightly in his own big calloused one.
The clockmaker inhaled deeply, like he was trying to will the cogs and machines within his chest to start working again, and after some difficulty, turned to the little boy. Although his eyes were still sad, a soft smile creased the clockmaker’s face.
“Come now.” The clockmaker said, squeezing the boy’s hand once more. “Let us leave this dreary place and find somewhere more interesting to spend our afternoon.”
e chipped green pine door was burning. The paint was peeling back from the wood in little curls, the edges turning to black before disintegrating into a fine ash that drifted on a stale wind. The air tasted like smoke, heavy and sickly, and the little boy coughed into his
The boy was glad of the suggestion, for the smoke was beginning to make his eyes water and rubbing them with the coarse material of his coat only made it worse.
“Where are we going?”
The clockmaker dug around in his coat pocket and produced two shillings, shining like a freshly polished gear on his craggy palm.
“Let’s go buy a book.”
I would like to write about crickets and faithfulness things you hear abruptly when you stop short in the bushes on that little path that turns to mud marked with the shoes of those who haven’t stopped including mine
A friend told me, object permanence is incomprehensible I cannot understand how things stay
A philosopher said that this can be only because we are all held in the mind of God we, crickets and heartbeats
I forget my bones exist A prophet said, your bones shall flourish like grass 1 I also slouch. I accept this The rain behaves itself
It falls and is gathered to the bosom of the sky
We take a step and the ground, that little path is friendly and presses back A penny someone dropped stays
We step again the sun walks with us
I have already stopped listening to crickets
It is our ears that are abrupt These songs have been filling space for all this time It is incomprehensible even the things we have forgotten stay
Let me be bard of crickets hear them hear them
Harmony LaJeunesse
Bonhoeffer Bouquet , 2023
Oil on Canvas
Grace Jackson is a third year majoring in Global Development Studies and minoring in Public Policy and Leadership. She loves to spend time outdoors, doing pottery, playing games, sitting, and spending time with others.
Grace Whitaker is a third year majoring and pursuing her Master’s degree in English literature. She loves both writing poetry and writing about poetry, and her work has appeared in the Virginia Literary Review and the Jefferson Journal.
Katie Mead is a third year who, alongside her love of computer science, finds great comfort in writing poetry. Whether it is poetry based upon scriptural passages or her own life, she enjoys articulating emotions otherwise silently expressed.
Claire Huchthausen is in her third year, studying physics and pursuing a career in oncology medical physics. She loves both physics and poetry as different sides of seeing God’s intricate world.
Emorie Howard is a third year pursuing a degree in English and the Classics. She is a writer for Bearings, hoping to expand her creative writing skills in an academic Christian environment.
PHOTOGRAPHY FROM THOMAS LAUGHRIDGE
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