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.
COVER DESIGN
Peyton Stallings Photography
When I come home from the scary outside world each day, I leave my worries at the threshold of my room where a wave of familiarity washes over me. I breathe in the smell of the lavender and vanilla candle my mother got me for Christmas last year. The postcards and birthday cards I’ve collected and pinned on my wall since I was a kid flutter as the door shuts behind me. I set my backpack down next to my desk where a photo of my family at home smiles back. The relief I feel when I’m greeted with the comforts of this familiar space arrives close to a feeling of peace; while I’m in this room, I’m momentarily still within the everchanging, unpredictable world.
A sanctuary is a holy space for worship. It’s also a garden. For some, it’s a moment. For others, a place of refuge, an asylum. To the writers of this issue, it’s St. Peter’s Basilica and the mountains and the Spirit within us. To me, it’s a bedroom waiting to welcome me home.
Within these pages, our writers invite you to dwell in their unique sanctuaries. They meditate on what “Sanctuary” means to them, and their stories reveal the expansive places, powerful ways, and unexpected times in which God’s tranquil hand reaches them. Yet, discerning where we find peace often requires us to confront where the devil wages war against us. This issue’s theme forces our writers to grapple with some of their most challenging moments and rudest awakenings. But in the process, they’re each
reminded of the sanctuaries that are to be found, perhaps hidden, perhaps surprising, within those times. They see “Sanctuary” anew; as you read this journal, perhaps you will do the same.
Thank you to the Parent’s Program, the Center for Christian Study, and anonymous donors for generously offering financial support. Thank you additionally to our hardworking team of editors, designers, writers, and artists who contributed their time to this issue. Your dedication, creativity, and vulnerability are truly inspirational— you are the spirit of Bearings, and I’m honored to participate in the publication of your work.
Lastly, thank you, reader. I hope you find a bit of stillness in this read, or maybe you’ll be moved. However your sanctuary takes shape, let it engulf you, and let its peace be contagious.
Peyton Rabb, Editor-in-Chief
Peyton Rabb Editor-in-Chief
Rob Batton President
Lillian Buchanon Social and Financial Chair
Peyton Stallings Creative Director
Lillian Buchanan
Selby Ireland
Caroline Haig
Rob Batton
Katie Mead Paola Mendez
Maddie Mislock Peyton Rabb
Kelly Reardon Grace Whitaker
DESIGNERS
Michel Brooks | Pages 6-11
Olivia Haas | Pages 16-19
Peyton Stallings | Pages 4-5, 12-15, 20-27
Lauren Campbell | Pages 28-29
Jonathan Walter | Photography
Grace Campbell | Ink
Peyton Stallings | Watercolor
Zhaire Roberson
Ashley Morani
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?
Matthew 6: 25-27
6:30 a.m. Thursday. The melodious tune that she had picked the night before to wake her up gently, to ease her into the day, traveled from the bedside to her ear. Sometime between the first ring and when she finally lifted her heavy eyelids open, the sweet string of notes had turned into a blaring stampede of clashing weapons that were haphazardly tossed toward her head. The sun peeked through her blinds, trying to extend his rays far enough to peel back her covers and make her bask in his warmth and light. But he was too bright and cheery for her, too harsh of a reminder that yet another day was starting. She knew he would hide his face as soon as he saw the darkness waiting to entrap her as she stepped foot off of the bed. As long as I stay here, I won’t have to face what the day will bring. Just for a few more minutes, let me curl up here in the safety of my stuffed dinosaur, who only ever looks at me with that same stitched-on smile. Just for a few more min---before she could finish her thought, the same cacophonous sound burst forth again, shouting, “WAKE UP! THE BATTLE IS STARTING NOW.” She dragged her feet out from under her floral blanket, leaving the beautiful field of flowers that she had longed to lie in, forcing her toes to dangle right above the scratchy carpet that marked the edge of the battlefield. As soon as both feet were flat on the ground, she felt the weight of the day crash down on her. She looked back at her bed, and where a once-blooming field had been planted was now
brown and withered. With a long, pent-up sigh, she turned around and stared at the girl looking back at her in the mirror. Oh, you think you’re ready for battle? Look at you. You are weak, disgusting, a failure. Why even go into battle today? You know you are just going to break down and cry at the first trumpet sound. Where is the rest of the army? Yeah, they’ve left you to fend off the enemy on your own. You are alone. Don’t you get it? You are going to fail, yet you need to bring home the victory. Everyone’s counting on you. You know that you are a failure, but do you want everyone to know the truth about you too? Now go. She threw on some clothes, splashed water on her face to bring back a little color, and practiced the smile she would plaster on her face the rest of the day while brushing her teeth. With each step, she felt herself grow heavier and heavier, and by the time she had put her bag on her back, her knees were on the verge of buckling and her back ached with a pain that radiated to her stomach. It was like someone’s hands were wrapped around her so tightly that all the life was being squeezed out of her. With all the strength left in her, she reached out towards the doorknob and twisted it to the right, and the clicking sound of the door opening and the creaking that followed made her grimace because now the real battle lay ahead of her, and there was no turning back. She walked down the stairs, pausing on each step to regain her balance as the thoughts in her mind made her dizzy. Don’t fall into temptation today. If you do, you will have lost yet another battle. You can’t come back home and show off a 2-28 losing record for the month. You are already 0-3 for the week, so you need a win today. If you keep letting the enemy win, what does that say about your self-control and your faith? Is this the kind of upstanding Christian you are? Are you so weak and so foolish that you just keep doing things that you know are harming your body? After what seemed like ten whole minutes, she finally made it downstairs. She walked into the kitchen. Don’t fail. Don’t fail. Don’t fail. “Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” James 4:7. “Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” James 4:7.1 She walked to her shelf where she kept her cereal. Lead me not into temptation. Deliver me from the evil one. Lead me not into temptation. Deliver me from the evil one.2 She grabbed the cereal box and poured some into her bowl. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13. “I can do all things through Christ
who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13.3 She walked to the fridge and poured the milk into her bowl. Good job, now just go and walk to the table and open your Bible. You’re almost there. Come on. She grabbed her spoon and walked towards the table and set her breakfast down. Keep going, just open your Bible now. She reached down next to the table to grab her Bible out of the cart where she kept her pens and journal. When she reached down, her eyes glanced down next to the cart and saw the stash of snacks that were colored in blues and reds, that seemed to be standing tall and proud, giving her a huge grin. Grab the Bible. Just grab it. Place it on the table. Come on. The cereal grew soggy as she stood in a trance with her Bible in one hand and her eyes fixed on the pile of snacks. Minutes ticked by. Her hands grew sweaty. She tightened her grip on her Bible, trying to squeeze the verses she had memorized out of her head to the tip of her tongue, but they would not move. You already messed up yesterday, so what’s the harm in going 0-4? You’re already a failure, so act like it, girl. Yeah, you’re tired. It’s okay if you give up. Clearly, you’re weak, so it’s okay, just grab the snack. She blinked. No. It is 7:00 am, and I am not about to eat a bunch of snacks that are going to make me feel drowsy and make my stomach roll in pain for the rest of the day. She gripped her Bible tighter, clicking the pen she was going to use to journal with up and down, up and down. Oh, but don’t you deserve the pain? Don’t you see that you are the reason for your mistakes? Look at your willpower. Where is your willpower? You are the reason for your pain. You are choosing your pain, and you will choose it again. She let her Bible drop to the ground. Prayer slips and printed liturgies flew across the room. She crouched to the ground, but instead of gathering them all up, she felt her fingers move closer towards the bags of snacks. She opened a bag. The smell of shame, guilt, and pain wafted up to her nose, and as she reached in and stuffed food into her mouth, she could hear the crunch of failure, yet there was also a familiar sense of relief that washed over her. Yes. I am a failure. I don’t have to try to be something I’m not anymore. This is me. I am a pig. I am terrible. I am alone. I am---I am---Who am I? Tears rolled down her face as she grabbed greasy handfuls and shoved them into her mouth. Her stomach screamed at her. Her intestines writhed in pain. An alarm went off in another room in the house. Before my housemates have even started their day, I have already eaten my whole day’s worth of food. What a pig. What a dumpster fire. Such a hypocrite. You are so terrible. You
are awful. The creaking of the floorboards from upstairs sent a shiver of fear down her spine. People are waking up. Stop eating now. Do you want them to see you as the crazy person that you are? 9:03 am. How has so much time already passed? What are you doing with your life, girl? You did not read your Bible. Your fingers are stained orange. Go wash that off. Your face looks puffy already. Get your work done. You are so behind. She walked to the sink to wash her hands. Sorry, Lord. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I am such a disappointment. How could you love me? I am so sorry. Forgive me for I have sinned. I am such a failure, I am so sorry. Help me to have more self-control and to listen to your voice, Father. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. She pulled out her laptop and started studying. What are the important nursing actions for penicillins? Her mind started spinning. She lost her focus. Her brain was a bog. Her eyelids drooped. Her head pounded. Nursing actions. Penicillins. Adverse reactions. Slow medication administration, no, that’s for vancomycin. Wait, is it? Penicillins. Oh, allergic reactions. Hypersensitivity. I can’t remember what signs and symptoms are associated with anaphylaxis. Hives. Just remember, girl. Memorize this faster. Hurry up. Why can’t you remember? If you hadn’t eaten a bunch of trash before this, you would have been able to work faster. You are going to fail this exam. You are a failure. What is wrong with you that you can’t even make it through the morning without messing up? She closed her laptop in defeat. Less than half the day had passed, and she was already exhausted down to her bones.
6:30 a.m. Friday. The alarm sounded. “WAKE UP! THE BATTLE IS STARTING NOW.” She groaned. She stepped onto the carpet and went to the bathroom to get ready. She picked up her bag and headed downstairs. Here we go again. Will it be 0-5 today? She kept her head down and avoided the mirror because she knew the face that would greet her would only be puffier than the one she had seen yesterday. She beelined for her Bible and flipped as quickly as she could to the chapter she was reading so that there was no time for her mind to wander and keep her from reading. “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances"4... “Now may the God of peace himself sanctify you completely, and may your whole spirit and soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it”5... “The Lord is faithful. He will establish you
and guard you against the evil one.”6 Thank you Lord for your word and that you are faithful to help me walk in your ways. Help me today, Lord. She closed her Bible and held onto the sweetness of the character of her Father. She walked over to her shelf to grab her cereal. She poured it into her bowl. The Lord is my strength and my shield.7 God, help me to resist the temptations that the food in this kitchen brings me. She opened the fridge to grab her milk. Her eyes caught onto the unfinished box of pizza, the half-drunk bottle of pink lemonade, the three mini cupcakes that had been sitting in the fridge for over four days. She slammed the fridge door shut. The hairs on her arm stood up. A rushing chill ran through her body. Everywhere she looked, temptation was like a lion on the prowl, waiting for her, hiding in the shadows, and slobbering over the moment when he would pounce and devour her. Cookies above the microwave. Chips in the pantry. Brownies on the stove. Crackers on the couch. Donuts on the table. Juice boxes on the floor. She poured the milk quickly into her bowl, causing some milk to splatter onto the countertop. She grabbed her spoon and shoveled spoonful after spoonful of cereal into her mouth, finishing her breakfast in 30 seconds, swinging her backpack over her shoulder, and running out the front door. Once outside, she let out a deep sigh. At every corner, I feel like I am going to trip and fall. I’m scared I’m going to fail. I’m scared of falling into temptation. I wish I didn’t have to be so on guard. I wish I felt safe in my house. I wish my house was my home.
10:49 p.m. Sunday. She tossed and turned in bed. In the safety of her bed of flowers with her stuffed dinosaur, her mind raced. Wow. Today was a good day. I didn’t fall into temptation. God helped me survive today, yesterday, and the day before. But why do I still feel so anxious, so heavy, so uneasy? Why do I still feel like at any moment, there is a pothole that I am going to fall into? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the sleepiness to wash over her, but with each passing minute that she couldn’t fall asleep, her brow furrowed further and her knuckles grew whiter from clenching so tightly onto her covers. Lord, help me. Give me your peace. You say that you give peace that transcends all understanding, but why can’t I feel it?8 God, you say that those who wait for you “shall renew their strength,” and “they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint,” but why do I feel so weary and so faint at your feet, Jesus?9 Hold me! Carry me! I feel
at any moment I might crumble from the weight of this armor on me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep making the right choices. I’m so tired. Why is your yoke so hard and your burden so heavy?
6:30 a.m. Monday. The alarm sounded. “WAKE UP! THE BATTLE IS STARTING NOW.” She rolled over to turn it off when she realized how sore her fingers were from holding onto her blanket for dear life. She tried to relax her fingers, but her muscles were so tightly wound that it hurt to extend them fully. It was then that she felt a hand take hers in His. He lifted her hand up and traced a finger along the lines of her palm. His gentle touch soothed her soul, and all the tension in her fingers flew out. He clasped his hand over hers and intertwined His fingers with hers. Every time her hand started to tremor and her fingers started to give out, He tightened His grip and stroked her hand softly to smooth out the knots. She clung to His hand as she grabbed her bag to head downstairs. Here, walk in step with me. One step at a time, there you go. Alright, you’re almost there. Her hand started to sweat and she felt like she was losing grip of Him, but He held on tighter. Keep going, last step. She made it down the stairs and looked beside her. Where did He go? He walked me this far, but now I am about to enter the kitchen, and He knows that is where I struggle to keep steady. Be my arm, O God! She reached out her hand to feel for Him, but she couldn’t feel Him. Help me! Help me! I can’t do this by myself, help me! Where are you? Her face went white, stricken with panic and fear. Her stomach turned inside out, and she felt defenseless. Where are you? Arrows came falling down from the sky, piercing the ground beside her. God, you go before me and behind me, all around me and within me, but where are you, Lord?10 I can’t feel your hand. I don’t feel your strength! Taking a deep breath, she inched towards her shelf and stretched out her hand towards the cereal box. Her hand shook as the box slid into her palm. She opened the box and tilted it, letting a shaky stream of cereal pour out into the bowl. As each piece landed in the bowl, each clink reminded her of one soldier after another rushing onto the battlefield with their clanky armor, filing into formation. With her bowl in hand, she walked over to the table and pulled out her Bible. Father, help me to see you more clearly through your Word today. Prepare me for battle, and help me to put on your armor.11 Would it not be so heavy today? She flipped through the pages and landed on a scripture that made her soul ache: “he has
driven and brought me into darkness without any light; surely against me he turns his hand again and again the whole day long”...12 “he has made me dwell in darkness like the dead of long ago. He has walled me about so that I cannot escape; he has made my chains heavy; though I call and cry for help, he shuts out my prayer; he has blocked my ways with blocks of stones; he has made my paths crooked. He is a bear lying in wait for me, a lion in hiding; he turned aside my steps and tore me to pieces; he has made me desolate; he bent his bow and set me as a target for his arrow. He drove into my kidneys the arrows of his quiver.”13 Are you against me, Lord? Are you the inflictor of my pain? Are you the cause of my suffering? Are you hiding your hand from me to make me a laughing stock, to make me fall? In indignation, she pushed herself to keep reading, “But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in him.’ The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.”14 Warmth rushed through her hands as memories of how she had been strengthened flooded her mind. His hands untied the knots in my fingers. His hands lifted me up out of the pit that I dug for myself. His hands wove me together in my mother’s womb.15 Father, the times you’ve shown me your goodness and have supplied me with your strength are more than I can count. Here I am accusing you of leaving me and not showing up for me, when I am the one who has been faithless, and you have always been faithful. Lord, my eyes so easily hyperfixate on my struggles, my weaknesses, and my inabilities, that I forget to look up and focus on you who are sovereign over my struggles, whose power is made perfect in my weaknesses,16 who is always able. Yet Lord, there are times where the looming darkness completely veils my eyes, and I cannot even make out your shadow. Oh in those times, would you help me to trust that you are still there, and would the words, “Great is your faithfulness” be on the tip of my tongue! I believe, Lord; help my unbelief!17 As she closed her Bible, she felt a familiar steadiness return to her hands, and she felt almost a little lighter.
Each morning, the alarm still sounded. But every morning, the sound hit her eardrums a bit more gently. The first breath
of each day grew to be a reminder of the One who breathed life into her nostrils, whose mercies had wrapped her tightly from head to toe, whose faithfulness had stretched from within her to her bed to her floor to the stairs to the kitchen to beyond her house, whose grace had lifted away the shame and guilt that her mind had beaten her down with. Every time she reached for her cereal, she was reminded of her need for the Lord, that she could not and did not go a single moment without relying upon Him to keep her steady, to give her strength. As she scanned the house, she realized that the appearance of lions at every corner had just been a facade. They were simply just cookies above the microwave. Just chips in the pantry. Just brownies on the stove. Just crackers on the couch. Just donuts on the table. Just juice boxes on the floor. The once all-familiar fear and dread had been stripped away and a strange inner calm held onto her soul. There were days when she was still led by her appetite and the foods around her morphed into roaring lions again, sending chills down her spine and making her hands tremble. Sometimes she still tripped and fell, but His arms wrapped around her shoulders, and His comfort pushed the sludge of shame to the ground. My grace is sufficient for you. Let me satisfy you. Within this house, I’ll be your home. With every surrender and “yes, Lord” that she whispered, the truths about her identity began to wash over her. I am a victor. I am loved. I am held. With every surrender, there grew more space for the Lord to dwell, and she felt lighter and lighter, allowing her to more fully rest each day in her safe place.
1 James 4:7 (ESV).
2 Matthew 6:13 (ESV).
3 Philippians 4:13 (ESV).
4 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 (ESV).
5 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24 (ESV).
6 2 Thessalonians 3:3 (ESV).
7 Psalm 28:7 (ESV).
8 Philippians 4:7 (ESV).
9 Isaiah 40:31 (ESV).
10 “The Blessing,” track #4 on Elevation Worship, Graves into Gardens (Live), Essential Records, 2020.
11 Ephesians 6:11 (ESV).
12 Lamentations 3:2-3 (ESV).
13 Lamentations 3:6-13 (ESV).
14 Lamentations 3:21-27 (ESV).
15 Psalm 139:13 (ESV).
16 2 Corinthians 12:9 (ESV).
17 Mark 9:24 (ESV).
Dear Reader,
If you find yourself resonating with the struggle presented in this piece, I want you to know that you are not alone. Our relationships with food can be really difficult, and the Lord sees both you and I in that. He holds you. He comforts you. He hears your cries. Even when it might feel like He is not there, know that His presence never leaves you, and that when you run to Him, He will keep you safe. If you need someone to talk to, I would love to listen to you and pray for you, so feel free to reach out to me at anytime. Below are some other resources that might be helpful, and I just want you to know that the God who created the heavens and the earth decided to create you, so never doubt that you are incredibly beautiful and loved. The Lord delights in you!
Resources: https://www.studenthealth.virginia.edu/CAPS https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/get-help/
April Zheng is a third-year studying nursing. She loves hanging out with her family and friends, as well as going out for runs while listening to This Podcast Will Kill You (a podcast about diseases which she believes everyone should listen to and enjoy).
ZHAIRE ROBERSON
I left the garden.
I tried to do things on my own. I turned inward
Hearing every voice but yours. I thought I could grow apart from you. Away from my safest space.
Yet in our separation, my heart began to harden. Nothing grew there anymore;
Only death blossomed in this heart of mine. I grow numb to the war and pestilence
All around me
Now I stand in the field blind.
I lost sight of you. I felt shaken.
And though I thought I was alone. I was mistaken.
You were there with me the whole time.
Though I’ve run away from you, You're running back to me.
Yet still, You chase me down.
You say, "You were lost, but now you're found."
Your warm gaze fills my soul with light, And everything that once felt wrong in me Is now made right
I have regained my sight
And I can't look away.
My eyes are fixed upon your beauty now.
I'm so captured by who you are.
Who you have always been.
Who you will always be.
I come to the realization
That I need you like the crops need the rain. What a delight it is to be known and seen by you.
You have always been the breath in my lungs.
You are my refuge.
You are my strength.
You are the Lord of the Harvest.
You make my heart bloom.
ASHLEY MORANI
Lucky girl.
My family always says this to me when we’re driving. I’m not sure why they say it. I try to admire them, but they’re just mountains—big, pesky peaks that get in the way of travelers as they go from city to city, especially for the truck drivers, who love to honk when I wave my arm. I nod to my family and return to my work, coloring with markers and reading my miniature novels. The more important things.
These mountains appear in my drawings, but they’re always the last addition to my piece, just a detail so others can understand my location. Typically, I make them dark gray, I don’t want to draw attention away from the main focus. I won’t let them get in my way.1
Lucky girl, people would love to live here.
I dream of leaving Virginia someday. Oh, the places I could go, like Florida, where my grandparents live, or New York, a city with huge, beautiful buildings! Maybe even North Carolina, I’ve always wanted to live at the beach. Anywhere but here is fine with me.
Lucky girl, you experience all of the seasons.
My environmental science class will not stop talking about the mountains. We travel to them on countless field trips where each one feels like an eternity. I just sit in the back of the bus with no internet service, forced to stare out of the window as I take in the barren landscape. It all feels unimportant.
I glance back and realize they’re changing as I drive past, never consistent. Well, that’s one thing we have in common. The sun begins to set behind them as we continue back home, creating orange, crimson skies that become more admirable the longer I stare. They’re highlighting my minimal understanding of it all. I look down at my hands, wondering, where does my help come from?
Lucky girl, it’s open to explore.
Being over a billion years old, they’ve seen a lot. Death and life. Sorrow and joy. Destruction and creation. Weeping and laughing. War and peace. Love and hate.2 Yet, they still flourish.
I start to question if the mountains were actually looking down on me, all those years, as I had harshly believed. I rather wonder if they were providing me with the gift of looking up to them, as a young child does to their parents, in complete admiration. I think I care about them.
Lucky girl, you’re so close.
It’s now time to leave, likely for only a few years. But that original childhood dream to move away currently seems foolish. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave the mountains. What was always there, waiting for me until my next adventure, was becoming out of reach.
It’s a one-way voyage over the peaks in all of their Fall glory and colors. I’m not venturing far in terms of
distance, but emotionally, it feels a world away. Looking out of my window, I seek to know where they came from.
Many cite the movement of Earth’s tectonic plates, which I believe to be true. But there must be more. In my search for understanding, I stumble upon descriptions of a Creator who places with strength and delicacy. Again and again.
As I continue to read, my perspective incorporates Him into my vision of the mountains and also of the world and my earthly life. The beauty of my home is beginning to captivate my eye. The strategic sculpt and flourishing life are now too grand to go unnoticed any longer. Glancing at the mountains, I begin to understand where my help comes from. From the maker of the heavens and earth.3
Lucky girl, it’s the best view.
After leaving my once consistent view, I look for the mountains in every place I venture. I hate that I took them for granted. For the first time in my life, I feel the weight of yearning for something. Every chance to go home and drive through the familiar twists and turns, I take. Glimpsing towards the jagged rocks that stabilize the roots of thousands of trees in all of their kinds.
Throughout the mountains’ seasonal shifts, their beauty remains fully intact. In all conditions and weather patterns, they stand tall, looking upon the valley below. Bearing witness to the rising and setting of every day, whatever it holds, they consistently display strength. As a young adult, I am feeling the significance of the mountains in my ever-changing life. They have been with me through all of my seasons, even when they go unnoticed, just like my Maker.4
Now, with each glimpse I capture on every trip to these mountains, peace and stability follow. It is a place where time stops, and I can catch my breath from the demanding world that is apart from them. A reminder that this life and, more specifically, every day have eternal meaning. They are far greater than my perspective, more worthy than my definition, and everpresent even when I’m not looking. Thank you, Father.
Lucky girl, you can rest.
Each week carries burdens along with endless tasks that continue to pile on—reports, presentations, readings, group work, it’s always overwhelming and unavoidable.
I look to my mountains now. I sit and consider rather than tirelessly search. I stumble upon places of beauty, of intentional creation. Am I being intentional? I ask myself.
I return frequently, it’s an oasis of consistent breath. As I gaze, I am brought back to the presence and feeling of consistency. I sit in a home of refuge and stability. My sanctuary.5 God’s Creation. The mountains, in all of their beauty.
They foster unwavering peace for not only the current season I am in but also for the shifting patterns ahead. That though I may come and go, with desires and dreams, there will always be a place I can go to rest. His Earthly Kingdom calms my mind today, but the thoughts of his Eternal Kingdom provide unexplainable peace for tomorrow.
I look up to the mountains, and then it all seems so small; it reminds me that you’re with me through it all.6 This I cling to.
Lucky girl.
1Matthew 17:20 (ESV).
2Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (ESV).
3Psalm 121:1-2 (ESV).
4Psalm 125:2 (ESV).
5Exodus 15:17 (ESV).
6Meyta and Cole Swensen, “Fields of Green,” track on Reverse Psychology, Meyta (Spotify), Spotify, June 30, 2023, https://open.spotify.com/track/7it1iinCSca6hyAPdzPuZb?si=aeb9d5067ab543ca.
Ashley Morani is a recent graduate of the McIntire School of Commerce. In her free time, she loves uploading her runs to Strava, waking up to watch the sun rise, and eating meals in nature with friends.
The churches I build do not have spires. In my medium, even the loftiest steeple draws no nearer to heaven than the ground below. Looking out the stained glass, you will find neither city sidewalks nor small-town streets, no sun or moon or stars, no sky at all. Emptiness alone will greet you.
The foundation of these great halls is some deeper point, the next twist around a corner, the hidden singularity at the sacred core. Whereas most constructions rely on a certain exactitude of measurement, mine uphold an opposite strangeness. What appears a single step away is in fact at the distance of many paces, and the slightest nook disguises cavernous galleries. Perplexing warps and wrinkles beguile the beholder forward, further, and beyond, until alternatives ebb and the enchantment falls in full.
All the usual elements are present: polished crosses hang at intervals, bibles and hymnals rest jointly in the pew racks, a few short stairs lead to the altar and pulpit. There are candlesticks and candle snuffs, organ pipes and timbral lights, choir lofts and gothic arts. You might even swing open the fallboard of the baby grand and tap a few keys. And yet… there, pausing for a moment, you will hesitate as you consider the sound. Is this low E really the product of two long coiled copper strings vibrating a foot away beneath the lid? You shake your head slowly… no, no, this must be the sound of a different piano, thousands of miles away, in a moment
long since passed, injected into your present situation like so many fluttering butterflies pinned up and epoxied for display. How beautifully, conveniently fraudulent.
Indeed, those who seek actuality will be disappointed. Fountains form leaping horses and dancing warriors in foaming waves. Enormous triptychs illustrate the ancient scenes in action, patriarchs waving and bowing to the audiences outside their canvases. Towering pillars prove excellent walkways to soaring vaults, where frescoes are not frescoes at all but breathtaking sculpture gardens replete with billowing clouds, dancing cherubim, and hovering saints. Should you wish to join their flight, you will meet no resistance – even gravity is but a courtesy here.
The whole world lies remarkably near. Whether in Kathmandu, Riga, Dakar, or Santiago, only a short summons separates you. Visitors from all regions arrive daily for gatherings great and small. All the same, should you prefer solitude, there is no need to be troubled by others. In a blink you are alone, left to meditate and roam to your heart's content. There will be no eyes meeting yours, no polite shuffle past. There will be no trickles of chorus practice, soft conversations, doors opening and closing. Just your own footsteps echoing before you.
At one time my spaces were quite finite, enough that you might discover every candelabra, cupboard, and coffer after a few days' wandering. But then the lab produced an historic advancement, an algorithm designed to generate architecture in real time through the application of user data concerning characteristics, habits, and preferences. This algorithm, which became known as the Infinitesimal Engine, revolutionized the exploratory experience on two fronts. Firstly, generated scenes demonstrated a remarkable affinity and specificity to the user entering them. For instance, a room might contain books in the user's native language, or images of ethnically relevant individuals. Secondly, the extent of exploration was indefinitely extended. That is, no matter how far the user might travel, another space would always await.
The implications were profound. What is more idolized than self, or more revered than infinity? The very
notion of divinity hinges on such ineffable vastness as the update provided. In effect, Version 3 attained an unparalleled luster. User interactions with even a single one of our locations might last months, each abounding in introspections and revelation. Pathways lengthened. Pilgrimages could be had within the temple of relics of self.
Not that we intended these relics, or even preferred them. When users began to report dark stirrings, we panicked. Eyes on the mural following your passing? Hooded figures crossing far-off corridors? Family pictures hung at the votive stations? These would frighten off users, we were sure.
Our worries proved founded. But rather than fleeing en masse, users adapted. Those who sought little stayed in the shallows, avoiding deeper realms and uncharted fears. Others, insatiable and desperate, braved the unsettling wilds where their own souls were laid bare before them. For indeed, we found that the frequency of abnormalities scaled quadratically with distance from the origin.
We protected users, of course. There were no indications of physical or psychological harm, but even still we built protections. We carefully studied trends in user interaction to note areas of concern and offer guardrails. Our responsibility, as we saw it then, was never to constrain but to empower with tools for selfdefense.
The Infinitesimal Engine was by this point unalterable, so we built around it. We founded the User Engagement and Curation Team, which I chaired, to promote enjoyment, comfort, and safety. Our first step was to closely monitor any users who ventured too far. We established a threshold of ten thousand paces from the origin and recorded the experience of any user beyond this mark. From the audio and video recordings we could document signs of trouble.
So many users required monitoring. Watching them all left me dizzy, nauseous, floundering in alien lives. Perhaps this was a violation of privacy. In light of what followed, I wish we'd done more.
When I speak of what I saw, I must describe the movements and actions of these users, their words and prayers, as my own. I can't imagine them—relive them—any other way…
I awake slouched against a wall in a yellow hallway, where red flowers are held by green vines snaking mysteriously in gentle curls. Some overhead lamps hang by chains from the ceiling. The hall is irrationally undersized, ceilings too low for me to stand and doorways I can only crawl through. Every few paces along the hall is another room filled with dwarfish desks and children's toys, an alien school of sorts. I crawl from one room to the next along the hall, following tiny twists and turns, hoping to find a space to stand. Instead, over the course of many days, the hallways slowly and imperceptibly shrink until I am shoving my way forward, crushed by yellow walls. The place floods brown and I scream.
I awake in a forest of columns supporting a roof of multicolored lights, marble tiles on the floor cut into flat profiles of haggard faces. The tiles are tangrammed together so tightly that their seams are only faintly visible, and the faces drift in and out of focus, a mirage above the floor. The white floor and white columns with their white pedestals hold all the apparition and kaleidoscope without the slightest disfiguring of their own hue, form, or intention, and they coat the distant periphery unflinchingly. I stand trembling and wait to become a column myself, sweating in my pretense.
I awake in a jungle of oil portraits and gilded trim resembling Van Gogh's bedroom, though the narrow bed in the corner, upon inspection, is in fact an ornately carved tomb complete with miniature carved mourners and memento mori. As I get my bearings, every pigmented portrait persona begins to talk, scream, cajole, and cry, till I find myself spinning in circles madly seeking an absent exit. The portraits pull free of their frames, climb into three-dimensional figures before me, I pull at floorboards wildly, dive into the tomb, oil-wraiths slam the slab lid down over me.
I awake glued to an intricate alabaster relief depicting rows of kneeling monks. My legs and right arm are pinned by the neighboring figures, left arm dangling
uselessly. I try to pry myself free to no avail. My head and neck remain mobile, so I pivot to look up. A gargoyle meets my gaze and cracks a grimy grin. I bring my hands together and assume a praying posture, sobbing.
I awake on a walkway overlooking an immense cathedral hall. A roaring choir fights the churning bellows of the organmaster in operatic sweltering rushes as I stride lightly forward, not turning my eyes to the concert. I turn my eyes and the low stone railing reaches out for me, hooks my ankles, tosses me hurtling to the tessellated carpet below.
I awake hanging in the center of a vast basilica. The round windows stationed every few meters along the base of the dome emit the most violent, burning light I have ever seen, searing my vision, ringing bells clattering through the air.
I awake in a smoldering mass of neon lines alternating on and off between the shape of the nativity and the shape of the crucifix.
I awake careening down the steps of a spiral staircase, passing the same emerald banister-cap every 49 steps.
I awake cradling a globe of burning wooden civilization.
I awake sobbing in darkness.
I resigned last week as chair of the User Engagement and Curation Team. During my six year tenure, I achieved an average user satisfaction rating of 7.3, developed novel methods to divert users from irrelevant or hazardous areas, and compiled a longstanding body of monitoring techniques that continue to find application today.
Let me explain. Cathedral 5.3.9 is not the reason for my resignation. Those rumors are unfounded. Nor do I believe what happened there, tragic as it was, is cause to discontinue the Infinitesimal Engine. If anything, the tragedy was a fluke, unlikely to ever occur again, like counting successive shark attacks or death by bear maulings while simultaneously being struck by lightning.
You seem dubious. I will explain further.
First came the reports of wailing. Our team was responsive and compassionate. We looked into the problem and found little of concern. As you may recall, the new privacy legislation prevented us from monitoring audio.
Then came the floods, which were admittedly troublesome. The floors were stained for months, and more than one user was traumatized. Significant financial compensation was made.
A few of the typical ghost stories, hauntings, and monsters behind the curtains. Nothing too serious. One poor woman reported seeing her recently passed husband grapple with and strangle her. We were adequately alarmed and devoted the proper time and resources.
Then—nothing. All was well. Nine months of quiet.
I remember when I first heard the news. I was shocked, incredulous, perplexed… you must understand, there was no precedent for such a thing. None of our research had even touched on the possibility. I remember asking to see her, then stopping. Surely this was some nightmare, from which I would imminently awake. Why hurry, when it would be over so soon?
I remember the two-story duplex, loafers splashing in the remnant of a light drizzle outside the black airport Vito, siding peeling in patches, thin flakes stirring faintly in the breeze. A small pink and yellow pinwheel leans motionless in the otherwise sterile mulch. In my memory, this is another recording.
There is no cure.
She just sits there, staring straight ahead, blinking every few moments. She will stand if you lead her, or lay down, but she never answers you or acknowledges your existence, a trance of sorts. When the cathedral is loaded and the video comes on, she still moves inside, running down corridor after corridor. Searching for something.
You can still see her every day, we tell the parents. She will not answer you, or acknowledge your existence, but you can still be with her. She won't die, at least not yet.
We feed her through the tube. You can tell her about your day, ask if she's made any progress. Who knows? Maybe she still hears. Maybe she still thinks of you. I imagine her alone in the cathedral of death, taking another hallway down toward the organ music, where the phantom of her silence plays the Hush child, All our fears find rest in thee, Kyrie Eleison, Miserere. I imagine her holding the hand of a father, turning back, climbing up, starting the long journey to a world where church spires still poke the blue light of heaven.
In my heart I admit nothing is real.
Then have them make a sanctuary for me, and I will dwell among them.1
Standing beneath the soaring ceiling and colossal columns of St. Peter’s Basilica, I was at a loss for words. My often cluttered mind was strangely silent. Every stroke of light illuminated a new and glorious feature. There was far too much to take in, yet I desperately desired to bask in the beauty altogether. I had felt this before on different scales—when music swelled in a John Williams score, when leaves were swept into a curtain of color by autumn breeze, when I first held a kitten from the neighbor’s litter next door. In those moments, I experienced that same silence of mind and swell of spirit—the warm ache that radiates through your ribs and catches your breath. I know this as awe.
As I learned in the course that allowed me to visit St. Peter’s Basilica, the architects who constructed the church did so with the intention of arousing such awe. Bramante, Michelangelo, Maderno, and Bernini designed a Basilica that would demand reverence. The columns tower above you at nearly ninety feet in height. From the altar emanates a glowing burst of light. A vast dome erupts from the ornate ceiling—a puzzle of paintings. It seems to be reaching toward the Heavens just as the
Heavens shine in through gilded glass. This is not a place for mere mortals. This must be where God dwells.
Hiking last summer through the vast canyons of Zion and Arches, I often wondered whether I was on Mars. The relentless heat was sweltering, and the sun swallowed our travel-weary tent. Surrounded by red, cracked clay and dusty spirals of sediment, I found the desert to be a distinctly disorienting place. Yet, despite the foreign features of the landscape, something felt familiar about this scorched land. Perhaps, the particles of my person were being reminded that, despite a lack of bloodline descent from the Israelites, I am written into the narrative of God’s people—an adoptive family of those reconciled to and through Him. And God’s people know a thing or two about wandering through the desert.
In Exodus 25, God rescued the Israelites from slavery in Egypt and called them to a new home called “The Promised Land.”2 However, God’s People have always been prone to wandering and found themselves straying from God’s good plan of providence. The dust of Egypt was now exchanged for the dust of a desert wilderness they must traverse on the journey home.
In the barren land of their wanderings, sanctuary was scarce. There was no stained glass to intercept the sunlight; it stained you irreverently in sweat. There were no solid structures but only tents of temporary dwelling and towers of suspended sand in the wind. The Israelites, too, were swept into the wind as they were blown across the pages of history into a chapter of uncertainty. Surely, God’s people were abandoned in this place, designated for exile.
Yet, the Lord was merciful. He declared that He would remain with His People even as they wandered for forty years in the wilderness. He told them to gather an offering of materials to build a place for Him to dwell among them that would be called the Tabernacle. It was to have an ornate ark in which the Ten Commandments would be preserved.3 There were to be colorful curtains of goat wool and fine linen within a tent, hung on golden hooks.4 There were to be lamps with the oil of pressed olives, always burning, and an altar of acacia wood for burning incense.5 In a place of wandering and exile, God made a way for communion and reconciliation. He designed a dwelling even in the desert—a sanctuary among the sand.
God proves Himself here to be the foremost architect. Only He may fully comprehend the perfect dwelling place for Himself. Thus, the Tabernacle is the blueprint for all other designs of divine importance, and all houses of dwelling built thereafter are an imitation. The temple that would later be built in Jerusalem received a similar structural command from God Himself, but no site has since received that divine decree. St. Peter’s Basilica is a great reflection of God’s design, but man’s creation can only mimic that of God.
If, then, St. Peter’s Basilica is awe-inspiring yet imperfect, and the Temple has long been destroyed, where can God dwell on earth? Where is the sanctuary of the Lord today? It must be somewhere of reverence and impossible beauty. It must be somewhere untarnished by the dust and damnation of our world. It must be somewhere sacred.
Don’t you know that you yourselves are God's temple and that God's Spirit dwells in your midst?6
How can this be? God Himself, who decreed the construction of the grand Tabernacle, now settles for humble humanity? My bones are more fragile than acacia wood. I have broken them before. My heart is far from pure gold. I have known the stain of suffering and sin. I do not smell of fragrant incense but of every instance in which I have been unfaithful. I am unworthy. Yet, God declares me a sanctuary. He desires to dwell within me and every one of His children. He declares us sacred. What allows for this?
But when Christ came as high priest of the good things that are now already here, he went through the greater and more perfect tabernacle that is not made with human hands, that is to say, is not a part of this creation. He did not enter by means of the blood of goats and calves; but he entered the Most Holy Place once for all by his own blood, thus obtaining eternal redemption. The blood of goats and bulls and the ashes of a heifer sprinkled on those who are ceremonially unclean sanctify them so that they are outwardly clean. How much more, then, will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself unblemished to God, cleanse our consciences from acts that lead to death, so that we may serve the living God!7
In Christ, who died that we may have “life to the full,” we receive sanctification and eternal redemption.8 For just as God designed the blueprints for the Tabernacle, so too did He design every fiber of our being. He knows every muscle that contracts as we smile, every wrinkle in our folded hands, and every cell in the eyes we view the world through. He not only designed mankind, but formed us, from the dust, by His own hands. We are God’s good creation. However, sin separated us from our creator. That which is not in God’s good order eroded our very bones, so that we, like even the grand pillars of St. Peter’s Basilica, show signs of decay. As sin seeped into our sinew, the holiness of our perfect God could not be within us. Light and darkness cannot
dwell together.9 Yet, when Jesus laid down his life on a cross two thousand years ago, He was the sacrificial lamb that restored us to commune with God. There was established a new covenant—whereby we are saved through the only blameless and eternally satisfying sacrifice of God Himself. As He perished, the very veil of the Temple in Jerusalem was torn.10 God would not dwell apart from His people. He would be within us, restoring His creation from the inside out. He would free us from bondage to sin and the cycle of sacrificial atonement. He would reconstruct our very souls and restore us to a splendor that even Michelangelo could not envisage. Just as He did for the Israelites, He led us from slavery to sanctuary.
1Exodus 25:8 (NIV).
2Exodus 25 (NIV).
3Exodus 26 (NIV).
4Exodus 26 (NIV).
5Exodus 27 (NIV).
61 Corinthians 3:16 (NIV).
7Hebrews 9:11-15 (NIV).
8John 10:10 (NIV).
92 Corinthians 6:14 (NIV).
10Matt. 27:51 (NIV).
Reagan Stallings is a fourth-year studying Kinesiology. Her passions include coffee shop exploration, music making, reading good books, and writing to share the truth, goodness, and beauty of God and His creation.
When first I look clear-eyed through eyes of the microscope I slip into the meaning of subfluvial. World Other up-swells beating softly, living emerald–gift of jellyfish–glowing like sleep, cells ruffling at their edges. The room is very dark.
For these hours I am watcher over mute waters, hunter of phosphorescence —green stars in glass. I still my hands, watch. Life uncurls throbbing with the instruments’ noise strumming time. We call them wells, deep waters locket-large, wombing strata, blossomed void.
Out in the air and on the land I’m asked why I believe in God—I’ve asked, myself, of late—and I think of my cells growing in glass, each a little piece of jewelry. “The world is beautiful, what can I say?” Treasure clement beneath a smallest sea.
In the black room I choose the color white. The protein I implanted strings itself as pearls on the cheek of dark.
ROB BATTON
Someday the saints will journey home
To busk the streets of golden sky
Child bend thine God-wrought ear
To this our song, that thee may hear
III. Prayer
And child, when our song thou hear With folded hands and bended knee
Leave the crowd that did Him jeer And rest inside the cross’s plea
Say, “Our Father, we adore Thee
Our fallen ends we do confess Thanks we give for this new day
Gift us Thy strength, Thy children bless”
Feel the Spirit move inside
With crude words not, but just the same Though eternity Thy face now hides I ask, to glorify Thy name,
“Lord of mountain, Lord of glen, With grace and truth, anoint this pen”
IV. Creation
And with this very pen I’ll write Of Thee who wove in six bright turns
The perfect Earthen tapestry, The stars that gleam, the sun that burns
From dust my fleshy father formed
From bone my mortal mother made May Thy eternal soul be warmed
By tribute this my hands now pay:
Lyre to dance the two-cleffed page
Compass to stand the vestry walls
Chisel to free the angels sage
Brush to frieze the hallowed halls
Oh Greatest Muse, Thee first and last Gift charity for these my tasks
V. Labor
And charity, which is the fount
Of ev’ry honest, Christian deed
Spring freely in my droughty heart
Thy strength be mine, Thy force my steed
Usurp my soul, unscale my eyes
My very fiber fix to thee
For plenteous the harvest lies
But few the holy lab’rers be
May I give of all I am
’Til nothing left of me remains
And Thee who washed me white as lamb
Through service, break my earthen chains
Grant me strength to run this race
My only prize, to see Thy face
VI. Rest
Thy face, in rest most clearly seen
When to the side all work is laid
And workers quit their labors mean
To hide in Thy great wingspan’s shade
Just as Thee stayed Thy sov’reign hand
And after six days, hallowed one
Shabbat I heed, at Thy command
To contemplate Thy work well done
At ease, in Mary’s part, I best
May sit and soak your teachings true
And feel Thy stirrings in my chest
To see Thy might in sea and dew
Oh Thee alone who makes me whole
Rejuvenate this callous soul
I walk in the valley of life But the shadow of death is near.1 I descend to the depths of earth, Yet still, O Lord God, you are here.2
I board a train bound for Sheol. Has God’s love abandoned my soul?3 It’s said the light shines in darkness, but darkness has overcome it.4
Earth’s foundations quake and shudder, When blasts our dynamite cutter. Is this the death that leads to light?5 For some faithful, the day has come.
But revealed are Earth’s inward parts Made by one God so clever,6 On each rock He writes He was here I know He’s with me, forever.7 1.
Rob Batton is a third-year double majoring in English and commerce. In addition to Bearings, he is involved with RUF and Eunoia. In his spare time he loves getting outside and tinkering on cars.
Zhaire Roberson is a thirdyear student at UVA studying Interdisciplinary Studies. When she’s not exploring her newfound love of poetry, she enjoys spending time outdoors with friends and family.
Josh Tomiak is a fourth-year studying computer science, music, and religion. Outside class, he teaches drum lessons, works in his garden, and stays active shooting hoops and cycling. If you see him, be sure to ask about Biblical Hebrew and Appalachia.
Claire Huchthausen is a recent graduate who majored in physics and biology. When not enjoying the world through studying it, she loves running in nature and singing in a choir and through her house.
William Kuebler is a ministry intern at the Center for Christian Study and recently graduated with a Government major with a concentration in Political Theory. He was a member of Veritas Forum, Reformed University Fellowship, Orthodox Christian Fellowship, and Jubilate. He is an avid musician and aspires to a career in ministry.
If you are an undergraduate student interested in writing, designing, editing, or managing social media, we would love to have you on our team. We are always looking for new members who are passionate about integrating faith and culture on Grounds.
To learn more, email bearingsuva@gmail.com.
If you are an undergraduate student at the University of Virginia, we eagerly invite you to submit your work. We accept a variety of written work and visual art.
To submit work, visit bearingsuva.org/submissions.
Your donation allows us to distribute our journal to the University of Virginia as well as the greater Charlottesville area to foster dialogue on Christianity in an academic setting.
To donate, visit www.bearingsuva.org/donate.
Thank you to the Center for Christian Study at the University of Virginia for their continued support.
We also extend our gratitude to the UVA Parents Program and various community contributors who made the production of this issue possible.
Lastly, we would like to thank our mentor, Fitz Green, for his guidance and encouragement.
Bearings is a member of the Augustine Collective, a coalition of student-run journals at university campuses across the nation.
www.bearingsuva.org @bearingsuva bearingsuva@gmail.com
