Spring 2018 Grove City College
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Dear Readers, SENIOR EDITOR: Kathleen McAlister JUNIOR EDITOR: Anne St. Jean SECTION EDITORS Poetry: Annie Dupee Casey O’Brien Delaney Martin
Short Stories: Holly Ahrens Caitlin Salomon
Essays:
Drew Santa Noah Gould
Creative Nonfiction: Abby Opst Hannah Spatz
Book Reviews: Eric Gardner Josiah Aden
LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITOR: Nicole Mingle CHIEF COPYEDITOR: Katie Shilling COPYEDITORS: Katheryn Frazier Hannah Spatz Katie Wong Emily Way
Recently a company in California called Beehex revealed their new 3-D printer…which makes pizza. Funded as a way to make food in space for NASA, the printer is capable of assembling a basic cheese pizza in a traditional circle shape, heart shape, or even shaped like the United States in a single minute. According to an article on Business Insider, the pizzas are just as good, if not better, than human-made pizza. "It has the potential to create more interesting foods, like, say, a pastry with hundreds of different layers," co-founder Jordan French told reporters. "These are things that you just can't make with human hands." This is our culture’s attitude toward humanity in general. Efficiency and ingenuity are desired and rewarded. Tradition is ridiculed. We celebrate Artificial Intelligence for its cleanliness and predictability and we fund projects that make the world a more orderly place. The problem with people is that we’re messy and inconsistent. We’re sinners in a sinful world. On a recent trip to Savannah, Georgia, I met a man raising money for a civil rights lawsuit against the Ku Klux Klan for lighting him on fire at a gas station. This is the kind of world we live in. In this Spring issue of The Quad, our writers do not shy away from humanity in all its brokenness. But they also embrace the radical grace and glorious redemption found in Christ. Ann Busch’s poem “Chief End” asks of the Westminster Shorter Catechism’s first question what it truly means to glorify God and enjoy him forever in our messy relationships. “An Old Friend” by Liesl Hake revels in the rich language of love, both given and received imperfectly. Reminding us of the consolation of the Gospel that we are loved, even in our sinful state, Molly Wicker’s essay “The Doctrine of Disappearance” compares us to mismatched socks. Thank God for Easter. All our messiness, our broken hearts, and frayed souls meet and heal in the blood of our incarnate Christ, who valued our humanity enough to become flesh and live amongst us. People are important and deserve our attention as the blood-bought images of God. Happy Easter, today and every day. Sincerely, Kathleen
COVER ART: Courtney Moletz ADVISORS: Dr. Joshua Mayo Dr. H. Collin Messer EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD: Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger Dr. Daniel S. Brown Dr. Joshua F. Drake Dr. Michael F. Falcetta Dr. Charles E. Kriley Dr. Julie C. Moeller
Kathleen McAlister Senior Editor
Anne St. Jean Junior Editor
Volume 10, Issue 3 Spring 2018 The Quad is published quarterly by students of Grove City College and funded by the college. The works in this magazine, however, do not necessarily represent the views of Grove City College, the editors, the advisor, or the editorial advisory board. The editors are responsible for the selection of articles; responsibility for opinions and accuracy of facts in articles published rests solely with the individual authors. The Quad grants permission for any original article to be photocopied for local use, provided that no more than 1,000 copies are made, are distributed at no cost, and The Quad is properly cited as the source. Anyone may submit to The Quad. Pieces are selected by a blind submission process. Submissions must be sent to quad.submissions@gmail.com. Include what department you are submitting to, year, but leave off your name on your submission. Times New Roman, 12 pt, single spaced in Word Document form is preferred; when citations are necessary, use Chicago style. Any rejected submissions which are not returned will be destroyed. Accepted submissions may be withdrawn at any time. Anyone interested in writing a review should contact the editors.
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Spring 2018 VOLUME 10 ISSUE 3
CONTENTS O4 O5 O6
On Beauty
Christie Goodwin
Chief End
Ann Busch
Men of Words
Bryce Lowe
Stand
Philip Herzing
Hide & Seek in Mullaghmeen Forest (Poem)
Kathleen McAlister
Lay Down His Head (Poem)
Paul Brinkman
Hebrew 101 (Poem)
Katie Shilling
Finding Love at Grove City: Vol. ii (Short Story)
Noah Gould & Liney Parker
An Old Friend (Poem)
Liesl Hake
The Doctrine of Disappearance (Essay)
Molly Wicker
Lullaby of I-70 West
Kathleen McAlister
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Dissonance
Gabby Crouse
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My Israel
Nathaniel Smith
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(Artist's Recflection)
(Poem)
(Poem)
(Short Story)
(Poem)
(Poem)
(Poem)
O7 10 11 14 15 19 20
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ON BEAUTY TINDER, THE OPERA, AND GRETA GERWIG’S LADY BIRD Christie Goodwin
It was the final act of Giacomo Puccini’s La Bohème at the Budapest Erkel Theater and, as one does, I was shamelessly weeping. As I looked on, sobbing, the glow of a screen pulled my attention away from the stage. One row ahead of me, a man was using his phone. Don’t judge, I told myself. Maybe it’s important.
I looked a little longer only to see face after face flashing by, the man’s thumb swiping and tapping lazily. It was the final act of a worldclass opera performance and this guy was swiping through Tinder. I was incensed. Would Tinder not still be there in ten minutes when the opera ended?
Leaving the theater that night, I ranted to my friend about the incident, adding smugly, “This generation doesn’t deserve beauty”.
This generalization about my own group of millennials is, admittedly, unfair. It is easy to denounce your own generation with the hope that it will automatically separate you from all of its sins and iniquities. If this generation does suffer from one particular sin, however, it is the need for distraction. Devices in hand, we are constantly occupying ourselves with various forms of entertainment. For the sake of this argument, however, we will not consider the distractions themselves, but instead note what we are distracting ourselves from.
The true appreciation of beauty requires attention; beauty demands our time and space. If we pay close enough attention to it, beauty is unrestrained; it will enter our experience and overwhelm us. In Greta Gerwig’s perfection of a film, Lady Bird, a nun complements the teen protagonist’s college essay and its description
of Sacremento, California. Christine—or Lady Bird, as she prefers to be called—responds to the compliment with surprise, reluctant to admit any sentiment towards her hometown. N: “You clearly love Sacremento.” LB: “I do?”
N: “You write about Sacremento so affectionately and with such care.” LB: “Well, I was just describing it.” N: “Well, it comes across as love.”
LB: “Sure. I guess I pay attention.”
N: “Don’t you think that maybe they are the same thing: love and attention?” To give our attention to something is to love it. Consider the type of affection we seek in deep friendship or romance: we long for someone to study us, to have our intricacies noticed and adored. We want them to discover us and, in the end, find us beautiful.
We often consider ourselves ill-equipped to understand the beauty of paintings and symphonies and sculptures. We excuse ourselves from the task, convinced that we do not have the necessary understanding or prior knowledge. However, before the pursuit of beauty is ever a matter of intellect, it is a matter of attention. To know beauty is to sacrifice to it, to give it our time and attention.
No generation deserves beauty if it makes no effort. In the age of isolating social media, our beauty appreciation often extends as far as an Instagram-worthy spectacle or a convenient backdrop for our artificial posts. The more we are distracted, the more we restrain the beauty around us. Give it your attention, and beauty will surprise and enthrall you. Beats a Tinder match, every time.
Christie Goodwin is a middle school history and English teacher in Budapest, Hungary. She is notorious for doodling and writing poetry on papers she's supposed to be grading.
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CHIEF END Ann Busch
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Gray skies. Workmen fight the weeds and Crumbling brick. The building decays. They rage against a wild nature. Leaves, dead leaves Blowing against the cool wind Whirling infinitely, until nature’s through. Workmen fix, fix, fix, at the Decaying of the place. Why? The question teased.
II.
But there it was— The sound of me, Trying to save us. Trying to Restore our broken friendship. We thought we knew everything there is to know. It turns out we are just humans, This side of heaven, Salvaging a bit of life, Slipping farther in the past, Out of our control.
III.
It is true that things fall apart. But we are the menders, we are the restorers; We glorify that which is in us. It is natural to see the things of man decay, That is what they do. But we being Restored and redeemed—hope abounds. Against darkness, we bear light. Against confusion, we stay the course. Against entropy, we rebuild. Against gray skies, we press on.
Hi my name is Ann and you can catch me cruising through campus in my 2001 Lincoln Town Car jamming to Hayden’s 88th.
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MEN OF WORDS Bryce Lowe
Brothers! Hard-minded, long-sweating men Of different states and different homes — You broadbacks, you ironwills, You quickminds, you cleverwits, You who are devoted to late study or heavy labor To make a place and a name for yourself, You who consider yourselves men of words: Do not forget your tongues— tongues which Have tasted sweet fire and know the shapes Of intricate words and the sounds of passion, Tongues which know the beating rhythm And the names of all beautiful things. Clear your raucous throats, heave your bellow-lungs and drink cold water; Spread wide your feet and stand upright with pride. Our land is full of geldings, The butchered lame who chewed their tongues And swallowed their words and stabbed their eyes And stopped their ears with wad. Like the herdsman with muscled yells, Like the cowboy with ringing shouts, Ours is the rallying and ours the branding, Ours is the marking of land and country, Ours is the calm hand in knife-lightning, the easy voice in gunshot-thunder. Our stories are stained and sunburnt, Bitter like the dust from our place of birth, Dense as ripples of gold-wheat. Our voices are cries from the wilderness, Our lips are coals of fire. Our voices echo in deep canyons and in wooded valleys. Our nostrils are full of green grass and clean air, Our faces are wet with clear water, Our tramping feet are dark with black dirt and yellow clay, Brothers! Hard-minded, long-sweating men, Remember that Voice which sings sweetest, Remember the pounding drumbeat, Remember your furious valor of fighting, Remember the taste of flaming tongues.
Bryce Lowe reads books, forges metal, and listens to trees.
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STAND PHilip Herzing
Will you please stand up, Samuel?”
The boy lifted his head from his desk and looked at his teacher, a middle-aged woman with brittle hair and a brittler temperament called Mrs. Kim.
“Your presentation?” Mrs. Kim prompted, licking a finger as she flipped through a sheaf of rubrics. “Can’t I give it from here?” he asked. “You certainly may not.”
Samuel stood. He stretched his long arms and shook his shaggy dark-brown hair out of his eyes. He walked to the front of the classroom, gripped the lectern, and stared out at his twenty classmates.
“Today I will be speaking on the border crisis,” he said, his voice as flat and dull as the school parking lot. “There have been a number of incursions that, until recently, we thought were from foreign criminals. However, recent evidence suggests that those incursions were in fact the work of the foreign military, and may be a precursor to a larger invasion force.”
Samuel’s mind drifted as he plodded on through his speech. He thought of the TV he wanted his parents to buy for him. He thought of tryouts for the football team in two weeks. He thought of Millie, who was sitting in the front row trying to catch his eye. He didn’t think about the looming prospect of war, not really. War happened in other countries on the other side of the world, but never here. When he finished his speech, he sat down without waiting for applause and put his head back on his desk. t “Will you stand with us?”
The short man below was shouting, a megaphone clutched in his fist, to a crowd of people. “Will you fight against oppression and
tyranny, will you speak out against the mistreatment of our mothers and our daughters?” Samuel could feel the anger building up in him. The man was right, dammit. Something had to be done. The occupation was choking the life out of the country, and showed no sign of slowing. But what could he do? “I don’t like this.” Millie pressed herself against him. “Can’t we leave now?”
“Hang on a minute,” Samuel murmured. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
“We will march!” The short man squawked, pacing around in a little circle, “We will make our voices heard. We will demand the rights that we deserve as citizens. We’ve done nothing to earn this aggression, and we’re not going to sit around waiting for rescue anymore!” The man paused, wiping sweat and spittle from his face. He was breathing heavily, his face bright red. In the distance, whistles began shrilly announcing the approach of the regime’s peacekeepers.
“Who’s with me?” the man squeaked, before rallying and shouting again, “Who’s with me? Who will march with me to victory or death?” Samuel leapt up from his bench. “I will go with you!”
“Sammy, no!” Millie hissed. “We have to get out of here.” “This is important, Millie.” Samuel started pushing through the crowd.
“Sammy!” she yelled after him, balling her fists and stamping her little shoes on the pavement.
Samuel didn’t hear her; his ears were filled with the sound of his pulse, beating out a frenzied rhythm as he marched. He felt good, like he hadn’t since before the invasion, like he was awake again after a two year sleep. He marched with the crowd and gazed at the short man who was egging them onward. He felt like a hero.
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t “Are you able to stand?”
A freckled face loomed over Samuel, who was curled up in a ball on the concrete slab that made up his sleeping quarters. “You’ve got to stand up,” his cellmate said, tugging at Samuel’s arms, “You’ve seen what they do to the ones who can’t stand.”
Samuel moaned and tried to push the man away, but he was too weak. The prisoner pulled Samuel into a sitting position. “If you can stand, I will cover for you as best I can in the mine,” the prisoner said. “But you have to be standing for inspection.”
The echoing blast of a gun came sharply from a cell a few doors over. Samuel thought for a moment that he should wait for them to come. It would be quick—these damned invaders were efficient in almost everything. Just a flash of light and he’d be free from pain. “Listen,” the other prisoner said, lowering his voice. “There’s a plan. We’re going to get out of here in a few weeks. You just need to hold out until then, and then we can be free again. We’ll join the resistance, and we’ll drive these bastards out of our home. But you have to stand.”
With monumental effort, Samuel dragged himself upwards, using the bars of his cell as support to lift his aching body upright. The guards came to him just as he was stretching his arms and tossing his long hair out of his face. “Fit as a fiddle, huh?” the inspector said brokenly, grinning nastily at Samuel. “Here I’d been hoping to be rid of you today.” “I’m not done yet,” Samuel growled.
The inspector’s grin widened and he began to poke and prod at Samuel and his cellmate. Samuel winced, but did not collapse under the scrutiny. His mind was elsewhere, thinking
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of the faded photograph stuffed inside his mattress of a girl with dark hair and dimpled cheeks. It wasn’t Millie, but it was a close enough likeness that he could pretend.
I’m coming back, he resolved, no matter what.
The inspector dismissed the pair and moved on to the next cell. As Samuel descended into the darkness of the mine, he heard another shot ring out. He gritted his teeth and kept walking. t “Will you please stand in recognition of Samuel Eliot?”
Samuel lifted himself shakily from his chair, soaking in the applause of the gathering. They were all clad in dark jackets and silk gowns; his wool suit coat itched against his skin. Leaning heavily on a proffered arm, Samuel shuffled to the podium they’d set up for him. There was an awkward pause in the clapping, but once he was behind the wooden stand it grew stronger and filled the room. “Thank you,” Samuel said, then saw the head of the gathering point at the black stem sprouting from the podium. He spoke into it, and heard his voice amplified throughout the whole chamber. “Thank you, sirs and ladies.”
“This has been a fine evening, and I hope you have enjoyed yourselves.” Samuel stumbled on the unfamiliar language, but plowed on after a moment’s hesitation. “I wish my countrymen were here. I wish they could see that the whole world is not as broken as our homeland. Our fair country is not what it was before the invasion, but we are stronger than we have been, thanks to your help. I salute you, for your generosity.” He paused, and clapped. The glittering attendees smiled and nodded, preening themselves on the praise.
“I am afraid, however, that I must urge you
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to continue sending aid. The invaders are waiting beyond our borders for your attention to slip elsewhere. The people I’ve left behind there will not survive another hegemony.” Sam choked, unable to push the words from his mind to his tongue.
“So many dead,” he wheezed out, his mind straining to remember the moment in that quiet ice cream parlor when she’d agreed to marry him, but the image was faded in his own mind, and he couldn’t remember what Millie looked like.
There was a strained silence, and then his sponsor began clapping loudly and glaring at those around him. Forced applause reverberated through the crystals of the shining chandelier, as Samuel shuffled back to his seat. t “Can you stand, sir?”
The nurse leaned over Samuel, her dark hair reminding him of the face he’d forgotten. Samuel pushed himself up on his bony arms, but fell back into the wheelchair, gasping. His mind was clear: it screamed at his body to stand. His body was simply no longer his to control.
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“It’s fine, sir; I’ll wheel you over to the dining room.”
“I have to take a stand.” Samuel’s voice became desperate, the echo of a gunshot spilling from the past to haunt him. “No, sir, it’s no trouble. Just rest.”
Samuel ate his porridge dully, the others dying around him. Some had family spooning mouthfuls of oats or pudding into their slack mouths, some were aided by perky young nurses, and some were like him: alone but for the company of the dead. After the last gulp of porridge had slipped down his throat, Samuel’s nurse pushed him back to his room. She and another lifted him onto the bed where he lay, his eyes wide open. The light from the window dimmed and the shadows of the room turned until the sunlight disappeared. He felt hands tugging, pulling him. He caught a glimpse of dark hair, saw a freckled arm reach around to grip his arm sturdily. “Come on Sammy, stand up.”
“You’ve got to man, you can do it.”
With a great whoosh of air leaving his lungs, Samuel stood.
“I can’t do it,” he said.
Philip Herzing is alarmed to report that real life is still more frightening than his fiction.
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The Quad
HIDE & SEEK IN MULLAGHMEEN FOREST Kathleen McAlister
In the underbrush thick with rain the woods dripped with magic. We walked on tiptoe, daring a twig to crack underfoot before our hideaways appeared. Tucked away in the fold of a tree, Ancient and ramrod straight, I hear echoes of rebels and priests, Past inhabitants of this lone oak In a sea of ash trees and pines, Seeping out of the sappy bark, Spinning away in the silver light. A spider dangles from her web, And in the silence we wait, she and I, For the inevitable fairy that must appear. Soon the sounds of teenagers will Rip through the enchanted curtain, With screams and laughter And “The Rocky Road to Dublin,” Dragging us back to here, near Mullingar, And the woods will become Wet and skyless, too much to bear. To the spider I whisper flat fields of wheat, Golden and rustling in the wind, the soft lowing of cattle on the horizon Harmonizing with staccato cricket chirps, The yellow notes of the meadowlark In the dusty dusk of June, And the words my cousin in Texas said to his wife Before she found him face-down in the hottub, “I want to be buried in Kansas.”
Kathleen McAlister (’18) has watched all the seasons of The Great British Baking Show available on Netflix a minimum of three times. She aspires to one day be Mary Berry.
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LAY DOWN HIS HEAD Paul Brinkman
Entreat me not to leave you, or to turn back from following you; for where you go, I will go; and where you live, I will live; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die— Between this world and That to come There is another land A country of the deaf and dumb Where none for long can stand It seems all roads to there do lead That vale of broken bones And there amidst the wanton need Lie dry and lifeless stones Where may a man lay down his head And rest his restless heart Where may a man lay down his head And rest his restless heart In Gilead there is no balm For Gilead is gone And in Jerusalem is calm Like that which comes with dawn The calm is tranquil unto death Indeed ‘tis thick with it Amidst the streets there is no breath The silence is a pit
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The selfsame pit is found in man Within his anguished heart ‘Twixt song and silence is a span O’er which no man may start Where may a man lay down his head And rest his restless heart Where may a man lay down his head And rest his restless heart Within this wan and lifeless land The desert does not end No friend is here to take his hand And guide around the bend The path is pallid old and worn By feet of those before And meantime hangs the curtain torn Beneath the silent roar The roaring sky that twinkles black And blazes high above Does on this day display a lack Of any Godly love The sanguine justice of that hour Was blood that was denied Yet even ‘gainst such falt’ring power Denial was defied
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The deaf and dumb who wander here Shall wander here no more For they shall have the ears to hear The truths they heard afore And with their lips shall they proclaim Such songs of joy anew And with their hands shall they reclaim From death their lives all new For in as many worlds as are There is a single King And He has crushed the morning star And slain the deathly sting Within the worlds of death and dark And those of life and light Amidst the greys and silvers stark Forever shines the God-man bright And He has bought sweet rest Along with all His best To give unto His blest There may man lay down his head And rest his restless heart. There may man lay down his head And rest his restless heart.
Footfalls echo in the memory // Down the passage which Paul Brinkman ’15 did not take // Towards the door he never opened // Into the rose-garden.
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HEBREW 101 Katie Shilling
My professor speaks and a whole garden springs from his lips. Colorful and vibrant, the flowers cascade through the air like snow. I grasp at them, but I can only catch a few seeds which threaten to slide out of my tenuous grip. Gingerly, I place them in my mouth, crushing them together as I chew the foreign syllables. The shape of them sits awkwardly on my tongue. I force them down, and their sharp edges cut jagged lines into my throat. They begin to settle inside of me, slowly. The roots of verbs branch into preformatives and sufformatives. The nouns sprout into construct chains flowering with definite articles. Give them enough sunlight and water, and centuries of meaning will soon come burning like a seraph out of my chest.
Katie Shilling (’18) dances like a suburban dad at a barbeque, but she has fun with it.
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FINDING LOVE AT GROVE CITY: VOLUME II Noah Gould & Liney Parker
3/3/18 Dear Diary,
A wise man once said: if you are unsure of what to do, it never hurts get an opinion from everyone you know. So, after my first date with Sarah (we went to office hours together, if you remember), I decided to get dating advice from all the wisest people. I asked Dr. Schaefer and he gave me some useful biblical passages. These will be good to quote to my roommate if he ever complains about me hogging the room during open hours. Next, I asked the mailroom guy, since he knows a lot about relationships from delivering so many valentines. He told me that the Guthrie is showing a romantic comedy this week, but after that the new superhero movie will be up for the next eight weeks. Advice taken. I then went to the library to continue my research. I checked the stacks first, but everyone there had way too high of a GPA to know anything about romantic pursuits outside of PR4037. I then headed down to find a librarian. One was sitting at a desk next to a sign that said, “How Can I Help?” It was the same lady that told my Bib Rev class she was there to answer questions, so I figured asking her was fair game. She recommended something called EBSCO? There I found about 10,000 articles on love. I was very disappointed. All the articles were written by people that I’m sure have never felt love—or, if they did, then they certainly didn’t deserve it. I had so many questions that I stayed at the library until it closed. As I was walking out, I saw a security guard closing up. When I approached him, he said that the key to a good relationship is to never hold hands when a golf cart is coming. Apparently, the drivers don’t know which way to turn and could hit one of us. Also, he said to never to run on ice or leave outside doors open. Not sure what any of that has to do with dating, but I was thankful anyway. The best tip he shared was that there is a Ronald Reagan Basketball game coming up. I think the theme is Reagan because the last time the team got to the finals was when he was president. This is a perfect date night; I don’t think anyone else will show up, so we’ll have the whole place to ourselves! Plus, they are providing jelly beans, so I don’t even have to buy snacks. It’s what I call a winwin, regardless of how the team does. That wise man really is as wise as they say, because I felt much better after getting those opinions. Much love, Josh
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3/20/18 Dear Diary,
Now, as far as I can tell, there is one a decision every Grover couple must inevitably face: will they be a South Couple, a Ket Rec Couple, or (God forbid) a Commuter Lounge Couple? Much hangs in the balance. Sarah and I have decided to spend every evening at a different lounge to give them each a fair chance and not make rash decisions. But, despite our best efforts, this issue has become our first big fight.
Sarah loves South. She thinks nothing is more romantic than spiral staircases, fireplaces, and bad reproductions of antique furniture. Her argument is obviously flawed because Sheetz is romantic and it has none of those things, but that’s beside the point. I am against South for one simple reason: it’s terrifying! It’s like Noah’s ark out there—people are only ever in groups of two. Although I’ve had Joshua 1:9 memorized since age eight, I still can’t get over it. Frankly, I prefer a space more Ivy League-ish. Objectively, Ket Rec is the place to be. It’s the only spot on campus where I can be intellectually inspired and, thus, my only chance at a 4.0. After she kept refusing to see my side of things, I suggested we start another Telegram chat. We will inevitably reread these early conversations years later, and I don’t want to corrupt our usual poetic chat with everyday details. We might even add a third person to keep us accountable. If we can’t decide by tonight, we might go to the basement of STEM and use the high-tech whiteboards. I’ve never actually used them before, but I bet they’re ideal for making pro/con lists. However, I really don’t know if our relationship can stand that kind of stress. Our relationship is on a teeter-totter. I heard teeter-totters were banned from playgrounds years ago for being physically dangerous to children; turns out they’re more likely to be emotionally dangerous to me. With love (and trepidation), Josh
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3/29/18 Dear Diary,
It’s spring here at the Grove, and I just want to take a moment to reflect on the splendor of God’s creation. Ok, that’s long enough, now let’s talk about Sarah...
She is so beautiful that I saw her in her FitWell uniform and I wasn’t even repulsed. To be honest, I was actually kind of impressed. The fact that she has a hand-me-down FitWell uniform highlights both her modesty and frugalness. I don’t approve of the length of the new FitWell shorts. They’re something I’d expect to see at a secular university, not here at a carefully cultivated conservative Christian community. I hope the Grove doesn’t go too far down this dangerous path—I want its values to be just as strong in 20 years so that when our kids grow up, we can send them here. I mean, if that’s what the Lord has in store for us. But I’m pretty sure it is. Walk, jog, running to the weekend, Josh
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4/3/18 Dear Diary,
It’s gotten a little old sitting on the same side of a booth in Hicks and inevitably having our deep conversation overheard by a professor or close friend in the booth right next to us. So Saturday we walked down to Beans—needless to say, this idea put the bad in bad idea. We sat down with our coffee to coordinate our syllabi, but our tête-à-tête didn’t last long. We were soon interrupted (in order) by: her roomate, three professors, my RD, and our pastor. What did I do to deserve this? My conclusion is that Beans isn’t really off campus at all; the Broad Street border is only an illusion. When the public examinations finally died down, we resumed attempting to coordinate our schedules. The biggest hiccup is that our breakfast schedules don’t line up. If Hamlet went to Grove City, only he would understand how large a tragedy this really is. It’s well known that in the hierarchy of meals, breakfast is the most intimate, special, and worth protecting—like the Constitution, or something. I suggested that I drop my 8 a.m., but Sarah wouldn’t let me. She read a Collegian article about intermittent fasting and thinks we should apply the concept to our relationship. I can’t tell you the agony I’m in thinking about having her eat alone every morning, or, even worse, sharing that time with someone else. To safeguard against that, I bought her a morning devotional book and underlined “morning” on its cover.
As time passes, we grow closer and closer every day, like two trees, which grow closer and closer every day. Which are sometimes aspen trees sharing the same root system and, thus, are just one tree. So I guess that those trees could be us too! I honestly should have paid more attention in Baby Bio... and Writing 101. Well, although my metaphors may be mixed, my feelings about Sarah certainly are not. With love, Josh
Liney Parker and Noah Gould changed the name of the main character after realizing there are approximately 78 amish romance novels using the names Sarah Elizabeth and Noah.
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AN OLD FRIEND Liesl Hake
It pounced on me in a moment unawares, Serreta’s smile, like a poke from behind from a pal when you’d pined for company. It hoisted every droop of her skin, drawing back those dreary draperies for some sun. Some resurrected recollection of hers must have roused it because it beckoned me to peer behind those bleak blinds into a world eclipsed by dementia, yet ever present in Serreta. The grin was toothless, but the gap graced her better than any Colgate commercial’s contrivance of bright. It warmed up the white walls and fluorescent lights and gave my scrubs the feel of flannel.
Liesl is a senior biology major who is learning to look for the beauty revealed even in the nitty-gritty moments.
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THE DOCTRINE OF DISAPPEARANCE Molly Wicker
For most of my college career, my socks have resided in a white, tattered garbage bag. The garbage bag has moved with me from my cinder-block freshman dorm room, where I spent most nights crying myself to sleep and wondering why I felt so alone. The bag came with me during sophomore year, stuffed away in a nondescript plastic bin that was purchased during a harried Walmart run. I lived with three other girls during my junior year, and my sock collection grew and changed as our attempts to separate four people’s socks from a joint load of laundry failed. “We’ll just share,” we said. This year, I stare at that garbage bag every morning when I wake up and most nights when I go to sleep. It lives in the top drawer of my dresser, in my bedroom, in an apartment I share with two of my dearest friends. Somehow, through three and a half years, I’ve managed to succeed in almost every other minute, self-imposed goal except that of buying a proper catchall for those socks. What’s more, my collection is incomplete. I’m frequently exasperated as I attempt to pair two socks together. Hole-y, misfit socks are one of the perils of modern life. More than just a sign of hipster authenticity, my mismatched socks, resting in their wayward home, reveal one of the great truths of the Gospel. I’ve never quite figured out exactly how one loses socks. As someone who is generally neat and ordinary in her day-to-day life and who rarely loses things, I find missing socks to be one of the more vexing peculiarities of life. Where do they go? It should be simple: they go from the drawer to my feet and into the laundry basket at the end of the day. But somehow, it doesn’t work out that way. My mismatched socks pale in comparison to the struggles and sufferings of much of the world. One glance at my Twitter feed reveals poverty, depravity, violence and death—a universe groaning for the return of a Savior.
I find myself contemplating a similar philosophical and personal conundrum when presented with Jesus’s love in the Bible. I’m reminded of Jesus’s unending, unbounding, indescribable love on a near daily basis. It seems simple. Me, a sinful human, loved by a perfect God who died for all my sins. More than anything, I wish to fully embrace and understand the crux of the Gospel. “God expects us to fail more than we expect ourselves to,” said my pastor during a recent Lenten sermon. A grimace twisted his lips, followed shortly by a smile. I felt the tears spring to my eyes. I doubt Jesus’s love for me. I worry about the grades I earn, the outcome of my future, and the socks I wear. I wonder if I will ever be good enough, pretty enough, or smart enough to earn the love of the King. Nevertheless, in those personal, ordinary moments of vexation and exasperation, I am reminded that I serve a God who loves his people in all their moments of messiness and brokenness. I am confronted with a moment of revelation: I am sealed with the love of Christ, bought for a price, and his forever. Socks disappear, but Jesus remains steadfast. I sit in the pew on Sunday evening, the tears spilling over my lids and onto my cheeks, and I sing: . . . Could we with ink the ocean fill And were the skies of parchment made Were every stalk on earth a quill And every man a scribe by trade To write the love of God above Would drain the ocean dry Nor could the scroll contain the whole Though stretched from sky to sky Despite my mismatched soul, worshipping one moment and worrying the next, the Lord is gracious and good. He did not come for people whose hearts are perfect. He came to patch up broken, tattered, wayward souls. Through our disappearance, he leads us home.
Molly Wicker is a senior English major who spends her free time trying to engineer a way to become a full-time spokesperson for La Croix. Her favorite flavor is Peach-Pear.
The Quad
Q
Spring 2018
LULLABY OF I-70 WEST Kathleen McAlister
When the sun dropped from the clouds, Grazing the tips of the few lonely trees— Scattered jacks across the prairie— Like an overripe persimmon, it burst. The orange juice dribbled over the fields, Sticky and sweet in its brilliance, Making the blonde stubble blush While smeared through the grey clouds, Paling pinks embraced the darkening sky. Into the empty west we sped homeward, Leaving the city and its traffic flow in the east; The light lost its vibrancy, its electric glow, Drying matte on the cotton-ball sky. On tiptoe, night slipped slowly in from behind, Splashing soapy purples and blues, And wiped the sun’s splattered colors Away with a clean December frost Until all the heavens sparkled. Into the endless west we drifted that night Not on four wheels but on the tide of stars Washing over the dark vastness of the plains In a wave—cool and fresh—of dreams.
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The Quad
DISSONANCE Gabby Crouse
Something is lurking in the darkness, revealing stairways to despair. And I climb from my depths to the turbulent air. I'm stagnant. Distilled. Like a glass of champagne. When the party is over, I’m disposed down the drain There must be a way out Temptation's exciting thoughts start brewing neurons begin lighting I look through a keyhole at something so pleasing But the door is locked, the view sadistically teasing I sit against the wall as I cry out to God "People make statements in your name, and they're nothing but fraud." Like a fearful cat that scratches at the door I want to be free, but don't know how anymore The weight of their fear, over the use of a brain Made me impatient, and has only brought pain I can't stop seeing the person behind the façade And when they analyze me, I fear I seem somewhat odd The loop in my head, spins steadily without rest And inside the vicious cyclone lies a puzzle, tangled and complex I have lost sight of my innocence, who I am in the purest form The child lost inside me, is held captive by the storm In my cold damp hole, I reach to climb out But no one comes to my rescue, not through the screaming or shouts Maybe I can't see... Or I'm partially blind Because people are genuine, but distorted in my mind. Words get lost in translation and yes, I may be eccentric, But life is less black and white and more geometric. As twisted as two colors can be to form one anew I was purple because of red, without red I'm only blue I lay out in the sunlight to soak up luminous rays They refuse to touch my skin, though I've waited endless days But I'm a perennial, and although I'm out of season Someday I'll rise again, I just need a reason.
Gabby Crouse is a stay at home mom to her two boys, Jack(5), Elias(2) and she absolutely loves what she does.
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Spring 2018
MY ISRAEL Nathaniel Smith
Lion of Judah Quells the darkness in my soul The enemy flees Thundering forward Hope overwhelms my spirit My paths are set straight The days pass me by Shame and doubt obstruct my way I ascend the throne Wailing under me My kingdom falls to the dark Sin reigns once again The lion returns Terrifying but gentle And he makes me whole
Nathaniel Smith is a junior elementary education major. He enjoys a martial art called Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and loves to listen to music.
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Hearts & Minds Bookstore Dallastown, PA heartsandmindsbooks.com
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The Quad c/o Kathleen McAlister GCC# 1927 200 Campus Drive Grove City, PA 16127
Spring 2018
VOLUME 10 ISSUE 3