I had never been so excited to go to church. I remember my mom dragging me out of bed when I was a little kid and forcing me out of soccer shorts into khakis or a skirt. I remember the eternity of the service and thinking I just might die until finally, finally we reached “Thanks be to God, Alleluia, Alleluia” and I could run over and be first in line for pastries at coffee hour. I can remember those things and remember the same nave and hallways and people and maybe that’s why my summer return to church felt more like a homecoming than anything else. I sprang out of bed and put on my skirt and sweater and for once I was the one standing at the back door, asking my parents if they were ready to go.

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I’ve been dreading the end-of-spring-semester packing and cleaning since I moved here in August, but suddenly sorting my clothes and dishes into boxes and mopping up the floor seems exceedingly appealing. Lately it’s been hot and humid and North Carolina pollen is not a force to be reckoned with, but I’ve been putting in extra runs and laying out during the day, because who wants to be “that girl” who came back from college in the South out of shape and pale? Also, has anyone noticed the news has been especially interesting lately, specifically the Miley Cyrus/ Annie Leibovitz photo scandal? Just riveting. Oh, and I’ve been spending a lot of time deleting e-mail. There’s a pastime that never gets old.

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I wish I knew Greek and not just to keep the fraternities straight. My debate for Intro to New Testament class was entitled “Resolved: The New Testament Condemns Modern Practices of Homosexuality,” and I was assigned to the negative side with two other students. We hinged most of our argument on the fact that Paul and other New Testament writers did not know modern homosexuality as we know it.

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I hope God appreciates the fact I have to ascend a mountain to get to church every Sunday. All right, it may not be a mountain but on a cozy weekend afternoon in bed with my English book and my laptop, Chapel of the Cross starts to seem pretty far away and the slight incline between my dorm room and the church building seems to slope several more degrees than usual.

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So we lost to Kansas. And it wasn’t even really close. We’d made plans for replaying our NCAA tourney victory over and over at a party next Saturday. Teachers had already canceled early Tuesday classes in expectations of all-night celebrating. Instead Sunday morning brought a wave of depressed baby-blue clad zombies casting knowing empathetic looks at each other through bloodshot eyes. What the heck happened? We were supposed to win that game!

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John 20:18: Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them that he had said these things to her.

Mark 16:8: Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

When I listened to John’s resurrection story on Easter and all I could think of was how it didn’t pass the “criterion of independent attestation,” I knew something was up.

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“Do you want fries with that?”

More than once, I’ve gotten this interrogative statement in response to my declaration that yes, I am an English major. This is my least favorite reaction. My second least favorite is “Oh, you are going to be a teacher?” (There are other things to do with the degree!) Then there are the understanding folks who perhaps understand a little too much and ask me what I plan to do with my schooling. My usual answer: I don’t really know.

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In the myriad comments on my last post, many points were made about God’s role, or lack thereof, in Eve Carson’s death, and God’s role in tragedy on earth in general. But oddly even a tragedy as momentously sad as this does little to change people’s opinions. Religious folks pray to God for solace. Non-religious folks take solace in knowing no benevolent God could allow something like this to happen. I was reminded of a childhood telephone game: less listening to what is really said, and more hearing of what you want to hear, and passing it along in the place of truth.

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I got an email Thursday afternoon that I thought was a terrible joke. Since then I’ve been trying to process the reality of that email and circuitous attempts at logic lead back to the same conclusion: Why? Our student body president, Eve Carson, was shot and killed early one morning last week.

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I was excited to show off my new Episcopal home church, and he never missed Catholic mass and wasn’t about to start now, so one thing led to another and there I was, going for an Erin Becker record: two church services in three hours.

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“Okay, God, here’s the deal. I know we were going to talk last night, but I got tied up with some homework and then some friends invited me over to watch 'Planet Earth'—which is really just a celebration of your creation, right? Sort of like praying? And I was really tired when I got back to the dorms...

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I entered the chapel five minutes late and scuffled to the back pew. My squeaky tennis shoes made way too much noise on the wood floor and my first prayer was that God would forgive me for interrupting the prayers of others.

Now what?

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Done with class for the day and stuck with an hour to kill until lunch, I headed out for a run. There's a loop we call Mason Farm that goes past the lacrosse fields and golf course and into a wooded prairie about a mile and a half from campus. I recommend this route to anyone in the Triangle area, if you don't mind getting your feet wet in a little creek that separates the road from the main trail.

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