It took a total of five hours to scrub up the paint. Five hours of being on our hands and knees under the brutal July sun. There was no shade out in the middle of the parking lot, just what felt like miles of black asphalt, buckets of water and countless wire brushes being pushed back and forth by sweat drenched hands.

We never did find out who had vandalized our church parking lot; the police just shrugged, wrote up the report and told us that sometimes things like this happened. There were crude drawings, words that in a politer era were only written in asterisks, and random zigzags, all swiped on the pavement in garish primary colors.

So we made a party of it, bringing ice-cold sodas, popsicles and potato salads, working in shifts while the men grilled hot dogs. The younger kids formed a bucket brigade, running back and forth with a constant fresh supply of water, both for our parched mouths and for the paint that was slowly yielding to our efforts. Our backs burned and beads of perspiration ran down our necks and arms. But amid the work was laughter. Laughter, animated conversation, mixed with the occasional yelp when a wire bristle caught a finger instead of the intended offending paint splotch.

When my group switched off for a well earned rest, we lounged under the big oak by the church door, admiring our newly minted tans and dousing each other with deliciously frigid water. I dozed off, the sound of camaraderie in my ears, drifting into luxurious slumber, unaware of Ron’s stealthy movements. The cold bite of the ice cube slipping down the back of my shirt startled me back to reality. I sat up, bleary eyed, and made a face at my smirking benefactor. I admit: the ice felt wonderful once the initial shock wore off.

We sat quietly for several more minutes watching the flies buzz in futile effort over the covered food. The paint was almost gone; the hot dogs were nearly ready. Our vandal had intended to disrupt and upset us. Instead he had only served as an excuse to hang out with friends, to laugh together, to work together, to feast together. I flopped back on the grass. Could life get any better?

Week One over and gone, Nicea Term grades handed out, and a thick layer of fluffy white precipitation on the ground. It's pretty outside. This calls for a snowman.

Thank goodness for roommates - I was unable to buy The Life of John Calvin (who may or may not have gone here or done that), and am reading Lindsey's copy. The rapid beating of my anxious heart slows, and I am happy.

Speaking of, my books call.

Can't wait for week two.

And finals are over. I got through one of the most insane one and a half weeks of my life without coffee and behold, I live still.

Thankfully all my finals went well; rhetoric was sweet. I go home Friday afternoon. Sweetness prevails.