Analyticals Anonymous

Sail

2011-04-30T08:25:00.002-05:00

Oft' I have thought I was meant to fly,

Meant to have wings to caress the sky.

Then would I soar in the hawk's domain,

And toss in the wind like a weather vane.

Knowing the freedom of endless flight;

Soaring unchanged as the day turns night.

Wind in my wings, all the world's my own.

I've reached to the heights of some place unknown.

Gravity's bondage no longer holds.

Dreams find a way and my wings unfold.

Here in the sea, I have found my sky,

Where sails, not just wings lend the pow'r to fly.

Breathless, I sail through the wind and sea;

Carried by tempest, I'm finally free.

Floating adrift o'er the storm and gale,

For God gave me wings when he gave me sails.

Treasures in the Attic

2011-02-27T16:44:00.001-06:00

I parted heavens glory,

And gold puffed away like dust

Where gossamer ribbons floated

Void of cobwebs, grime, or rust.

I was cleaning Heaven’s attic

In a mansion up the street,

And the memories I uncovered

Were sprawled there at my feet.

I found bits of joy and blessings

And a trunk filled up with hope,

And tied with string, a word of thanks

Tucked in an envelope.

I found albums filled with photographs

Of happy days gone by,

Of smiling faces, laughter,

And the bliss of each July.

I pulled back a big white sheet

That was draped over a chair

The very place I’d talked with God

And come to him in prayer.

And there stacked so neatly to one side,

All my ministries in a line—

The children’s work, the choir,

Visitation all combined.

Then in the farthest corner,

Behind every happy thought,

I found a box tucked in the back

Some things that I’d forgot.

I opened it up slowly,

Recalling now what was inside,

All my hurts and disappointments

And the things I’d tried to hide.

These don’t belong in heaven

In a place that knows no tears.

I thought to throw the box away,

But paused and drew it near.

I sorted through the contents,

Setting each thing down with care,

And my story then unfolded

With each trifle I found there.

I found a heart once broken

By injustice, hurts and wrongs,

Now mended. Though the scar still showed,

The pulse was beating strong.

There were dreams that I had clung to

Thinking this must be God’s will.

I could see now, had they worked out,

I would be unhappy still.

There were lists of prayers unanswered

When it seemed God wouldn’t speak.

Now reading through the tear stains,

It was I who was too weak.

The times God left me hanging

While He blessed my fellow man,

If only I’d been patient,

I’d have seen His glorious plan.

I looked across the remnants

Of the failures, loss, and pain,

And I wondered at God’s foresight

As I saw His grace so plain.

All the hurts I’d held so tightly,

Now through heaven-altered eyes,

Were the blessings God had giv’n me,

Were the treasures in disguise.

Lifeguard On Duty

2010-07-26T20:48:00.000-05:00

It has been a while, but racing down to the water’s edge for the first time this summer is like greeting an old friend. This is the ocean I had played in nearly every summer as I was growing up. I’ve been in the Pacific and Caribbean as well, even the Mediterranean Sea. But this is the ocean I know. I let the water lap over me feet and I move out deeper, familiarity rising and falling over me with each wave. I brace myself against the strong undertow, gazing out at the wide expanse of sea where distant boats float on blue. A sandbar allows me to stay waist deep until a rising curl whips me off my feet and I feel that sensation of floating midair before I crash back into the white froth. I ride the waves for a while like this, jumping the smaller ones, diving under the larger.

And then the waves changed. The crash of water is more insistent, stronger than before. I barely catch my breath from one before I’m hammered by the next. The thought of moving closer to shore hits me only a moment before the whistle blows. I start swimming hard. The group I had been swimming with is now a wave ahead of me, and then two. The waves are striking me at different angles now, holding me back in a watery grip. With each big wave, I kick for all I’m worth, thinking this is the wave that will carry me all the way to shore, but I make no progress. Each time, I’m pulled back deeper into the ocean. I can’t see anyone else in the water anymore. I look to the shore. The lifeguards are standing now, not breaking eye contact, waving me in. I fight the water again, swimming, but in vain. A feeling of exhaustion washes over me suddenly, and I know I have nothing left. I can’t make it in. Another wave dunks my head under. I don’t fight it. After the crash, I let my body float back to the surface and gasp for another breath. Salt stings my senses. I look again to the life guards poised on the water’s edge. I slowly shake my head and wave an arm. I can’t do it.

Then suddenly, I hear a succession of short fast whistle blows. Two life guards hit the water, swimming at me faster then I thought possible. I have time to think of staying calm. Strong arms, stronger than the clutch of the water pull me from the riptide. I won’t recognize either of my rescuers later. I’m only aware of the arms that hold me on either side, bringing me to safety. In that moment, even before my feet touch the sand, I am at peace. I feel perfectly safe.

Once the strong arms were there, nothing else mattered. It meant moving beyond the humiliation of asking for help. It meant moving beyond the feeling of insufficiency at not being able to help myself. It meant resting in a strength far greater than my own. And I think I'm learning to do that. Maybe this was all just part of the process.

Gullible

2010-07-10T21:35:00.002-05:00

I laugh at the gullible mind then wonder what it would be like to be so trusting.

"I want to go outside."
"You can't go out it's too hot."
"It's not too hot."
"If you go outside, you will melt and then there will be puddles all over the playground where all the children used to be."
Later when he went outside, I saw him scanning the playground area and realized he was looking for the puddles.

They'll buy anything.With little effort, they believe in beanstalks and Santa Clause, field cows and hill cows, monsters and aliens.

We torment the gullible, both the child and the blond. We feed them lies and laugh when they believe, but become jealous of their unquestioning faith. We pride ourselves on being above the gullible trap and begin to question not only the lie, but also the truth.

Salvation by faith?
A strength made perfect in weakness?
Forgiveness?
Love for enemies?
Sovereignty?

Camping

2010-07-04T07:40:00.000-05:00

I just got back from a camping trip, not the roughing it kind by any stretch. Not that I'm opposed to roughing it camping. That's just not what we did. I haven't camped in a long time. We did it a lot growing up, but it's been a while. And this particular campground was only about ten minutes from home. But it was camping just the same. I was excited enough to buy my own tent. Or maybe I just didn't relish the thought of sharing a tent with certain individuals who snore insistently. The tent I got was advertised as a 2 man tent, so naturally it sleeps one. If I ever get married, he'll just have to get his own tent. My new miniature abode has a base measuring 7 feet by 5 feet, but it isn't really. It's more like 7 feet by 3 feet and is rather like sleeping in a coffin.

Lot's of experience camping teaches you certain skills. I can now get changed inconspicuously in the backseat of a car (though that may have less to do with camping and more to do with three years of deputation and being required to arrive at churches in a skirt). I can roast marshmallows to perfection. And I generally don't forget the basic essentials anymore. The only things forgotten this trip that were deemed worth going back for was salt, aspirin, and the second bag of marshmallows.

The best part of camping:
Cooking "gourmet" over a wood fire.
Snuggled up in a sleeping bag reading by flashlight late into the night.
Walking along various campsites and watching people who have no idea how to set up a tent.
Guitar and psaltery by firelight.
Telling funny/scary stories--recalling the story Mom told me when I was eight that gave me nightmares for the entire rest of my childhood.

Lost...in books

2010-05-26T09:05:00.000-05:00

I was introduced to Lost at the end of its first season. My parents (who never watch TV shows) set up the computer with the TV because the parents (who never download anything) had downloaded every Lost episode off of iTunes. And they proceeded to watch me watch Lost. I watched the first episode with an eyebrow raised. By the fifth episode I was hooked.

And for the next 6 years, like everyone else, I kept coming back to it--because of the questions, because of the numbers, because of the name calling, because of the flashbacks, because of imaginary peanut butter and songs about the sea, because Sayid is really hot.

I almost gave up on the show a couple of times. Like after the first flash forward when I knew they got off the island, when we got gypped half our episodes in season four, when Charlie died, when in season five, I had more questions than in season one, when we pulled out an atlas and based on the flight plan of 815 and the size of the small plane carrying drugs, tried to locate the island and found it impossible, when the logic just plain didn't work, when they completely ignored and left Walt's character unfinished, unanswered.

But I stuck with it through the finale. Yeah--about the finally. I loved it and I hated it. The Jack/Locke fight on the cliffs in the rain on a shaking, sinking island simultaneous with Locke's operation was very cool. The quality of love being the very thing that triggered everyone's memories of the island was an interesting concept. Hurley had some great scenes, love the spectrum of his character. There were lots of edge of the seat moments and lots of questions answered--finally. Basically everything the finale needed to be...until the last 10 minutes. They presented the whole dead thing and I was silently screaming No, no no!! That was the conclusion I had reached somewhere mid 3rd season. What if they're all dead, if they all died in the crash. And I spent the rest of the show hoping they would find a different way to end it. My biggest problem in the theory: You can't kill someone who is already dead. It makes every death we've mourned for nothing. Shepherd Sr.'s statement some died before and some after was key, but still, dead?

So Lost is over. Some people have written ballads of mourning and posted them on YouTube. I'll closing out these six years of "obsession?" a different way--with a reading challenge. I'm working my way through all the books Sawyer read during his six years on the island. Might give me an interesting perspective.

Books Read in April

2010-05-15T21:28:00.000-05:00

I meant to post this a while ago, but the time got away from. Oh well. I suppose better late than never. I only read two books in April, not the norm. April was a busy month, although I honestly cannot remember why.

Diamond of Darkhold by Jeanne DuPrau
This is the forth in the City of Ember Series. I enjoyed the books, especially the first. City of Ember was made into a movie, terrible disappointment. Don't watch the movie first or you might not enjoy the book, and that would just be unfortunate. The series is a work of speculative fiction, a sort of primitive futuristic concept. Book four picks up where book two leaves off. Book three takes leave of the story line and gives a prequel view of the events that led the City of Ember to be built. Though I enjoyed it, I was ready for the series to end. For her to write another book would just draw it out too much and spoil it for me. This was a quick read and a satisfying conclusion to the Ember Saga.

The Host by Stephenie Meyer
Stephenie Meyer describes this book as science fiction for people who hate science fiction. I don't know if I hate science fiction. I haven't read enough of it to form an opinion. I roll my eyes at Star Wars and can't get past the corniness of Star Trek, so from that viewpoint, I guess I've always found alien stories a little silly. But, something in this story connected with me. Odd as it was to identify with a main character that isn't even human, I was intrigued and read for many late hours into the night. I like the idea of a reality outside the realm of possibility. I recognize that this is not what would be considered hard sf, but I think I might be opening up to a new genre. We'll see. Thanks Marilyn for the suggestion.

The Love Triangle

2010-04-22T06:41:00.000-05:00

A three-year-old girl comes up to me and tells me that the afore mentioned girl will not allow her to play with her. This surprises me. Four-year-old girl is usually friendly and plays nicely with everyone. Let me talk to her.

I say, "Is it true you won't allow three-year-old girl to play with you?"

Four-year-old girl says, "That's true."

"But why can't she play with you?"

Four-year-old sighs and says nonchalantly, "Because she's a witch."

"Well that's a pretty strong name to use on somebody, don't you think?"

Three-year-old interrupts tugging my sleeve, "No but I really am a witch."

"Why do you think you're a witch?"

"Just for pretend, I'm a witch. And I have a magic wand. And I'm going to point it at her and say "Ally-ally-o" and poof, she'll disappear."

"Disappear?!"

"Yes, and then he (afore mentioned three-year-old boy) will be all mine."

Spring is in the Air

2010-04-15T20:28:00.000-05:00

If you want to be enlightened, discuss the matters of love with a young child. Their perceptions are original, honest, and untainted by reality. I was talking about love with a four-year-old girl today when she informed me that she was in love.

"In love, really?" I asked her, intrigued. "Who are you in love with?"

"With him." She pointed to the three-year-old sitting next to her. He was a good kid. I had to admit she had good taste.

"And is he in love with you?"

"Yes," she responded very matter-of-fact. "We're going to be married." By now the boy's ears were rising noticeably as his grin widened.

"Oh, you're going to be married."

"Yes, but we're going to break up first."

"What?!" I was surprised. The little boy was looking a little surprised and hurt as well. "Will you get back together?"

"Of course! We're only pretending to break up. And then we'll be married," she said dreamily.

"And when are you getting married?" I asked her.

"When I grow up."

"And you're still going to marry her?" I asked the boy. I wanted to make sure he was on the same page.

"Yes, in the summer." He said with a smile.

Cecily?

Unfinished Books

2010-04-15T08:59:00.001-05:00

I'm having trouble finishing books that I've started. I'm not sure why. I think it has something to do with the previous book I read.

Some books I'll finish. I'll finish books that I feel an obligation to. Books that come highly recommended by friends even though I might not understand why. Classics that everyone is supposed to know but that may or may not withstand the test of time for me. Books I read just to say I read them. And of course I'll finish remarkable books. You know the ones. The books that become your friends. Books that make you smile when you see their spines. Books that soon have rippled pages and cracked binding.

But what about the dozens of books that I hold with such high hopes, but never managed to see past the first few chapters. I blame the good books for my problem, the books that come to the dinner table with you, the flashlight under the covers books, the books that leave their imprint on your face with distinct 90 degree angle.

I finish one of the good ones, close the cover shut, and it's like saying goodbye. And even with the most perfectly plotted conclusion, I want more. I want to find a book with the same tone. I want to see my new friends, my beloved characters reappear on another page, in another story. I know they wont, but until I get caught up in a new story, I can't help looking for a while. When I can't find what I'm looking for in one book, I close it and move on looking somewhere else. I'm probably passing up perfectly good books in an effort to repeat a previous book's charm.

Here is my book breakdown so far.

January:
Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone
(I know I only read one book that month, but I was just coming off of a movie streak, trying to get caught up on some films I've missed)

February:
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
This is my second time reading the Harry Potter books. I got the set for Christmas. The interesting thing is, by February the rest of the family started reading the same books. Between my sister and I, we have two copies of the books, three of book one. My sister has read the books I don't know how many times. My dad picked them up for the first time. He's on book five now which is saying something as I don't think he's read more that half a dozen books in all the years I've known him. And Mom, who's always been very skeptical of the series has picked it up as well. I'm not really concerned with what the verdict is when she finishes. I'm just proud of her for reading them before forming her opinion. And I started reading the first book to the six-year-old niece. It's fun because it's become a family event, kind of our own family book club.

March:
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Tales of Beedle the Bard
I came of the end of the Harry Potter books first, feeling a little depressed, like I'd been kicked out of the book club. I actually think I enjoyed reading them more this time than I did the first time. I was more alert this time to the structure of the books and trying to understand how JK Rowling did what she did.

Next begins my phase of starting and not finishing books. I read the first page of The Chosen. It's good. I want to read it, but not right now. I'm saving that one for later. I tried The Golden Compass. I didn't make it through the first paragraph, an all time record for quitting a book.
The Penderwicks
This book I finished within the day. I really enjoyed it. It was a very gentle story. That's the best word I can think of to describe it. It struck me the same way The View from Saturday and Criss Cross struck me. I didn't keep reading it because I wanted to know what was going to happen next; I read because I liked the language, and I liked the characters. It was charming.
The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe
I needed something that was going to take me a little longer to get through. I intended to read the whole set. I havn't read them since I was a kid. I only made it through the one book. I was ready to move on.

April:
April continued with not finishing what I start. I started The Letter by Richard Paul Evans. I read and enjoyed the first two in his series. Not amazing books, but pleasant enough. This one I felt he was writing just to write one more. I'm not too impressed. I Started The Book of Air and Shadows by Michael Gruber. The first few pages were filled with positive reviews. I was sorely disappointed. I read the first few chapters. There were actually a few good lines worth underlining. I read them out loud to my sister. But then I was skimming paragraphs just looking for the author to say something interesting. I was bored. Maybe I'll try again another time, but it's going to require a personal recommendation. I started The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. This one's a little better. I might finish it. It's a vampire story. I don't usually read vampire stories. I'm not opposed to them. I've just never found one I really wanted to read. Speaking of vampire books, I started Twilight just to see what the big deal was. I didn't get far in that one either. It on my shelf of disappointments with the others. So I'm not glued to The Historian yet. But I think it might get better. It jumps back in forth between two time periods via one character telling a story to the other. It changes point of view and tenses at the same time which is leaving me just a little confused.

Now I'm reading Crafting Stories for Children. This one I'll finish. The NF is actually helping to break up my reading dilemma I think. I'm also reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I don't think I've read it before. Don't know why I thought to read it now. Maybe inspired by Tim Burton's latest film. I haven't seen it yet by the way. And my reviews were limited to "It was okay," by someone who is not familiar with the story and "It was boring," by someone who slept through it.

You know how it is when you're in the mood for a perfect book, and none of the 1,300 books already lining your shelves are quite what you're looking for. So let me know if you have any good recommendations, something I'll want to finish.

That was that

2010-04-08T21:27:00.000-05:00

Saw a strange thing on the way home this evening. It was dark, 10:00, and the thunder showers predicted for the afternoon had finally begun, giving my wipers quite a workout. And I was straining to see through the torrents. Just before I pulled into my driveway, I saw a shadowy shape in the road. I slowed to a crawl, trying to make it out. At first I thought it was just another overturned garbage can, but it was two distinct shapes. One black, the other a lighter shade of the same. An animal? I crept closer. Two cats. They were staring at each other, nose to nose for the longest time. They were seemingly oblivious to the downpour. Then their heads came up in unison to look at me, their eyes connecting with my headlights and flashing. They actually looked perturbed that I had interrupted them. But still they just stood there. Finally, one darted to one side and the other off the other side of the road.

And I wondered briefly what they had been talking about.

And now I must go to bed, because such thoughts can only mean I am dreadfully exhausted. And when I wake up people will be people again and cats will be cats and that will be that.

Darkness

2010-04-03T18:44:00.000-05:00

Darkness was over the face of the deep...And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light.

The first words God uttered brought light into the world,
And darkness was abolished.
From the very first, God called light good,
And He separated it from dark,
And the two would never be mixed.
The light brought clarity to things obscured in the dark.
It brought beginning to each day.
It lit the path of the sojourners steps.
It symbolized a coming Redemption.
It emulated His glory.

And the light was greater then dark.
A light placed in a dark room would always shine through the dark,
But the dark could never overpower the light.

Until God turned His back on His Son
The Son hung from a cross
And for three hours, the light was extinguished.
Darkness hung heavy over the land.

I can only imagine what kind of darkness it was.
More than the opposite of light.
More than the absence of light.
A darkness that went deeper than the blackness
And into the heart and soul of everyone who wittnessed it.
With the first words God spoke, there was light.
With last words the Son of God spoke, the light was extinguished.
It was finished
For three hours, darkness
And in three days,
The Son was risen.
The Light shone.

April 1

2010-04-01T21:32:00.000-05:00

April Fools,

A teachers worst nightmare.

Worse then the day after Easter when the Easter baskets are already mostly empty.

Worse then the morning before before trick-or-treating when the mere anticipation of sweets has been working its toll.

Worse then the last week before Christmas when the kids realize it's already too late to impress Santa, but their parents will cave and buy them presents anyway, or the first week after Christmas when they know they've still got a whole year to be good.

April Fools day outshines them all. Every teacher approaches class with trepidation, knowing they are about to be bombarded by an assault of pranks, thought up according to a child's perception of humor. They have probably been coached by Dad or big brother with all sorts of suggestions on how to aggravate the teacher. These will be misconstrued and come out worse or stupid. I hate April Fools.

Fortunately I work with preschoolers and all I really had to endure were the highly unoriginal There's a spider behind you and Your shoes are untied.

I told them that there was really no such thing as April Fool's Day, that the whole day was set up as a joke to convince people that first of April was a holiday, but it was just a fake, so really the joke's on them. They didn't get it.

All around it was a pretty mild day. No short-sheeted beds, no stolen cakes, no bunnies painted purple, no pictures turned upside down. no clocks turned back or ahead, no dressers with their drawers turned upside down, no jello in the shower heads, no ice cubes in the teapots, no snowmen on the toilets, no bras in the freezer.

I survived this one just fine, and I've got another year before April strikes again.

Another from the toolbox

2010-03-10T17:01:00.001-06:00

The cool thing about the toolbox is that it prompts you to write stories that you never would have otherwise dreamed of writing. For examples, check out my sister's The Exotic Dancer. Bit of steamy writing there. Or her newest addition, The Other Woman. Mom's put together some rather intriguing short stories too, but hasn't got up the nerve to post them yet. What if someone thinks I'm writing about myself?... She's right I guess. That would end up being quite the scandal. Stephen wrote one too that's just plain hilarious. Not sure yet if he'll be posting. This time I took three sticks, allowing about 10 minutes in between of writing. Of course the sentences you pick, never seem to have anything to do with each other. Forced writing? Certainly. Humorous results? You decide.

My sentences:
FS. He swore on his mother's grave, but then he swore on just about everything.
NS. Margaret had a habit of spitting, and it was getting on his nerves.
NS. "If you don't take chances," said the man in the striped pajamas. "You might as well not be alive."

Trouble with Tony

He swore on his mother's grave, but then he swore on just about everything.

"It doesn't matter," his friend was saying. "Your word is useless to."

"C'mon, Jacob. 300 bucks. I'll make it up to you. I'll pay back every penny. I swear on my father's grave."

Jacob scowled at him. "Your father isn't even dead. For that matter, neither is your mother. You can't swear on the grave of someone who isn't even dead."

"They will be," Kyle muttered under his breath.

"What do you need the money for anyway?"

"Just trying to pay off a loan."

"Bad interest?"

"You could say that."

Jacob eyed Kyle suspiciously. "Who do you owe?"

There was no sence hiding it from Jacob. He had just opened his mouth to answer when the little bell above the door dinged. They both turned to look. Kyle grimaced inwardly as Margaret sauntered in. Her too big jeans were muddy where they draped over her tennis shoes. Her t-shirt looked like it had been slept in. She waved as she joined them.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

At least she had the decency to admit she might be interrupting. She cleared her throat and spat, nearly missing the trash. She had a habit of spitting and it was getting on Kyle's nerves.

"I was just telling Jacob about a little conversation I had with Toni Spinelzi the other day."

Jacob's eyes grew wide. Margaret's jaw dropped.

"Are you in trouble?" Her eyes searched him. "Do you need money?"

"No, no," he said hastily. Margaret was the last person he would borrow money from.

"Toni's bad news. My cousin lost three fingers in a business deal with Toni." Her eyes flew to his prematurely supposing the worst. He quickly stuffed his hands in his pockets. Margaret grabbed a napkin from the nearest table and spread it out on the counter between them.

"We're going to need a plan if you don't want to end up with a horse between your sheets."

"It wasn't a whole horse," Jacob interjected. "It was just the head."

Margaret ignored the comment. "Toni lives over by the Northside Condos. I'll wait over here." She was scribbling furiously on the napkin. "And one of you will sneak to his house and slash his tires."

"What?! No!" Kyle lunged for her napkin, balling it in his fist. "We're not slashing any tires or I'm gonna owe him more money."

Margaret looked unaffected. She had already reached for another napkin. "Toni takes his meals at the Wellington Diner. One of the cooks there owes me a favor. If I can get him to slip..."

"What? Poison?" Kyle looked over his shoulder, suddenly sure their conversation was being heard.

Margaret wasn't out of ideas. "I've got a friend, really big guy. Maybe I could get him to talk to Toni."

"This isn't working. It's completely outrageous. You are outrageous."

"If you don't take chances," Margaret said with conviction. "You might as well not be alive"

Just Gotta Touch

2010-03-09T09:13:00.001-06:00

I picked up a new game. It's called the Writer's Toolbox. With a series of writing prompts and an egg timer, it lends itself to a lot of activities. This particular one has you pick a fist sentence at random. Write for 3 minutes. Draw another sentence. Three minutes. Another sentence. You get the idea. Click here for my sister's story. This is my result.

Just Gotta Touch

There I was just standing there when what I wanted to do was forbidden. My arms tingles. Anticipation? I was filled with a longing and as the seconds ticked, I scarcely trusted myself. I seriously doubted I would be able to restrain myself. The crowds moved behind me oblivious to the battle that played out in my mind.

In front of me, long and sleek, was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I wanted to touch it. The sign above the cage warned people of the danger. Perhaps that's why the urge was so strong. Perhaps it was because it was forbidden. Perhaps it was the thrill of the danger, but I sincerely felt it was because so few can boast that they have actually petted a tiger. I wasted to be among the few. There was something so rare and exotic about it. There was something about the tiger that looked like just a giant pussy cat.

I slowly reached my hand between the bars holding my breath, my fingers trembling slightly. It was like placing the top block of a precariously stacked pyramid. It was like lighting a candle in a tornado. It was like skating on thin ice. So basic, so easy, so outrageously impossible.

The tiger wasn't the only danger. The zoo security riding around in zebra striped golf carts could have me thrown from the premises for violating a clearly marked warning sign. I was just building up the final ounces of needed courage when a head popped up behind the tiger.--A second tiger! Now I would have to choose. Oh dear. Well, they were both the same, I decided.

Inches from the orange and black fur, I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder. I spun around now face to face with an orange and black striped shirt. The stranger wearing the shirt didn't say a word. He didn't need to. His left shirt stopped abruptly, armless.

These were the sentences I had to work with:
FS. There I was just standing there when what I wanted to do was forbidden
NS. He was walking on thin ice, that's all I'm saying
NS. Well it was all the same, I decided

Cot Monster

2010-02-26T22:51:00.000-06:00

A little imagery and my mental creation has come to life. A three year old with a bad case of the wiggles and an urge to be anywhere but his cot ignores my ineffective promptings to go to sleep.

“The monster will get you,” I whisper.

“What monster?” Two little eyes grow wide.

“The cot monster of course. He’s long and skinny like a snake. And he crawls low to the ground. He has 195 feet and 42 sharp little teeth. And he’s brown and has green spots the color of bugers.”

“Where is he?”

I point to the corner by the door.

“Why?”

“He’s watching the children,” I say solemnly. “He watches them and then he bites the feet of children who get off their cots.”

“I can’t see him.”

“He’s invisible. Only teachers can see him.”

“Will he bite you?”

“No just children.”

He scurried back onto his cot. “Hide me,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry,” I said, tucking his blanket snuggly around him. “I’ll protect you.”

The gift

2009-11-22T21:56:00.002-06:00

The label reads with childish scrawl, “For God.” The space following “From” remain blank, glaringly so. I do not sign my name. I can’t. I’m too ashamed. The paper is wrinkled, a humble presentation. I tried three times to get it right. Tears in the wrapping attest to the effort.

In the moment before I give the gift, I hesitate, reconsidering. It’s nothing really and he is after all God—but I so wanted something to give. I know he will not laugh at my gift, but will he like it? Will he want it?

It’s nothing really. Just my treasures. Nothing of value. A few hopes, some dreams. Worthless by man’s measure. My plans, my future. It’s not much to offer. It would be easier to keep it for myself. But I do not trust myself, and I have nothing else to give.

The hesitation ends.

The gift is given. One look at His face. I cannot regret the decision.

Carpe diem

2009-11-07T07:00:00.003-06:00

Do you remember when you were required to have a detailed ten year plan of your life? Everyone would ask and your answer would somehow determine your value or future success, and subsequently, you watched your friends be divided into two groups: those who would be something in life and those who would not. I had the speech down. I could usually come up with a response that would satisfy most, maybe even inspire a few. But I hated giving it. Who was I to say where I would be in ten years? My desires would probably change in the next year or two. Most of my ten year goal would not happen. The rest I hoped wouldn't.

Categorize me in the group that didn't make it if you will, but for the record, I am content.

My life is made up of a job I don't love, but will do. I could do a lot worse, and there are days I genuinely feel I'm making a difference. The rest of my time is spent with a six year old who is quite possibly the most important thing in my life. I live with my sister, brother-in-law, and two beautiful nieces, six-years and four-months old. My parents live just down the road. My brother lives 3 hours north. He's one of those rare exceptions who will probably actually achieve his ten year and love it.

Is this the life imagined for my self when I was in college? Not even close. The only thing that has remained consitant about my life is the ever presence of God. There are things that I still want out of life. I won't be living here forever. I'll find a better job. But right now, I am happy. God is so good. I've decided I'm not going to wait for life to happen. This is my life. Right now, it's about living in the moment, making memories. If you've seen my facebook photo albums, you've seen record of those memories.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not ditching goals and planning. I'm embracing this mindset hopefully less in the irresponsible, faithless aspects and more in the choosing contentment and enjoyment areas. For now. this is my goal.

Greater is He

2009-09-22T22:58:00.004-05:00

God breathed, and Satan coiled.
God spoke, and Satan deceived.
God was exalted and lifted up on high.
Satan exalted himself and tumbled low
God cursed Satan
Satan cursed man

In a darkest Africa, dark not from primitivism or from poverty, but from spiritual oppression, Satan held an African village in his clutches. The people worshiped him. They worshiped in fear and in pain, in self mutilation and physical sacrifice, clutching artifacts of rock and wood and bone. Their fear had made them crazed. Their faith had stripped all hope. Their religion was one of blood and death.

Then God intervened. With an all powerful hand, He touched their hearts. With an all knowing mind, he prepared their minds. And he sent in a messenger, one to preach the truth to the glory of God.

The people repented. That night, the death wail transformed into a song of praise. Men and women tore off the fetishes that had held them in bondage and thrust them into the fire. The air grew sticky and sweet from the scent of medicine bags ablaze. The darkness lifted

The witchdoctor was furious. His livelihood was gone. He snuck onto the mission compound and cursed the missionary. He braided the leaves of a palm tree indicating the presence of the curse. When the missionary discovered it the following day, he climbed the tree and cut down the braided branches. He threw them in the garbage pit, covered them with gasoline, and set them on fire. All the while, the people screamed and wailed in fear.

That’s where the story ends in the telling but it has not ended. God was victorious in that small African village. And while He is victorious still today, indications of the presence of that curse have followed that missionary everywhere he has gone since.

There is no doubt that Satan is powerful. He is mightier than I. His deceptions are lies that I fall for time and time again. His tricks are clever. His servants have triumphed over Christians all throughout history from the first martyrs to the Christians who are still persecuted today (and not just outside American borders). And I am terrified of him. Praise God “greater is He that is in me.” God is more powerful than he, but I am not. I fear we often miss just how terrible our foe really is. We poke fun and laugh and minimize the adversary. But would you alone take on a roaring lion?

This is a sensitive topic in our circles. We are aware of spiritual warfare, but we don’t speak of it. Perhaps we fear we will sound charismatic. Perhaps we don’t want to encourage man’s twisted mind that actually seeks this kind of encounter or finds a thrill in it. I did not write this post to feed imaginations or for self praise but to share an account of just how powerful I have seen God. If we see Satan for how terribly powerful he truly is, how much more powerful must God be?

Really Knowing God

2009-09-14T22:02:00.002-05:00

You don't really know God until God has been unkind to you. And you still don't really know Him when he's been unkind to you once or twice, but when He's been unkind to you three and four and even five times. That's when you begin to know God.

You really begin to know Him when you have done everything right and God doesn't intervene. I won't say fails to intervene because everyone knows that God doesn't fail. But when He refuses to intervene.

Anyone can say God is good when circumstances are good. But when you say God is good through tears--tears of saying God doesn't feel good. That's when you begin to know that God is good.

When you can no longer see the proof or the evidence of His goodness. When your ears are closed by pain and you can't hear His voice. That's when you begin to know God. That's when you begin to know that He is good, not because it makes sense, but because He is.

The Impatient Rose

2009-09-12T12:05:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, within the stone wall of the castle keep, a garden blossomed into every color imaginable. Roses of yellow, etched in shades of red and gold competed with the sunrise for its glory. Deep reds, pure whites, gentle lavenders grew in abundance. Every shade of pink was present, from the soft pink of a kiss to the deep passion of fuchsia. Tiny forget-me-nots begged to be noticed peeking through a thin covering of green. Morning glories climbed the crevices of the stone wall, pointing their trumpets to the sun in jubilation.

Every day, the royal gardener came and tended the plants. He offered water, trimmed and pruned where needed. And sometimes he sang. Always, he sang about the sun. And when the flowers heard his voice, they raised their heads a little higher sharing the warm rays of the sun.

But in one corner of the garden, a rose had not bloomed. Half hidden by leaves, camouflaged in a green cocoon, the tiny bud waited to be seen. If only the gardener would notice me, thought the little flower as she looked with envy at the other roses on her vine. If only he could help me shed this confining cocoon, then I could be all that I was meant to be.

The gardener did come. He gave water; he trimmed and pruned; he pointed the little bud toward the sun, but the little bud would not open. The little bud showed no color. Ashamed, she hid her face from the sun.

A few more days passed, and still the rose had not opened. She tried. She tried hold her breath till she was nearly purple, but the leaves of her enclosure held fast. She tried stretching and straining and wiggling with all her might. Nothing. So as always, ashamed that the sun would notice she hadn’t bloomed, she hid her face under the leaves. She would not look at the sun.

I can’t do it, the rose cried that night. I just can’t change. And as she fell asleep looking at the other roses in full bloom, she made a plan. I will ask the gardener for help. Then together, we can separate these leaves. And finally I’ll see the color I know is in me somewhere. Finally, I’ll be able to look at the sun without shame.

And so she did. In the morning she made her request. It was humbling to admit she couldn’t do it on her own. The little bud felt as if the thorns on her vine were piercing through to her heart. The gardener will understand. She was certain. Surely, he would help her. And then he would sing about the sun as he always did.

But the gardener refused.
“What?!” asked the little rose in confusion. “Why won’t you help me? Can’s you see I can’t do this on my own?”
The gardener smiled. “Of course you can’t. You weren’t meant to.”
Anger flared in the little rose.
But the gardener continued, “I can’t change you from the a bud to rose any more than you can. If I were to pull apart those leaves, I would tear your petals. You would be small and fragile. You would never grow, and you would soon die.”
Tears filled in the eyes of the tiny rose. It was hopeless.
The gardener smiled, “Only the sun will make you what He intended for you to be. I can water. I can trim and prune. I can point you in the right direction, but only the sun will change you.

And so the gardener did. He watered; he trimmed; he pruned; he pointed the little flower toward the sun. But that was all he did. Soon, the little rose began to bloom. She wasn’t beautiful yet. She wasn’t in full bloom. But slowly she was changing.

Everything Pink

2009-09-12T10:10:00.001-05:00

Check out the new new blog on my blog list. "Everythink Pink" is for my niece who insists that pink is the best color despite me tellling her that pink is gross and yucky. She'll be six soon. Check out what she has to say.

Still

2009-05-05T23:50:00.005-05:00

Here it is again--the start of yet another post that will be saved to my drafts and never actually published to my blog. It's just not what it used to be. My writing has changed and the content and words I'm seeking remain just beyond my reach. Fear of my small readership prevents my from using this surface as my drawing board. And so I add the aimless thoughts to my growing repertoire of unfinished drafts. Bits and fragments fill the notebooks I still keep, but even they end mid thought with portions scribbled out in frustration.

I cringe when I look over more recent passages on my blog. The words that used to come so easy are labored over and unsatisfying when finished. I despise the gaps between postings knowing the times I habitually prepared to write then slammed shut the laptop on a white screen.

It's after 1:00am and I know sleep will still be awhile in coming. I've already updated on Hulu's most recent of House, Bones, and The Office. Tomorrow will begin early with 18 preschoolers, who have alternatives views on discipline and so I know I need to sleep. But a blank page was mocking me and so I had to try...

It's late. I'm not quite sure why I'm moving the curser towards the Publish Post.

Easter. Traditions and Tragedies

2009-04-12T22:07:00.008-05:00

Something new: I wanted to go Easter Caroling this year. It didn't work out. I'll try again next year.

A few years ago, I found a green egg in one of my grandmother's african violets--a real egg, mind you. I actually remember putting it there. Scary thing is, I haven't done an egg hunt there since I was a kid. Guess they don't start smelling till they're cracked.

This is the first year in a while having an Easter with a kid around. So I was pretty excited about hiding the eggs--all 95 of them. I had 40 boiled and 55 plastic. Valinda suggested I write a list of where I was hiding all the eggs at least for the real eggs. Now my sister and I are very different. Valinda is one who writes lists and rough drafts for her lists and somewhere on her rough draft she writes "rewrite list." Naturally, I respect her organization, but I like short cuts. I wasn't going to write a list. I would remember. I had a pretty good memory.

I've been out of school for a little while and unfortunatly memory of intelligence and actual intelligence are two different things. I should have made a list.

We found 54 plastic eggs and 37 real eggs. I should have made a list
I did recall my best hid eggs. One locked in my lock box designed to look like a Standard English Dictionary. The other buried under my potted braided palm.

Moving

2009-01-31T17:19:00.005-06:00

You know you've moved too many times when...

the scent of cardboard causes an instant escape mechanism response: turn, scream, run
half the boxes in the basement are still packed from the last move
you know the difference between packing tape and storage tape
you own a tape gun
you're the only one who can make your dishes fit in the original box they came in
you still have the box they came in
you don't hire movers because you know you can do the job better
you've learned to pack in small boxes
you've decided your next vehicle will be a pickup because it will make your next move easier
most the things you own are travel size
you know you can wait till the last minute to start packing and it will still get done...somehow

Favorite Things

2009-01-23T09:47:00.002-06:00

2008

2009-01-01T20:55:00.003-06:00

Christmas, New Year, presents, programs, lit trees, Luke 2 readings, family, shopping, decorations, cookies, long lost relatives, laughter. It's been a good holiday. I can't wait till next year.

God"s Christmas

2008-12-21T15:05:00.006-06:00

God's wrapping: She wrapped him in swaddling clothes
God's Christmas lights: The glory of the Lord shown round about them
God's birth announcement: For unto us a child is born
God's gift tag: For unto you...
God's Christmas carol: Glory to God in the highest
God's Christmas guests: Shepherds...came with haste
God's Christmas party: Wisemen brought gifts of gold, frankinscence, and myrrh
God's Christmas ornament: we have seen his star in the East
God's gift: The gift of God is eternal life
God's Christmas tree: the cross
God's wreath: and he made a crown of thorns

Bifocals

2008-12-15T20:40:00.002-06:00

I was the friend you’ll always remember.
I was the stranger you still can’t forget.

I made the comment that brought you to laughter.
I was the heartache time was too slow to heal.

I was the stepping stone that took you to a new height.
I was the stumbling block you had to overcome.

I was the teacher that caused you to wonder.
I was the lesson you shouldn’t have learned.

I was the encourager that held you through grief.
I was the trial that God saw you through.

Christmas Time

2008-12-05T20:06:00.008-06:00

Favorite Christmas Songs:
So This Is Christmas
All I want for Christmas is You
Baby It's Cold Outside
Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy--Bing Crosby/David Bowie
O Holy Night
Carol of the Bells
Wizards in Winter

Favorite Christmas Tradition:
Serving breakfast in bed. Opening presents one at a time. String caroling.

Favorite Christmas Gift:
A box of stones. Mom and Dad couldn't afford much that year. They gave a each a box of stones. Each stone represented an aspect of the Christian life. It actually started the idea for the memorial stones that I keep now.

Favorite Part of the Christmas Story:
Luke 2:25-35
And behold there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon...and it was revealed to him by the Holy Ghost, that he should not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ...and he took him up in his arms...and said...mine eyes have seen thy salvation...a light to lighten the Gentiles.

Most Unusual Christmas:
The Christmases spent in Africa where wishing for a white Christmas took on a whole new meaning, where "I'll be home for Christmas" was banned from every repertoire, where we planned to decorate palm trees, but never did, where we opened a canned ham as a special treat to celebrate, where we sat in church for six hours to watch the African's reenactment of the nativity, where we never hung lights because of a cultural association with the local bars, where our favorite gift was a candy bar.

Most Remembered Christmas:
The year we spent in France. We had an itty-bitty tree that Dad cut down. We made ornaments covering shapes cut from cereal boxes with tin foil. It was the only year we had real mistletoe-not the plastic substitute. It smelled horrible. We strung popcorn and when Christmas was over, we hung the popcorn from the balcony. All these birds came. We invited a Chinese friend to celebrate with us and ate Christmas dinner with chopsticks.

What are yours?

Perspectives on Minorities

2008-09-13T13:34:00.004-05:00

I've begun a study on what's happened to second generation Christians, something I refer to as symptoms of silver platter faith. Not a formal study, mind you. That would take the fun out of it. But merely observations, some discussions with friends who are passionate about animated debates, and some reading to add the opinions of people somewhat more credible.

Not unique to my generation, but definitely a huge factor is an obsession with being in the minority. It comes from an innate need to be special. If our ideas or opinion match another, we fear we'll go unnoticed. Yet if they have to match (because of course there are really no new ideas), we match the person who has a reputation for being in the minority. Or we aim for the least popular vote. Or we seek a comment that will achieve the highest shock factor.

And if we have caused our friends to gasp, we feel have achieved some higher insight or understanding. This somehow grants us the right to look pityingly at our friends, smile, and shake our heads.

In my diagnosis of what has happened to second generation Christians, I blame the Christian schools, the youth groups, the Bible colleges, and any other isolated organization in which Christians interact solely with other Christians. Because if we are to satisfy this need to rebel against the norm, well...the result is obvious.

I'm not ready to burn down my school for the higher good. Don't get me wrong. Nor am I advocating that we send our children to public institutions. I think that would raise a whole new spectrum of problems. But I believe strongly in exposure to and interaction with the "real world" (and I use the quotation marks deliberately because the definition is so subjective). On a side note, it's interesting how both the Christian world and the unsaved world have a concept of a real world which is distinctly different than their present world.

Being in a secular environment now, I'm finally experiencing my role as a minority from a different perspective. I'm viewed as abnormal, an extremist, and naive. I've been called a liar (because no one can really be content), and I've been scrutinized suspiciously. Yet I also enjoy the exotic side of being the minority. My political views, my faith, my convictions and standards, my perspective as a whole is basically a novelty.
For the first time, I guess I can say, it’s fun to be conservative.

Kodak Moment

2008-09-03T23:09:00.004-05:00

Valinda's first day of school.

Shelly's first day of school.

The Done List

2008-09-02T22:31:00.012-05:00

Yes, I have a list too. I'm constantly adding to the list: Things to do before I die. I'm a huge advocate for putting check marks on my list. I like to dream big, but I like to see things move from I wish into reality. I don't list the impossibles. Going to the moon is not on my list, neither is running for office in a presidential election. I'll never have the satisfaction of checking them off, and that would just depress me.

I'm not posting my Things To Do list. Maybe another time. Maybe not. This is my Things Done List. And there is already a beautiful check mark by each of them.

Taking a canoe down an African river
Climbing the Eiffel Tower (3 times)

Hiking in the Swiss Alps

Eating snake

Kissing the Blarney Stone
Climbing an active volcano
Observing a surgery in a third world country
Helping deliver a calf
Bottle feeding a lamb in the Pyrenees Mountains
Seeing the original Mona Lisa
Diving off the side of a schooner into the Carribean
Seeing the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean
Snorkeling under the "Pirates be warned" rock
Sleeping in a jungle
Listening to a stalactites pipe organ
Touring the Palace of Versailles
Skydiving

7 hours in the ER

2008-08-27T20:29:00.006-05:00

My day started with a phone call at 6:30 this morning. I spent the next 7 hours crammed in a cubicle surrounded by instruments, blinking monitors, beakers of things I was trying hard not to identify, and smells I was trying not to inhale.

I'm with the majority of the population that hates hospitals. I mean, I like knowing they are there, but I'll appreciate their existance from a distance.

7 hours is a long time and an unexpected trip to the emergency room led to some rather interesting conversation.

We talked about dreams and nightmares and and if you can read in your sleep and how to rewind and manipulated dreams. About your life being in danger and what to do. "Jack would not lay down and die. He would find a way. He would do something."

We talked about plastic Christians and silver platter faith, the tragedy of second generation Christians and the problem with fundamentalism. Of friends who left fundamentalim. Of why I did not and why I was still frustrated with fundamentalists. We talked about legalists and liberals and the point where they meet.

We talked about abnormal childhood perceptions. I was the heretic and the skeptic in my elementary Sunday School classroom. But it wasn't my fault. I was misunderstood.
Teacher: Jesus died for everyone in the world.
Me: Are you sure?
Teacher: Of course, the Bible says so and the Bible is true
Me: But it doesn't even make sense
Teacher's perception: This child doesn't believe Jesus died for her.
My perception: The teacher says we live IN the world.
This led to many years of confusion trying understand why airplanes didn't crash into the earth's crust and why China's ocean didn't drip on my head.

I was the kid who at 4 years old was found standing on her Bible singing at the top of her lungs, "I stand alone on the Word of God!" I took Sunday School a little too literally.

I thought the Bible was divided into 3 equal parts: the story part, the memory verse part, and the confusing part. Unfortunately, I could omly find the confusing part.

We talked about being single. And why being older and single makes you a perfect candidate for everyone's brother, uncle or friend who is desparate, old, and willing to settle for anything that's female. Just this week, I was recommended to someone who needs a visa. Apparently, he's willing to pay. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I'm still holding out for someone with a personality.

We talked about burial rituals, tattood lampshades, and cheese.

Life is good

2008-08-25T23:15:00.004-05:00

Shelly just started kindergarten
We still have a few more weeks of warmth
I'm off tomorrow
My books are finally alphabetized
Tim gets to go back to school
I've had some good talks with my students
I got to spend some time with my grandma
I jumped out of a plane with Tim
My apartment looks really nice
I made the most amazing chicken salad
I think I'm going to get it patented

Black spikey thing

2008-08-11T21:19:00.003-05:00

Sometimes life feels like a funny black spikey thing sticking out of the ground. I'm having a black spikey thing kind of day.

It's Art

2008-06-23T21:23:00.005-05:00

I've been to a lot of art museums, my favorite being of course the Louvre, and second, the Met. I like going with the type of people who can stop and enjoy one painting for twenty minutes. Or people who take a sketch book with them and come back with something more than a snapshot. they carry away an interpretation.

You know how anoying it is to wait for a crowd to step out of the way so you can take a picture of a sculpture. Last time I went, I decided I wanted it all. I took pictures of the people looking at the art. I wish I had taken a picture of the scholarly looking group who spent a good 45 minutes in this room interpretting the art. This picture in particular caught their attention. They found a lot of emotion in the brush strokes. I don't doubt the emotion is there. It amused me. I spent considerable time in this room as well. I was trying to determine if art is inherantly good, or if it's value was determined purely by the location. Honestly, would anyone tke this work seriously in any other setting.

I suppose Hector would.

A Lifetime Loving You

2008-04-26T10:49:00.002-05:00

Random thoughts I don't have time to develop

2008-04-21T13:28:00.004-05:00

Spring is cruel. All the trees are coming to life with yellowy-green leaves that get thicker every day. Pink blossoms cascading from branches and white poofy ones that look something like cotton candy. I've never been a huge fan of spring. It's muddy. But this place looks like something from a greeting card. And then there's my house with with 8 trees out front as bare as winter would have them. They are the only leafless trees on campus and have become quite depressing. But I will have my revenge. I went out last week and bought a half dozen potted plants. Now when I look out my window, or at my windowsill rather, I see green and feel a little less neglected by the season.

I bought Ocean's 12 and 13 recently because I found them on clearance and someone told me I would like them. I refused to watch them until I had seen Ocean's 11. I finally got around to watching it online this weekend. The Japanese subtitles were kind of annoying, but I couldn't find any other sites that were free.

I've been back from Maranatha for a week now. It was a fun weekend, and I've been meaning to put together a happy list from it, but life got busy again the moment I returned. I had a wonderful time talking to Miss Betsy, watching the Mormon Pride and Prejudice with Chelsie and RuthAnn, singing Head and Shoulders in my old 2's and 3's class, playing violin at Calvary, attending the play. I went to all my old haunts with a notebook and came up with some interesting thoughts which I will not record here. I guess it was weird being back just to visit. But I'm glad I went.

I met the sweetest lady last night. Her name is Irene. She's the kind of character I would write into a book, quaint and happy, talking a mile a minute with something good to say about everyone and everything. You know she must have had a bad day somewhere along way, but you would never hear about it. There was something about her that seemed more fictitious than real. Now my mind is actively trying to determine how many roles I could work her into.

I'm going to Sight and Sound this weekend. I can't wait. I'll try to post something about it.

Life is getting out of control

2008-04-04T22:31:00.004-05:00

The little things that interrupt my daily routines are the first cues that something needs to change. Granted, I'm not addicted to routine. I like change well enough to keep life spicy. And I scorn traditionalism. But everyone needs their thread of sameness that connects one day to the next, and my thread is unravelling.

1. My bed is unmade. This is a personal pet peeve. There's no excuse for an unmade bed. It takes all of 30 seconds to pull up the cover, and that single act makes anything else that is out of place look a little neater. I live alone. An unmade bed is no one's fault but my own.

2. I found a potholder in my underwear drawer. Clearly, I didn't have time to sort my laundry. What's worse? It's been there for 3 weeks.

3. My book shelves are still not alphabetized, and all the newly aquired books are growing in verticle stacks on top of the horizontal ones. I live the disjointed personality of an analytical (highly organized) and an artist (highly disorganized). So life is always a little out of kilter, but unalphabetized books are really upsetting my balance.

4. My plant died. I watched a movie that said you're not ready to be in a relationship until you can keep a pet alive, and you're not ready to own a pet until you can keep a plant alive. The moral was something about responsibility and caring for someone/something else more than yourself. I was trying to care for my plant. Honest. My grandma puts used coffee grounds on her plants to help fertilize them. No one told me flavored coffee would kill one. Guess I'm not ready.

5. uh number 5, I don't have time to finish this post, but if I don't post it now, I'll never get back to it...

Nevertheless

2008-03-19T14:52:00.002-05:00

I'm an ignorant brute. ~Ps 73.22

Things to do on a plane

2008-03-08T15:26:00.003-06:00

I'm flying to Alabama in a week for Spring Break. This list is compiled in preparation for the trip. Soon to come...Things to do in an airport.

Create a new identity. Carry half a dozen passports, each with a different nationality. Sort through them before handing one to the attendant. To add to the display, wear sunglasses and carry a briefcase handcuffed to your wrist.

Bring a portable DVD player and start a movie marathon of plane crash movies. Keep the volume loud enough to attract some attention. You might include Flight Plan, Snakes on a Plane, Flight 93, etc.

Wear a wide brim hat and request a middle seat

Evaluate at least 10 nearby passengers and determine what role they would play in the event of a plane crash on a mysterious island in the Pacific. You may want to question them concerning their leadership skills, styles of conflict resolution, past histories, and criminal records. This will give you a head start on who to save as you salvage through the wreckage.

Quills

2008-03-07T22:13:00.003-06:00

If you ask me, it's just tragic.

Jane Who?

2008-02-26T19:41:00.003-06:00

I picked up this delightful little book. It's called Overheard at the Bookstore. And that's all it was, just a little thing with a quote on each page of things people have said while browsing through shelves of books. As much as I love books, watching people is just about as much fun. But watching people with books combines the best of two worlds.

Here are some of the better quotes:

You'll never finish that here--why don't you just buy it?
I think I could probably write this book.
Do you have anything for dummies?
I don't know the title or author, but the book's purple.
It doesn't make any sense--it's called modernism.
This was such a good movie.
You definitely don't have it, or you just can't find it?
I'm afraid I have to disagree with the reviewers.
These are the two that I'm going to buy, and these are the twenty I'm not.

I laughed because many of these I've heard myself. Sadly a few of them were spoken by my mother. So I was reading through them out loud when my parents came over to visit my library. I was already laughing when I read to them my all time favorite--

Should I buy a Jane Austen or a Stephen King?

I don't know--somehow that one just hits me funny.

"Wait a minute," mom said. "Now what did they write?" My jaw dropped, and I am still greatly distraught every time I think of it. Don't get me wrong. I love my mom, and she is a very intelligent woman. We just don't read the same things. I directed her to my bookshelf. Ironically Jane Austen and Stephen King were sitting next to each other. (It's the one shelf I haven't alphabetized yet.) And though she was very attentive through my emergency literary lesson, I suddenly feel as though there is this great chasm between myself and my parents that can't quite be bridged.

Alphabet soup

2008-02-23T20:55:00.004-06:00

I found a quote that I really liked.

"Interpreting modern art is like trying to find a plot in alphabet soup."

Okay, so I really like modern art. It fascinates me, and it bugs me to death. It seems like a style of art that would be easy. See I like art, but painting is time consuming. To me, modern art is like instant expression. Splash some paint on a canvas, give it a title, convince an audience that it has a meaning, and there you have it--Modern art. Accomplishment without effort. Some of you who read this would take offence if I said, forget the years of study. Bang a few notes on a piano. Make it loud and disjointed, and call it 20th century. Yeah, I get that there's more to it that that. So even if some modern art looks like something my 4 year old niece could do, it just doesn't work that way. I've been playing around with paint for a long time. Realistic art takes time, but is doable. Impressionistic I find easier but takes more initial thought. Expression is just plain fun. Abstract? I can't do it. But I'm determined, and will probably waste considerable amounts of paint and canvas in the effort. If I ever do make something I like, I'll be sure to post about it and include a picture.

For now, I suppose I'll stick to alphabet soup. I like to make words and sentences. Who doesn't? Has anyone else ever tried to write a story? My soup got cold.

Contentment On a Moonlit Night

2008-02-20T20:46:00.005-06:00

I watched the lunar eclipse tonight. It brought back memories. The first time I ever saw an eclipse of the moon, I was in 4th grade. I was living in Africa that year. It's actually one of my strongest memories. We and about 5 other families set up lounge chairs in the yard and watched the eclipse, the entire thing from start to finish. I remember as a child not daring to look away from the sky for a second for fear I'd miss it.

Africa was a different world. There wasn't a lot to do. We didn't have electricity let alone TV. Even then, I loved to read, but with no libraries, you can only get so much from reading the same books over and over. Creativity had a different meaning back then, and my brother and I were masters at it. Watching the eclipse was one of the biggest events for us that year. There we sat, mesmerized, all facing the same direction. The Africans would walk by, look at us, look the direction we faced. What are you looking at? We pointed to the moon. Monsieur and Madame has never seen the moon? And they walked away shaking their heads.

Sometimes I wonder if I could still be that content. Could I live someplace that hard again and still love it? Could I give up internet and cell phones and paved roads and clearance racks and ice cream and libraries and Starbucks and every other amusement? Could I give it up and have as much joy as i did that night? I don't know.

But tonight I watched the lunar eclipse, and I remembered. And I called up my family, my parents next door, my brother 4 hours north, my sister 3000 miles west. And I told them to look. And I wonder if they remember too.

Pet Peeves

2008-02-19T19:50:00.003-06:00

I have taken great care with this list. So before I write them out for you, I need to explain a few things. There are far to many irritating forces in this world to list them all as pet peeves. The boundaries must be narrowed and refined.

1)Pet peeves shared by everyone cancel each other out. They are not pet peeves, thy are commonplace nuisances. Of course I hate hair in the sink and runs in my nylons (which by the way I no longer have to wear--and there was much rejoicing). Of course I hate soggy bread and mosquitoes, but so does everyone else. It doesn't qualify.

2)People are not pet peeves. People are annoying, and they do stupid things, but they are not pet peeves. Calling them such would just admit I was too lazy to identify the specific characteristic which annoyed me in the first place.

3)Pet peeves should not include moral issues. Those are more accurately called standards or convictions. Listing them off as pet peeves usually fulfills an ulterior motive. ie: I hate gossiping; therefore, I believe I am above gossip. I hate legalism; therefore, I believe you are legalistic/Pharisaical. You get the idea. Don't go there.

But here are a few legitimate pet peeves.

1)Amazing actors appearing in dumb movies
2)A book cover that doesn't match book's contents
3)Towns lacking coffee shops
4)Libraries that only allow you to check out 3 books
5)Arriving at a book sale after RuthAnn and Joanna have already cleaned out everything good
6)Museums featuring crooked art work (excluding anything found in the modern art gallery)
7)Limp handshakes

Ending Bad

2007-12-01T01:04:00.000-06:00

Nothing gives me greater respect for an author than having the courage to end a book badly. That is not to say they ruin an otherwise good book by ending poorly. I mean when they stray away from a customary happily-ever-after and allow an alternative solution. When the girl doesn't get the man she loves. When the happy couple dies young. When the hero saves everyone but himself. When good intention becomes miscommunication.

After all, what is realistic about a fairytale ending? It's depressing really. It sets an absurd expectation that real life should some how parallel the blissful sunset scene. And when it doesn't, the fuzzy feeling accompanying a good book fades into resentment. But bad endings have a way of stirring things up

Of course, this can't be done carelessly. It has to be done with purpose. And it has to have some other form of resolution.

With the exception of Romeo and Juliet, I love the Shakespearean tragedies. (And Romeo and Juliet has some great lines and some really wonderful adaptations, but I just can't take them seriously). Shakespeare had a gift for knowing when to kill everyone to make a point.

How can you trust an author who never kills off a main character. You can attack the hero with any combination of calamities and hang them suspended in the most impossible circumstance. Your reader will breath easy. The character is safe. But have the courage to brutally kill someone the readers love and you will have earned their fear, and ultimately their respect. And that is the beauty of a wonderfully bad ending.

Turkey Tragedy

2007-11-22T21:56:00.000-06:00

It's too funny to be tragic.

I'm sure imagining it is funnier than the actual event. The only thing funnier is wondering what the headlines tomorrow will read.

This morning, kids from all over the valley started pouring into the park across from my grandmother's house. They were preparing for the annual Thanksgiving day race. Joining the festivities was some poor girl convinced to dress up in an outrageous turkey costume. The thing with these big costumes--you can't see anything. So what most people were interpreting as a grouchy turkey was just a blind bird. All the kids were running up trying to high five the Thanksgiving turkey, not too easy for a bird that can't see.

So picture the turkey, standing at the finish line. Everyone's excited. She's jumping up and down, flapping her wings. All of the sudden, the winner crosses the line and, victorious, runs over to hug the turkey. She never saw him coming, and in one foul swoop, he knocks her to the ground. She hits her head on the curb. And the ambulance comes and takes her away, feathers and all.

Now I'm not one to find an injury humorous, but I can't stop thinking about a turkey showing up in the emergency room on thanksgiving day. It doesn't help matters that our town's school mascot is the redskins. "Running Bear takes out turkey on Thanksgiving."

Things I did this week that I've never done before:

2007-11-09T23:21:00.000-06:00

Bought a book I had never heard of just because it was on the New York Times bestseller list
Watched an entire movie in Chinese, reading the English subtitles
Made fried oreos
Subscribed to receive dating tips via email and unsubscribed 10 minutes later because I thought it was stupid
Set a picture of a total stranger as my desktop background
Attempted to solve a Rubik's cube backwards to see if I could return the pieces to their original messed up locations (I'll never know if it worked)

A Midnight Inspiration

2007-09-13T20:17:00.000-05:00

I've had several teachers tell me that the best ideas come in the middle of the night, and I should keep a notebook by my bed so I can write down all these things that end up forgotten by morning.

What they don't tell you is that in that semi-sleep state, the mind generally talks itself back into sleep before any action happens in the writing aspect. One time, I did half wake up thinking I should write down some random piece of thought, but I couldn't see what I was doing. I guess I was too asleep to think to turn on the light.

Last night, I woke myself up with profoundities and determined to record these gems of thought before they slipped away. I did manage to get the light and find a pen. Odd thing is, in the morning, none of it made any sense.

Maybe it works for some--I think I'll stick to writing when I'm awake.

Unfinished

2007-09-10T18:46:00.000-05:00

Twenty-five pages between myself and the conclusion of the book. I've raced through the climax, rising and falling with the intended emotions. The antagonist still lives, but I am confident his fate is settled.

All that remains is the explanation. It is the point of no return in a book. It is the downward slope from here to the end that will only accelerate, gaining momentum until the final word.

This is the revealing in which the characters fianlly learn the why and how, the moment that finally uncovers the story behind the story that has kept the reader intrigued since about page 50.

Twenty-five pages remain, and I am already two minutes late for work. I cannot justify taking a moment more. I am condemned to a few hours of agony.

Many years back, I picked up a book that facinated me. It was a mystery, some sort of library reject I had picked up for a quarter. I came to the end only to discover the last chapter and a half had been torn from the spine. I was cut off mid sentense, left in a dreadful suspence that was never satisfied. Title and author have been lost to time, but I cannot forget the settled unknowing.

Kind of an odd time in life. Feels like I'm suspended in that point twenty-five pages from the end. I've passed through all the elements of a story, seen the conflict, the rise of the climax, observed the character changes. I've stood face to face with the enemy. He still lives, but his demise is decided. I've endured the sacrifices, but can safely assume the outcome.

All that remains is the revealing. All I need to know now is the why--why the events transpired as they did, how good is to be rewarded, how evil will be destroyed.

And what if God decides never to tell? What if like a that childhood memory, I never know the final chapter? Perhaps through indefinite agony, all that remains is to trust God's sovereignty.

Purpose

2007-07-27T19:04:00.000-05:00

I crave purpose.
I want to do something
to be something
to mean something.

I want to rise to the expetations others have imagined for me
To recieve the nod of approval, acceptance
And to know somehow it's enough.

I want to look back on previous years without regret
And towards the future with anticipation.

I want to leave a legacy in flesh and bone.
I want to create a masterpiece that breathes.
I want to touch a life that in time will touch another and in so doing, fulfill a purpose that never dies.

You know you're a lifer when...

2007-04-23T19:10:00.001-05:00

Three to four years doesn't seem like a long time to invest in a new degree
Your freshman roommates are now your professors
You know the people that the buildings were named for
Dinner conversation consists of first hand knowledge of how the rules have changed in the past decade
You wish you could get a t-shirt that reads "I'm from the pre-Radford era"
You don't rent out books anymore because they are four or five editions too old
You remember when CSR's were filled out by pencil on bubble forms every Monday
You can't imagine your life not broken into semesters
You've seen the same jokes in the Tantalizing Tidbits at least three times
You survived lice fest

At war

2007-04-19T12:55:00.000-05:00

Heart wringing, mind crushing, soul burning battle. The ceaseless war, ever fought, never won--hopeless, cruel. The mind and the heart at constant odds, unable to resolve their differences. And I caught in the middle, subject to both petty discrepancies and the full, lash out thirst for blood.

Heart, once nurtured, cease to feel. Your embrace, once gentle, begins to strangle. I suffocate. Mind, once pursued, cease your reason. Your thoughts, once stimulating, grow wearisome. I stagger beneath the weight.

Heart and mind, will neither win? Will you reach no resolution? Then at least release me from your tiresome charade. I want no part of either.

Purple Like Rap

2007-04-13T19:43:00.000-05:00

There is a distinction between being unteacheable and standing firm in your convictions
Those who claim to be openminded tend to be closeminded towards those they percieve as closeminded
Arguing seldom solves an arguement
Everyone judges; if they do not judge, they will judge judgers
Correcting a wrong with an oposite extreme creates an equal wrong
No two minds can be completely agreed
There is absolutly no substitute for truth
A right can hide a lot of wrong just as certainly as a wrong can hide a lot of right
And yes, there is a real issue beneathe all the surface problems but who remembers it?

There has to be something more

2007-02-27T22:36:00.000-06:00

I know that God is omnipotent. Every time I heard the Jonah story in Sunday School, I heard the application that accompanied it: You can't hide from God. That's pretty amazing. My parents would tell me to think of the biggest thing I could possibly think of it, and my childish mind would stretch it's limits imagining huge oceans and cloud penetrating beanstalks, and they would say: God's even bigger than that. That's pretty amazing. The silly little song lyrics minimize it horribly: God can do anything but fail. But it's still pretty amazing. So now, thinking about it with an adult mind, is God really as big and powerful as we always said? If so (and of course I believe so), why aren't I tapping into that?

I was driving home the other day, my mind as it has been a lot lately, thinking about future plans, decisions, etc. And I asked myself the question: Do you really trust God? I was disturbed by the question. Of course I trust God. I was raised to trust God. I've trusted God a thousand times before. To be honest, trust has become so memorized, I don't know how to not trust God. But if I really had a concept of the enormity of God, would it be possible for me to worry? I'm missing something here.

I guess I've been distracted by trying to get God to fit the mold of my expectation. By wanting God to be present or absent at my convenience. By worshiping a God who is neatly packaged as the invisible motive for my good deeds.

But what if it's all true? What if God really is everything we always said and more. What if he is that big, that powerful, that amazing. What if it were more than just words and we actually believed it? Wouldn't that change something in the way we think, in the way we approach each day, maybe even in our churches?

I guess I'm tired of being satisfied with a God who is nothing more than the figurehead of my faith.

Chicken Tenders

2007-02-07T16:42:00.000-06:00

I think I may have made a vegetarian out of Jared.

So I was helping him pan up chicken for tomorrow's dinner, and I honestly wasn't expecting him to turn white at the first sight of blood followed by varying shades of green. Well leave it to me to take a bad situation and make it worse. I began entertaining him with all my chicken stories. I must say, I was proud of him. He finished the job without passing out, though the faces he made were classic.

When I lived in Africa, we raised our own chickens. A rooster crowing at 3 a.m. is a good excuse for a chicken dinner the following day and my brother and I often volunteered to see to the task. I don't mean to be morbid, but in Africa, there's not a lot to do. You quickly learn to create your own amusements. After chasing down the chicken of choice, we tied it upside-down by its feet and hung it from a tree. You know, if you don't tie down the wings, the thing will fly in circles upside down? We claimed this was to make the process of removing the feathers easier later. Then as humanly as possible, we would remove the head from the rest of the body. The next part is important. If you cut it down quickly enough, you've got about ten minutes to chase the headless bird around before it keels over. What can I say? I was ten, and I was bored.

That was about as far as I got with Jared before I knew he couldn't handle anymore. He swears he'll never eat chicken again.

Ah, the memories...

Can we dance?

2007-02-05T19:07:00.000-06:00

I stepped into the sanctuary where ceilings rose in majesty, each upward glance increasing in splendor, the golden filigree accentuating every curve, every graceful adornment. Tall narrow windows rose from marble floor to painted ceiling filling the room with the breathless intertwining of light and color.

I stood in the center of the sanctuary, inhaling the beauty surrounding me, and as the evening progressed, I dared to ask the question that had been on my mind all night.

Can we dance?

From somewhere music began to play. From across the room of from within my mind, I cannot tell. Yet I know he also heard it. Angelic refrains joined a rhythm of pure, holy passion. I moved in closer to the one I loved.

And we danced.

As he swept me around the room, he whispered promises in my ear. Promises that stretched the span of time. Promises that came true even before he had finished speaking them. He spoke the words—I love you. And they were not a careless sentiment. The words enveloped the very essence of truth and I knew it was so.

As he took me in his arms, I loved him. As he held me by the hand, I trusted him. As he led me round the room, I followed him. As we danced.

God, can we dance?

John 6

2007-01-26T19:47:00.000-06:00

verse 2--And a large crowd was following Him, because they saw the signs that He was doing.

The Lord is my Shepherd.

verse 9--There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are they for so many?

I shall not want.

verse 10--Jesus said, "Have the people sit down," Now there was much grass in the place.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

verse 18--The sea became rough because a strong wind was blowing.

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

verse 20--But He said to them, "It is I; do not be afraid."

He restoreth my soul.

That which is hidden

2007-01-23T19:23:00.000-06:00

This post began as a discussion with RuthAnn and continued in my mind and finally worked its way here. I'm still sorting it out. Clearly haven't come to anything ultra-conclusive.

Question: Do people really have a hidden side that no one knows about? Or do observers really have the ability to see through supposed facades and secrets that were thought hidden. Granted, everyone has secrets, and granted some people are more perceptive than others. But is it possible to have a side that is known only to the individual and kept completely hidden from the rest of the world?

I'm not just referring to specific events or experiences. Yes, these things do leave an impact on who we are, but they do not define who we are. And of course the details of experience can definitely be kept hidden. I'm talking about having actual aspects of personality that people don't know about.

However, not to take this to an extreme, I do think there are individuals who are convinced that deep down they are someone completely different--i.e. smarter, braver, kinder, more adventuresome. In reality, this identity exist only in the mind and they have never responded accordingly.

Honestly, I think it comes down to a choice. As individuals, we decide how much to open up, how far to let people see in. As observers, we choose how much we will see, how perceptive we'll be, and when to just turn a blind eye and be oblivious.

So, although I first agreed that people don't have a hidden side, that others are more aware of the hidden "us" than we like to think, the more I think on it, the more I think I disagree. I think it's possible to keep a part of self (not just experiences, but actual personality and character) completely hidden.

I'm begging to be proven wrong, so if anyone has an opinion, have at it.

What's the word?

2007-01-18T18:54:00.000-06:00

Okay, since there are a handful of word lovers who read my blog, maybe one of you can help me. What is the word that you would use to describe the incorrect use of a thesaurus. It's what every English teacher dreads while grading papers and the reason I was banned for a time from using a thesauus. It's some kind of an 'ism,' and I cannot for the life of me remember the word.

Love

2007-01-12T19:44:00.000-06:00

I am baffled when I consider the love of God. Words like steadfast, unconditional, and sacrificial are beyond my comprehension. If our understanding of God's love comes from the experiential knowledge of what we share among ourselves, then none of us can hope to understand. Our human view is imperfect. It falls short.

After all, what is it that every individual longs for, the things in fact that he believes are his deserved right?

He wants to be understood
He wants to be loved
He wants to have something he can trust

Unconditional love, in its purest form, is a willingness to love without being understood. I was thinking about how that desire to be understood is something every single one of us shares, and I had to wonder is there is a single person who is understood. Unconditional love wipes out the what if's--what if I am not understood? What is my love is not returned. What if it's misinterpreted and abused? It was both anguish and comfort to my heart to read John 13 and see that Christ was not understood. Seated in the center of his dearest friends, his most intimate followers, he spoke, but they didn't have a clue what he was saying.

And yet He loved them, knowing they would not-could not understand his love, knowing they could never return his love. That's unconditional.

Steadfast love, in its truest sense, is the determination to love without being loved in return. It's the reciprocation of love that makes love easy that makes it continue indefinitely. But to be steadfast in a love that is not shared? We love the socially accepted, yet He loved the Samaritan. We love those who treat us kindly, yet He loved the Roman soldier. We don't love that way.

And yet he did. In thousands of examples, he loved the very people who despised Him. He continues to. That's steadfast.

Sacrificial love, at its highest point, is a purposeful decision to love someone you do not trust. It has to be a conscious decision; it certainly does not come naturally. I'm trying to think if there is someone who I can say I love even though I do not trust. I don't know if I want to be that honest here. I can tolerate people I don't trust. I can avoid them. I can work along side them, keeping my heart distant. But love them?

And yet, my Jesus did. Knowing he would be rejected, denied, and betrayed, he loved them. That's sacrificial.

I wish I could understand His love so that I would know how to love others. I wish I could understand so that I would know how to love Him.

Just over nothing exists something

2006-12-30T10:08:00.000-06:00

Warning: following is the most abstract, vague, non-committed post I have ever written. Do not expect to understand. Do not expect anything to mean what it looks like it means. If you can decipher any of it, congratulations—you know me better than I thought you did. If you do not understand it, don’t feel bad. After all, everyone must have their secrets.

Colors, sometimes bright and intense, sometimes fading into a state of near non-existence spread across the canvas of time, adding pigment to mere thought. When the brush first made a mark, it struck perplexingly. The artist should have known, should have had some concept of the finished painting, should never have made such a wayward stroke. But it seemed the brush had moved of its own accord, irresponsibly marring the image. The first mark was careless, but easily remedied, easily painted over.

The artist painted twice, three times, a forth. Each time on the same canvas. Each layer of paint concealing the previous. And when he was finished, discovered to his alarm that the painting he had hidden was more beautiful than the one that remained uncovered. The painting is framed now, hanging inconspicuously out of the way. To those that find it through effort or by mistake, it is as it appears, simple, a child’s effort made valuable only by the cost of the frame. To the artist, it is a secret, concealed for all eternity. He cares nothing for the visible product, despises it in fact. But he sees the truth. For behind the clear sky lie vibrant colors of abstract design. Between the hills now covered with trees, is a daring image he never intended for human eyes. In the depths of a still lake is the remnant of that first brush stroke. And in every other crevice are the pictures that never left the artist’s thoughts. He sees them. They are as real in his mind’s eye as if they had actually met the canvas. But alas the artist’s skill prevented them their moment.

If only. If only the artist had not doubted his work. If only he had not cared what others thought. If only the others knew what to look for. If only…but the if onlys are endless. So, as the boundaries of reality and fantasy meet and overlap, the only thought that remains is: if only the artist now had the heart to destroy the painting. And the title of the painting is as unrevealing as the painting itself: June uncovering secrets through invisible noticing.

dot-to-dots

2006-12-14T17:17:00.000-06:00

Life is like a dot-to-dot. Monumental moments, the ones that fill the pages of the baby book, the ones that send the grandmas scurrying for their cameras, are connected together by the mundane, day to day of everything else. You know what I'm talking about--graduation day, bringing home a blue ribbon, the first car, the first kiss (okay-try to keep this checkable). The first paycheck, the first time you successfully distinguish between left and right...you get the idea.

Last night, I knew a monumental moment. I experienced my very first Oahu Frappe. It was a moment I had long awaited, and I was not disappointed. Let me just say--the descriptions I had heard contained no exaggeration. And today, my life feels a little more complete.

I really wish I could think of a good title for this post.

2006-11-28T19:45:00.000-06:00

I love to write. Call me selfish, but most of what I write is for me. If I can get my thoughts on paper (or computer screen as the case may be), I can either organize them and hopefully make some sense of it all or eliminate them, thus freeing my mind from the trivial task of analyzing over nothingness. (A true analytical will appreciate that last line. The rest of you are free to roll your eyes).

All that to say: this post is not for me. It is for you, my reader; an audience which I have come to believe is rapidly diminishing. As much as that stabs at my pride, I thank you, the faithful few, who remain.

While people accuse me of being quiet, of having nothing to say, of being….horror of all horrors…amiable! I am merely observing. These are a few of my observations. I have removed all names because, well—it might be you.

People-observing ranks rather high on my list of preferred entertainments. It doesn’t get old. People are unpredictable (and predictable). People are different (and the same). The frustration with cliques is that their members only associate with their own kind. The fascination with diversity then is isolated not so much to those who observe the differences, but those who can appreciate them.

There are numbers of opposing parallels that all people posses which are simply too self-explanatory for me to expound on. For example, there is the introvert and the extrovert, the serious and the giddy, the perfectionist and the haphazardist. The list goes on. But a more intriguing pair is the profounder and the shallower. Please understand that none of these descriptions are meant to question anyone's intelligence, depth, sincerity, or motive. They are merely my observations, and thus observed through my biased perspective.

Profounders may be identified by a facial expression, but are usually identified when they speak. Few people say exactly what they mean to say, exactly when they mean to say it, exactly in the way they would say it. If they did, conversation would be dull. Instead, we have a lovely contrast of communicators. There are the few that don’t care what they say as long as they are noted for saying it. There are those who say only what everyone wants them to say. There are others who say exactly what everyone does not want them to say, which oddly is precisely what they do want in a round about way. (Yes, I know that nothing can be precise and round about at the same time. That is why I put them both in the same sentence). There are those who know they are profound and flaunt it, those who wish they were profound and try to force it, those who do not know they are profound but accidentally do it, and those who know they are profound but try to hide it in order that others might think they are more profound by hiding how profound they profoundly are.

Shallowers have a depth all their own. They are a misunderstood people, accused of being void of original thought, of being unable to think for themselves. Though many of them are highly intelligent (and many Profounders for that matter are not), they are often cast aside as intellectually unworthy. Profounders will speak of the trivial in an intellectual way. Shallowers speak of the trivial as trivially as it actually is. But Shallowers have a perspective that is unclouded by abstract logic. They have a solid understanding of what is real and what actually matters.

By the way, Shallowers are scared to death of Profounders. And though they would never call it fear, Profounders do not know the first thing to do with the Shallowers. You will seldom see these two groups mingle. But should you find yourself in the dininghall sitting at a table with a large group of Shallowers (if you are a Profounder) or Profounders (if you are a Shallower), you will need to know the difference so that you can properly appreciate the opposite group. Profounder comunication is based on content. WHAT is said is important. You can't blank out and still be part of the conversation. Shallower communication is based on the manner in which the content is expressed. It's not WHAT is said, but HOW it is said. I am convinced that a Shallower conversation can take place entirely without words. Grunts combined with expression are sufficient to have the entire table rolling with laughter.

So, may you all break out of your comfortable worlds and get to know the "others." You might be surprised what you find.

It feels good to breathe

2006-11-16T19:24:00.000-06:00

I have this tendency when I'm talking to people to try to put myself in their shoes and view the world through their eyes. It's good in some ways, I suppose. Helps me understand people a little better. Helps me change perspectives. But, it's kind draining when all my friends are going through rough stuff. Seriously, all of them. Is it just me or has this been a hard year all around? And all the stuff they're dealing with is different. I don't mind, really. In fact I love it. I love being around. I love that people know they can share their heart with me. I like that they trust me. And to be honest, when I've tried to be supportive and encourage, I find that I end up being the one encouraged by the very person I was seeking to minister to.

Anyway, I've walked through the past few weeks (especially the last few days) knowing their hurt, feeling their pain, and yes, holding my breath. May I say? It feels good to breathe again.

I used to work as a camp director in San Francisco. Some of the best summers of my life. Kid's are the same all over the place. Kids like to hold their breath when they go through a tunnel. My kids were a little different because they liked to hold their breath when they went over bridges as well. None of them knew why they did it. They just did. I had a few who swore they could hold their breath the entire time crossing over Golden Gate Bridge, which by the way, in traffic, is definately impossible, without traffic, is still quite impossible. I had van drivers who would actually slow down on a bridge just for the fun of watching them turn purple.

Anyway, why did they do it? We weren't under water or driving through poisonous polution. Honestly, the van didn't smell THAT bad. I thought about it last week as I was holding my breath, waiting for the verdict, knowing that what God would do would be good, but not knowing by waht means He would work good, not knowing their response to the outcome, not knowing what my role would be as far as rejoicing with the rejoicer or weeping with the weeper, but wanting to direct towards truth, praying for wisdom. And all the while God was gently saying: Breathe in, breath out. Relax, I have everything under control.

Weeping

2006-11-10T11:46:00.000-06:00

I know I haven’t written in forever, and I know that this doesn't count because it's not my own. But i found this quote by Spurgeon, and I like it.

"Weeping is the eloquence of sorrow. It is an unstammering orator, needing no interpreter, but understood of all. Is it not sweet to believe that our tears are understood even when words fail! Let us learn to think of tears as liquid prayers, and of weeping as a constant dropping of importunate intercession which will wear its way right surely into the very heart of mercy, despite stony difficulties which obstruct the way."

~Spurgeon

Circumstances Crash About Me

2006-10-13T20:59:00.000-05:00

Circumstances crash about me, and my wind struck vessel breaks.
All my thoughts are left adrift while this heart within me quakes.
Master, still my troubled mind
As you stilled the storm at sea.
Speak the words, “Peace be still,”
That from fears, I’ll be set free.
Master, still my troubled mind
As you stilled the storm at sea.
As the tempest turns to trusting,
Let me rest alone in Thee.

Enshrouded by the shadow of the valley dark and gray,
Wondering in confusion, my thoughts roam far away.
Shepherd, soothe this hurting heart
As you did with David’s song.
Whisper melodies of comfort
As the night watch stretches long.
Shepherd, soothe this hurting heart
As you did with David’s song.
Taking captive all my feelings,
Set my thoughts where they belong.

A child so small, uncertain, afraid to call your name,
Afraid to call you Abba, yet pleading just the same.
Father, take the broken pieces;
Draw me into your embrace.
Hold me close and stop the trembling;
Let me see your loving face.
Father, take the broken pieces;
Draw me into your embrace.
As I give you every heartache,
I am kept within your grace.

A Lesson in the City

2006-10-01T13:42:00.000-05:00

I don't really know what made me think of this, but I was remembering back to a Saturday afternoon several years ago, when I carried a violin case all over downtown San Francisco. The reactions I received were priceless.

I walked up and down the pier with the case slung over my shoulder. Random tourists walked up to me and asked me if I was studying at the conservatory. Not this year, I would respond. I didn't bother to tell them I never would.

I juggled that thing on and off the cable car. The brake man teased me about needing to purchase a ticket for the instrument, and when I refused, told me I would have to play a tune for the ride. Several passengers joined in. I just laughed. The case never opened.

I wandered passed street musicians with an assortment of pan pipes, guitars, and native drums. A little further a small band managed to drown out the sounds of city traffic. Further, a solitary musician poured out his soul in a haunting tune on the sax. As I walked by the musicians, each noticed me. Their eyes would dart to the case and then to me, and there was an unspoken appreciation, some sort shared camaraderie that no one else was even aware of.

The whole day went like that. The whole day, I was the only one that knew that the case I carried was empty. No one ever challenged me to open the case and show the instrument. No one ever asked me to play a few notes to prove my musicianship. They just assumed.

Before you think I'm completely crazy: No, I am not in the habit of carrying empty instrument cases through the city. It just so happens there is this cute little music store in San Francisco. It's called "Lark in the Morning." I needed a new case, something that would protect my instrument a little better than what I was currently using. And that purchase had been my first stop that Saturday afternoon.

The thing that struck me though, is that I liked it. I liked the facade. I liked that I was held in a higher esteem than I deserved. I liked the association, however superficial. But carting a case doesn't make a musician anymore than attending church makes a Christian.

The truth of the matter, I do own I violin. I have studied for a couple of years, but the illustration rings true even among the saved. We are so concerned about what other Christians will think of our spirituality. If someone asks me, I'll tell them I play the violin, but I won't play for them. I don't want them to hear where I'm at. As I write this, I can see the pride screaming back at me, and I think of the verse, "Comparing themselves among themselves, they make themselves stupid." (my translation) We'll tell people we pray, but we're hesitant to pray out loud lest someone hear our fumbling words. We'll say we have a close walk with God, we can't remember when what started as a sincere relationship drifted into a ritual. We'll claim we love God, but beg God not to put us to the test to prove that love. We'll grow frustrated at the slow process of sanctification in our own lives when we see how far we have to go or when we look at the work God is doing in someone else.

It was so easy to carry the case with confidence as long as no one knew the truth. But it wasn't real.

Psalm 16:11

2006-09-19T08:36:00.000-05:00

Someone shared this verse with me yesterday, and I was blessed by it.

Psalm 16:11
You make known to me the path of life;
in your presence there is fullness of joy;
at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.

I won't comment on it. The verse speaks for itself.

Stagnancy

2006-09-18T19:23:00.000-05:00

Ever sit through a convicting message and not been convicted? Ever pick up your Bible with confidence and think things are basically going okay so devotions shouldn't be too "painful" this morning? Ever sung about Christ's death and not been moved? Don't leave me out on a limb by myself. I think we've all been here at some point. Slowly our depravity fades away and we grow complacent in our supposed self-righteousness.

Two verses come to mind. Paraphrased: "let everyone who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall." and "search me O God and know my heart and see if there be any wicked way in me."

I was thinking about this all week. It's not a pleasant thing to have known sin in your life and go through the humbling process of giving it over to God, of confessing it before Him, and if necessary, before others, of letting go of the idols you cling to. Unpleasant as it is, nothing frightens me more than searching my heart and not knowing what sin to confess. I don't want to grow callous towards sin, and I certainly don't want to become stagnant in my Christian walk.

Praise Him! That He who began a good work will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.

I prayed

2006-09-13T21:06:00.000-05:00

I prayed, "God give me wisdom."
And He said, "I did. It's there in your hand."
All the wisdom I'll ever need is pressed within this leather cover.

I prayed, "God, teach me."
And He said, "I am. Are you listening?"
I waited for a shout, but he spoke in a still, small voice.

I prayed, "God, make me like You."
And he said, "I will. One day, one truth at a time."
And when I see Him, I shall be like Him.

I prayed, "God, be glorified."
And He smiled.

Just Listening

2006-09-04T20:18:00.000-05:00

Tonight I held music--touched it, felt it, tasted it, saw it. Sitting on the floor of a practice room, I listened as the piano come to life, singing a thousand emotions that I do not have the skill to express nor the desire to minimize with words. The music became a duet, and interplay, an exchange of expresion between the one who pressed the keys and the one whose keys were pressed. Every vibration seeped through the floor, and I felt them, and none escaped. Those of you who can hear should cover your ears sometime and hear was music really sounds like.

Thank you, Brittany for your music.

One of my favorite quotes:

2006-09-04T19:00:00.000-05:00

"To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury; and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable; and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasion, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony."

William Henry Channing

Compromise

2006-09-03T07:12:00.000-05:00

This has been the topic of numerous dinner conversations, countless room debates, and many unresolved, opinionated discussions. I don't intend to resolve it, only to discuss it.

Consider the matter of carbonated beverage (termed intentionally thus to remain neutral). We have the many that call it soda, the rather equal number that call it pop, the few that call it coke, and the handful that call it sodapop. I can deal with soda. I can deal with pop. (We won't talk about coke). But it's the peacemaking, compromising, fence-walking, standard-bending sodapoppers that need to be addressed. As Kathiann so aptly put it, "It's like theistic evolution. They can't both be." Let your yea be yea and your nay, nay. This attempt to please everyone, this willingness to merge the vocabulary that so distinguishes our culture and the regions of our country is a violation of who we are. So in defiance to this battle of words, may we all drink milk.

The First Note

2006-08-26T15:37:00.000-05:00

The concert master has already entered. The oboe has given the tuning note. The conductor has been honored. The audience has quieted.

Watch the orchestra.

In the last moment before the first note sounds, instruments are poised and ready. The brass comes to attention. The reeds are dampened. The violins find their first string. All that remains is a signal from the conductor, and the whole room will burst forth in music.

The sun has already risen. The birds have chirped their repetitive sequences. The battle between the snooze button and my alarm's tone has carried on as long as I dare. Already, people are coming and going about their day. As I rise, I have the opportunity to stop and to prepare, to search out the Scriptures, to linger in prayer, to line up my heart's response to His leading. I want to be ready. I want to find that first string so that all that remains is to wait for the signal from God.

And the transformation occurs from a day as it might have been into the orchestrated beauty of His direction.

Black Miracles

2006-08-24T08:34:00.000-05:00

When we think of God's hand moving in a miraculous way, we think of the beauty, the earth taking shape at his command. We think of the majesty, mountains and valleys carved out by rushing waters. We think of the sufficiency, a multitude satisfied by one boy's lunch. We think of the joy, a cherished loved one restored to life, a dreaded disease or impairment gone.

But what about the other miracles, black miracles if you will, the miracles that we didn't choose, the miracles that make us question and doubt. Miracles like Joseph being sold into slavery. Like David watching his infant son slip into eternity. Like Paul with a thorn that wouldn't go away.

Sometimes God moves in a miraculous way to do exactly what we didn't want. A lack of finances keeps that dream from becoming a reality. The boyfriend or fiancé that seemed to be God's will calls it off. The friend that was such a spiritual encouragement moves away. The job that was everything thing you ever wanted is no longer yours. The doctor's diagnosis drastically alters your future, crushing hopes and dreams.

None of these events would have taken place without a supernatural intervention form God. Can they be any less miracles? They are the miracles that move beyond our comprehension into the mind of God. And His thoughts are not out thoughts.

But, if we truly believe that all things work together for good, can we be any less thankful for the black miracles?

My Goals

2006-08-18T15:13:00.000-05:00

Call them New Year resolutions if you will. I personally don't make New Year resolutions because they've always been a joke with me. I find the guilt trip on every 31st of December inhumane, and making a practice of setting myself up for failure every year seems needless.

I do however believe in setting goals, of making a plan, of evaluating my life in light of areas to change. Maybe that's the same thing as what a New Year resolution is supposed to do, but for me, doing it on a day other than the transition between December and January somehow makes it seem a little less doomed.

Another difference--I'm not looking at the year as a whole. These are my goals for today. Tomorrow, they will be my goals for tomorrow, and as God enables me day by day, I pray they become a habit that will last through the year and then another and another. For now, today will suffice.

To depend daily on God, to seek Him as my only sustenance from moment to moment, to never stop needing Him (Psalm 63).
To daily meet with God, to be in his Word that I might know Him, that I might obey Him, that I might grow to be more like Him (2 Timothy 3:16-17).
To make Him my delight (Psalm 37:4).
To be obedient in prayer, to learn how to pray according to His will, and to make prayer a discipline in my life (Philippians 4:6).
To choose daily to be thankful, knowing that when I cease to honor Him and cease to be thankful, it is the turning point away from Him (Romans 1). For me, it's making a literal list of thankfulness and keeping myself accountable in it.
To submit to the divine authority of those who hold me accountable, to approach accountability with honesty and without preconceived prejudice (Romans 13:1-2; 1 Peter 5:5).
To honestly ask God to search my heart and point out areas of idolatry and unconfessed sin (Psalm 139:23-24).
To be sincere in my motives (Colossians 3:23).
To rest within God's sovereignty (Matthew 11:28-30).

Making Changes

2006-08-04T23:37:00.000-05:00

I begin by saying "God is good." That has become the phrase with which I've prefaced nearly everything I've said of late. And it's true. It's so true.

This summer for me has been a time of serious searching and a time of difficult decisions. God has been working in my life, bringing to my attention a lot of things that I needed to see and a lot of things that I really don't want to see, but important nevertheless.

I'm not coming back to Maranatha as a dorm sup this fall. To be honest, this came as a very difficult change for me. I loved dorm suping. I loved Gould. I still love every one of my girls. But God has been redirecting, and I need to respond with obedience. He has very clearly closed one door and seems to be clearly opening another.

As I look at the coming fall, I still plan to live in Watertown. I will be working. And I plan to use this time to pursue my masters. I know what God is doing and teaching me through this is good, and I trust Him, not only for the outcome, but the process as well. I have seen Him do some truly amazing things in the past few weeks. I've had to trust Him in ways I honestly didn't before. And I know that this God that I serve will continue. He will continue to provide as He has provided before. He will continue His work in my life. I have that promise from Scripture. He will meet each and every need of the Gould girls. Of course He will; He is the only one equipped to meet those needs. I can only fall short.

My God is enough. May He be praised.

Brothers Grimm turn KJV

2006-07-30T15:52:00.000-05:00

And it came to pass that a young maiden in scarlet raiment with her head covered in cloth of crimson did sojourn in the wilderness. And she did purpose in her heart to carry loaves and fishes to the grandmother and there to sup with her.

And so it happened that while she was there she came upon a beast who did hiss and gnash his teeth and who moveth his tail like a cedar. And out of his mouth issued all manner of vile speaking. And the beast said unto her, whither goest thou? And she answered saying, I go unto the home of the grandmother there to sup with her. And the maiden of scarlet raiment did sojourn unto the house of the grandmother.

And it came to pass that when the maiden did draw nigh unto the house of the grandmother, the beast having arrived ahead of her didst consume the grandmother and lay in wait seeking whom he may devour. But the maiden knowest it not.

And when the maiden saw the beast, she was moved with compassion and she said unto him, Thine eyes are as doves. And he answered her, the better wherewithal to see thee. And she said unto him, Thine teeth are as a flock of shorn ewes. And he answered her, The better wherewithal to chew thee. And she said unto him, Thy tongue is as a horse's bit. And he answered her, the better wherewithal to taste thee. And with that, the beast swallowed her up. And the maiden spent three days and three nights within the belly of the beast. And after three days and three nights, the beast spat her up and the grandmother with her.

Psalm 37:4

2006-07-28T21:38:00.000-05:00

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart”

I have heard this verse quoted a hundred times by people who are seeking to know God’s will. I have heard it as a promise that as a Christian, God will give me what I want. I have even heard it held to desperately by those clinging to the idols of their heart.

“If I…..than God will…..”

—this verse does not justify manipulation!

What’s the difference between the word “delight” and the word “desire?”

Delight is what makes me happy.
Desire is what I want.

Should they not be the same thing?

This verse has nothing to do with material gain.
It has nothing to do with getting my way.
It has nothing to do with snaring the guy I want to like me.
It has nothing to do with a promotion.
It has nothing to do with miracle healing.
It has nothing to do with the American dream.

It has everything to do with a promise,
The promise that God is enough,
That He is sufficient,
That all of this really is true just as we were told.

It is possible for Him to satisfy our desire—all of it. And He offers that, not teasingly with the intention of snatching it away the moment He captures out interest. But He gives it, unhindered, unrestrained.

The focus of this verse is not that WE delight in him, but that we delight in HIM. We delight in Him, and He gives us the desire of our heart. Quite simply—He becomes the desire of our heart.

Little Pirate

2006-07-25T22:42:00.000-05:00

Had to post a couple of these because my niece is just too cute for words.

Walk the plank!

Ship ahoy!

Is this gold real?

All she could give

2006-07-23T13:46:00.000-05:00

As those gathered watched in wonderment,
She slipped into the room.
Her head was bowed in humbled shame
In her hands a small perfume.
Her eyes locked on the Savior's feet;
The murmuring began.
As she fell before Him kneeling,
Pent up tears now freely ran.

All she could give were her tears.
All that remained were the tears.
Forsaking sin and wasted years,
Denying guilt and binding fears,
All she could give were her tears.

As the others scorned her offering,
She wept without restrain.
Her anguish spilt before her Lord
Became a sweet refrain.
Her eyes bent with sorrow
Could not look into His face
Till with undeserved forgiveness,
She found worth within His grace.

All she could give were her tears.
All that remained were the tears.
Forsaking sin and wasted years,
Denying guilt and binding fears,
All she could give were her tears.

Then I the vile offender come
To seek the Savior's face.
My life is filled with shameful sin
Not understanding grace.
Till kneeling there before my God
With nothing left to give,
There through His love and in His strength,
Victorious I live.

All I could give were my tears.
All that remained were the tears.
Forsaking sin and wasted years,
Denying guilt and binding fears,
All I could give were my tears.

All had been given in the blood,
Washed in the all-cleansing flood.
My tears of shame were wiped away,
His grace sufficient for each day.
All had been given in the blood.

Hey Grandpa

2006-07-22T16:09:00.000-05:00

I just found out that I'm related to this guy. He's my great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather. I sort of stumbled across him by accident. Some relative told me I was a direct decendent of Sir John Hawkins, and I was looking up some information to see if it was true, and next thing I knew, I was tracing names through the house of Tudor straight back to Henry VIII. It's kind of cool because I can actually trace all the names in between. I think he's funny looking. I hope there's no family resemblance. Apparantly in 1509, people thought differently. Someone said of him,

"His Majesty is the hansomest potentate I ever set eyes on; above the usual height, with an extremely fine calf to his leg, his complextion fair and bright, with auburn hair, combed straight and short in the French fashion, and a round face so very beautiful that it would become a pretty woman, his throat was rather long and thick"

Then again, I'm not certain any validity can be taken on such a comment considering he executed anyone who disagreed with him. What a charming man! So, it's kind of fun to trace your heritage. And it's kind of scary some the characters that show up.

Profound, isn't it?

2006-07-17T23:40:00.000-05:00

And isn't that to an extent why we write these blogs? To somehow show people that we have something to say to be worthy of our readership?

Maybe I can say something profound. Maybe I can impress people with my word choice, with some new insight that they had never considered. Or the ultimate accomplishment--maybe I will say something so profound that it would actually cause them to add me to their links list!

I am not endeavoring to be profound. Honestly, I can't. Profound has already been done, and it won't be matched. Profound is when I try to understand God's love in terms of the cross. Profound is grace.

So there you have it--simply stated, but in Him, profoundly accomplished.
Him be praised.

My prayer

2006-07-15T22:35:00.000-05:00

This is my prayer.

That God would remove from me my selfishness and my pride,
That I would not be blinded to His will.

That God might take control of any emotions
That would hinder me from thinking on truth.

That I might catch a glimps of His love,
That I might know how to love others.

Empty Vessels

2006-06-29T19:24:00.000-05:00

When did the miracle take place? Have you ever wondered that? The wedding was in progress, and something horribly embarrassing happened. Right at the peak of the celebration, they ran out of wine. The host was about to be humiliated, but God intervened and instead, the wedding guests were about to witnesses Christ’s first miracle. Our Lord began with instructions. That was often the case. Not always, but often. Take the six stone water jugs, and fill them with water. Why? Because they were empty. Profound isn’t it? Not really. But what He was about to do was. The text doesn’t answer my question, but I’m still curious. When did it happen? At what point exactly did the water change its properties from water to wine? Was it at the instant they were filled? Did the servants carry wine back unknowingly to the feast? Did some transformation occur within the well before it was dipped? Or was it not until the first sip met the lips of the master of the feast that the water became wine. I wonder, but it doesn’t really matter. The point is, at the start of the first miracle, the barrels were empty, just as with creation, the Master began with nothing.

Consider the widow of Zarephath who gave sacrificially to Elijah. This story is a little different. This time the jars of flour and oil were not empty. Almost, but not quite. She was just about to spend the last of it, to make one final cake for her son, and then they would die. Along comes a stranger, and her plans were interrupted. She poured out the last of her flour and oil for God’s anointed, but the barrel didn’t go dry. For days, it didn’t go dry. And it wouldn’t, not until it had rained. She didn’t know. She thought she was giving all. She didn’t know she would be spared.

One more picture and it’s my favorite. I love this story because it’s such a perfect example of a sinner in the hands of a merciful Father. It’s the story of a woman who was an outcast, unworthy, undeserving, with noting to give, but her tears. This vessel, tarnished by her shame, dared to touch the incarnation of holiness. And I assure you, she gave it all. While onlookers scorned her boldness, she annointed His feet with her tears, wiping them with her hair.

I’ll share my application because it’s somewhat vague and I want it to be clear. My heart’s desire—and it’s the desire I’m sure that reflects the heart need of many Christians—is to be used. I want to have something to give, something to offer. As God confronts me with the areas in my life that need to change, something holds back. Something fears that if this vessel is emptied, it will have nothing left to offer. And I fail to recognize that I never had anything to offer. There was nothing I did at the point of salvation that assured my forgiveness. There is nothing I can do now to ensure His love or to confirm my worthiness to be His child.

Until I recognize that it is Him and not I, I remain the water jar half full, confident, unaware of my need to be filled. I remain the widow’s pitcher, knowing I’m about to be spent, but hesitant to give up the last little bit. I remain a vessel with nothing to offer but tears, but somehow wanting to hold back until I can spill out treasure at the feet of my Savior. But it is not treasure He demands. It is all—even though my all is nothing.

And while I foolishly wait, the Master patiently waits.

My Canoeing Adventure

2006-06-20T18:55:00.000-05:00

Once a favorite activity, I haven’t been in a canoe in at least 11 years. So when my parents asked, “What do you want to do?”

Let’s go canoeing!

I have wonderful memories of taking a boat out with my sister. And before that, I remember when all five of us fit in one canoe. There we sat in the boat like five orange bumps on a log. Peering over the edge looking at the fish. Chasing a blue heron around the lake. Paddling down a river between majestic mountains, singing “How Great Thou Art” at the top of our lungs. It’s been a few years, but canoeing is like riding a bike right? You never forget.

Tim and I shared one canoe. Mom, Dad, and Janice Williams (an old family friend) took the other.

The adventure began when Tim and I found a little tributary curling out from the lake. We were no longer vacationers in a rental canoe. We were explorers. Who says imagination dies when you get old. Never mind that the water was only about 18 inches deep and we were using the paddles to push ourselves up and over sandbars, rocks and logs. Never mind the stream was so narrow and the bushes so dense that I kept getting whacked in the face. Never mind that our beautiful lake had become a rancid smelling bog, and we were stirring up swarms of insects that were making it very clear that they preferred not to be disturbed.

What do you do when you find a bridge in the middle of nowhere? That’s easy. You go under it. Uh…we got stuck. So the water was increasingly becoming shallower. My head was scraping the bottom of the bridge. Yeah, there were spiders under there. And I was in the front trying to navigate around protruding logs. Didn’t work.

Plan B: We’ll carry the canoe over the bridge and lower it down on the other side. Never mind that the two of us were carrying the canoe uphill. Never mind that the path was not wide enough to support two people and a canoe. Never mind that on the other side of the bridge and around the corner, that water dried up and there was nowhere to go. Never mind that jumping in to a canoe from a bridge is a pretty likely way to topple it.

This is Tim gracefully lowering himself into the boat. Hmmm, for some reason the boat did not remain stationary for him. And as the boat carried his legs under the bridge, he held on for dear life.

I don’t have a picture of me falling in the lake. Good thing too. If he had sat in the boat snapping pictures while I struggled to get in a wobbly boat, I don’t think he would have lived to tell about our adventure.

I don't know. Something about me and water....I always seem to fall in. So yeah, I was wet for the rest of the day, but that's okay. We had fun.

And no, we didn't tell the rental people what we had done with their boat.

Things Change

2006-06-10T17:31:00.000-05:00

Every so often I meet someone who has lived in the same area most of their life. Even after they go to college, they come home on holidays and see old sunday school teachers who have known them since they were two. They return to homes where they have spent a dozen Christmases. I find it intriguing because I don't understand it. I organize my life, my friends by continent.

I'm in Sayre, PA. A block away is the hospital where I was born. I'm sitting in a room in my grandma's house where I used to play hide and seek as a child. It's strange, a lot changes in 8-10 years. This room used to be a lot bigger. The wallpaper wasn't faded and pealing then.

The last time I went to a family reunion, I was one of the kids. We played tag in the backyard. I carried the little ones on my back when we hiked in the woods. Suddenly I've been promoted to the adult table and I feel like on missing out on all the laughter coming from the card tables set up in the living room. There's a new crop of kids running around only none of them have a clue who I am. But it's more than that because we're old enough now to have developed our own belief structures. We have different worldviews, different doctrinal convictions.

I spent last weekend with my cousins. Jay felt it too. He said "Seems like we should go play monopoly or something." Of corse we should. Last time we were together we did. He was in fifth grade I think. It was a great game. Now he's making plans to do his grad work at Oxford. Maybe it will be another 8 years before I see them again. And the strange thing is, it won't be today that I think back on. It will be those days when we stood outside on barefoot summer nights with jars lit up with lightning bugs.

I keep running into people I used to know. I went back to see my old schools. Funny, they used to be a lot bigger. The lockers were still painted the same sky blue that I remembered. I remember where I used to line up with my second grade class. It was strange seeing it after so many years. It was strange that Mr. Pitcher was still there. I went back to my public high school too. Mr. Twigg gave me a hug when he saw me. He had only had me for one semester, but he remembered my art project. He asked me about it in detail. It was important to him that I was still doing art.

I saw Chris Vough. She was my first violin teacher, taught me the first six months. She was pleased to hear I was still playing. I kind of want to go back to the hopital and see if some of my old doctors are still there. I wonder if Dr. Hudock remembers me. He used to give me suckers and play games to try to make me smile. I want to see the doctor who took care of me when I had meningitis and told my parents I wasn't going to make it.

Every day seems to bring up more memories, things I haven't thought about in years, but I have so many other memories that aren't part of this town at all. I think I'm glad I haven't spent my whole life in one area. It's nice to be able to spread out the memories a bit.

Thoughts

2006-05-30T19:30:00.000-05:00

There are a few things that are completely, entirely amazing. And everytime I think on it, I am again caught in the wonder of it. I've had a lot of time in the past few days just to think. These are my thoughts:

1. God's Word is simple. This is not to say that He is simple. His thoughts are higher than mine, and I wait in anticipation for the moment I will see him face to face and finally know..... But His Word is simple. Everything I need to know is accesible. I don't have to be confused as to His will because it could not be stated more clearly. His will is that I be saved. His will is that I be filled with joy. His will is that I seek Him.

2. God is enough. My mind, my desires, my circumstances argue this point, but the truth is unchanging. he is all-sufficient. He is enough.

3. There is always hope. This too is cause for joy. It is my existance. It is the propelling motion that moves me from one day into the next. It is why I smile. It is why I sing. It is why I anticipate what is to come. There is alway hope.

4. God uses sinners. My comprehension stops here, but faith chooses to accept it. I do not know why he uses sinners, but I rejoice that He does. He has used sinners to touch and minister to my life in amazing ways. And somehow in some ways, He has used this sinner.

So you see. my thoughts are not profound, but they are cause for joy that will not be dimmed. They are things I have always known, but yet I experience them new every morning. And then there is renewed joy.

Isn't God good?
Isn't He so, so good.

and what remains?

2006-05-24T09:06:00.000-05:00

What if I were stripped of everything?

~Take away the job. I'm no longer dorm sup. I never was. I don't work food service. All past employment never happened.
~Take away the abilities and interests. No more writing. No more music. No more art.
~Take away the education. There is no Maranatha, no degree. No A's or awards. I do not have the ability to think critically or even to read.
~Take away my background. No godly family, no America to call mine, no past accomplishments or experiences.
~Take away my friends.
~Take away my ministries.

What is left?
Well, I still have a soul. I have a will. I have a mind. I have a body.
I still have a sin nature.

Stripped of all that I am, all that remains is all that Christ died for. It is what God loved and gave His Son for. It is what He made a plan of escape for. It is what He wants to seek after Him.

I have nothing to impress God with, yet I am not desolate. Stripped of all else, all that remains is hope.

Top Ten ways to convince people to comment on your blog

2006-05-19T15:39:00.000-05:00

Number 1, comment on theirs—okay, a little obvious I know, but hey it’s only the first tip. Maybe they’ll get better. (That was not a promise).

Number 2, don’t post for at least a month—granted the only comments you’ll receive will be something along the lines of “Why won’t you post?” But that is something, isn’t it?

Number 3, call up your friends and threaten them—okay, that’s a little extreme, but I have to come up with ten of these. Oh yeah, this would include questioning the intelligence of your readers or the subtle, unspoken, I just won’t comment on yours till you do (see number 1). On a side note, promising not to post if they don’t comment has not been proven effective.

Number 4, debate something controversial—everyone likes to argue. A caution though, it needs to be something people care about. “I hate blogs!” is a little too overused and probably won’t earn you anything more than a few rolled eyes. “I believe The Message to be the leading authority of inspired Scriptures,” however, might draw some attention.

Number 5, Mention names—for some reason everyone likes to see their name in print. Or perhaps they just feel duty bound to respond in light of the recognition. At least it worked with Josh, Rebecca, Valinda, Chelsie, Brittany, etc.

Number 6, write a very short post—it works for RuthAnn anyway (see number 5).

Number 7, be somebody important—okay there’s not a whole lot you can do about this if you’re not, but it’s inevitable, the blogs that are read most widely are commented on most frequently.

Number 8, use big words—I’m not actually convinced of this being the case, but Clint (see number 5) seems to think so, and Chelsie (see number 5 again) tends to comment excessively on word usage.

Number 9, write posts that are not even remotely related to anything “normal” people would find blogworthy, and then make your entry interactive. Post about parenthetical usage, trash, hair gel, starburst, abstraction, swedish fish, blog definitions, bulletin boards, and bald heads. (Can you match the random topic to the owner of the blog?)

Number 10, and for some reason the most popular. Give people an opportunity to talk about themselves—something along the lines of “what is your opinion of….?” Or “what is your favorite….?” What self-absorbed people we have become, but think about it.

And now it’s your turn, what do you think should be the eleventh tip for securing blog comments…..

Shall we try this again?

2006-05-18T16:31:00.000-05:00

This is for the handful of you who were astonished to hear that I have never read Pride and Prejudice. And for the few of you who have been rooting me on through all my vain attempts. It started two years ago when my high school English teacher found out. I'm told this is intolerable--especially for an English minor! With the best of intentions, I bought a copy (for a quarter). I think in my first attempt, I made it as far as page 7 before I got sidetracked, and the book found itself back on the shelf. So over the past 2 years, I have tried at least 6 times to get into that book, each time resulting in increased failures. I never made it past chapter 3. Understand, this is not at all like me. I love to read just about anything I can get my hands on. With each attempt, I grew more proud and prejudiced toward this exasperating book.

After all, this directly defies the "Rules of Readership Satisfaction" #1. which of course states that the first few pages of any book should immediately draw the reader into the story. I fear the second rule was also in danger of being violated. Any book that prompts a reader into a slumber on more than one occasion is thus vanquished to the new function of 'doorstop.'

However, due to the number of gasps I received at the neglect of this precious classic, I am giving it yet another chance. Drum roll please.....I am past chapter 10 and could scarcely put it down in order to write this post.

Those of you who are loyal to the end to this book, please don't have me drawn a quartered for not appreciating it from the start. (I think that is also somewhere in the "Rules of Readership Satisfaction"--something about the proper recourse towards those who refuse to pledge their allegiance to the value of good books).

I will blame my original perception of the book, not on its character which I had thought boring, but on the fact that I must have been too busy. Thus any book of substantial length would have received the same treatment. For all intents and purposes, I am sufficiently hooked and will see this book to the last page (at least once).

The End of the Beginning

2006-05-15T20:24:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite kid books is a book by Avi called "The End of the Beginning." If you haven't read it, you need to. But if you haven't read the Phantom Tollbooth, read that one first. They're similar, but Phantom Tollbooth is better. Back to the other book which is the one I actually wanted to write about--It's the story of an ant and a snail and their journey from the beginning to the end, or rather from the end to the beginning.

The two adventurers were going along. Avon was singing.
"Stop!" cried Edward. "We've reached the end of the branch."
With great care the two creatures edged to the very tip.
"The end of the branch," said Avon.
"The beginning of the sky," said Edward.
"Which is it?" asked Avon. "The beginning or the end?"
"It depends what there is more of, the tree or the sky. Think of all the things that get in your way along the branch--leaves, bark, other creatures, a million things to slow you down. Now look at the sky."
Avon looked. "There's nothing there."
"Exactly. Which means it will take longer to climb the branch. And if it takes longer, the branch must be bigger. And if the branch is bigger than the sky, that means we're at the sky's end, but only at the beginning of the branch."
"You mean," asked Avon, quite amazed, "that after all this time, we're just beginning? I had no idea how far you have to go before you can start. Almost makes me want to stop."
"You can't do that either," said Edward severely.
"Why?"
"Can't very well stop if you haven't started, can you?"
"Edward," cried Avon. "I never knew how important it was to start before you begin."
And turning around, they began.

("The End of the Beginning" by Avi)

Bear with me—how many times have I thought I was at the end, when in fact it was only the beginning? The end of high school, the start of college. The end of college, the start of the rest of my life. The end of a semester, the start of the summer. I could go on, but that’s only the surface of what I’m trying to get at.

When God brings us to the end of ourselves, it is the beginning of His work. And what hope! “That He which hath begun a good work will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

My work, futile as it is, stops where His begins, and His work is perfect. He will not leave the job half finished. He will not cut corners or neglect details. He is thorough, going beyond every expectation. When I have drained all of my resources, if I have not yet tapped into His, I have not yet begun. At the end of my weakness is the start of His strength. When I come to the end of myself, I have at last begun to see what He can and will do in His power alone.

Abba Father

2006-05-14T14:02:00.000-05:00

This may be the only time I ever post a picture that qualifies as "uncheckable," but please don't miss the purpose. I do so for a reason.

Have you ever realized that human comforts are insufficient?
Have you ever needed someone to understand but discovered that such understanding is not earthly?
Have you ever crawled onto the lap of God, and with childlike dependency, begged Him just to hold you?

"And He said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me."

When I consider the omnipotence of God, it seems beyond my reach. It is the attribute of God that most sets Him apart from me when I realize how big He is and how small I am. It is the trait of which I am most fearful. But when I consider the role that His strength plays in my weakness, it becomes personal.

Though He is omnipotent, He is not distant.
Though I fear Him, it is not with terror.
Though I cower, it is in awe.
Though His arms are mighty, they are open in an embrace.
I run to Him.
How can I not?
He's my Abba.

He is Sovereign

2006-05-12T14:11:00.000-05:00

I have no choice but for the moment, to set aside all trifles and meaningless thoughts, to put on hold all the cares that have suddenly lost significance, and consider the soveriegnty of God. When my heart cries "Why," alongside of thousands of other why's, the question turns to a plea. Please, show Yourself sovereign. Please, prove Yourself sufficient even in this. He will. He always has, but for the moment, I do not like this course. I wish to see it undone, but it cannot be.

I heard one faculty member say to another, "It will be interesting to see how God will work." It will, won't it. What hope Christians have with that one truth. He has not drawn back His hand. He will continue. He is soverign.

Today it hurts. Today there is confusion, emotion, questions. But today, by choice, I must find thankfulness and rejoice in my God. That and pray. Pray for those who hurt far more than I. Pray for those who are thrust into new decisions and change. Pray for those I can reach by no other means than prayer.

for the Love of God

2006-05-11T23:45:00.000-05:00

Lord, what will you do with a soiled heart?
Soiled with sin, slid through the mud of complacency, splattered with the filth of my wrong. You cleanse it, exposing the dirt and wiping it clean of the grime that has built up over each year. You replace my sin stains with your blood stains, making me as white as snow. But I am proud, and I would cleanse my heart myself. Yet all I have done is smeared the dirt.

Lord, what will you do with a cold heart?
This heart that has chosen not to feel at all rather than feel the anguish of its guilt. This heart that will enter sin willingly accepting the pleasure of the moment with the excuse that confession can come later, knowing forgiveness can be called for when the deed is done. Oh twisted heart and perverted mind. Cease!

Lord, what will you do with a cracked heart?
Held together with weak adhesives, fearful of being broken, yet unusable in its present state. Lord break this heart, but if you will break it, restore it.

I am touched, Lord, with the knowledge of your love, but I would know the realization of it. I have experienced your love, yet I cannot hope to comprehend it. I loved you in return, yet I cannot hope to match it.

A closing quote that expresses my thoughts quite well:

"Love forever suffers when the loved one suffers. I sometimes think that the difference between God's love and my love at its highest lies just there. I love, and if the one I love is untrue to me, I suffer. Why? Because I have lost that love. God does not suffer in that way. He suffers because the one who ceases to love Him is suffering. There is an element of self in our love. There is none in Gods."

("Hosea-The Heart and Holiness of God" by G. Campbell Morgan)

bits and pieces

2006-05-10T23:22:00.000-05:00

This is called I'm so tired I can't think straight, definitely too tired to sleep. So I'll post a nonsense whatever. As of today, the dorm is starting to feel empty. I don't mind. I'm not one of those people who prop a chair against the door and sleep with a baseball bat. I'm the one who forgets to close the door at night. Monday, I spent the day moving furniture in the dorm--getting rid of the old bunks and replacing them with the ones that were in the houses. Today and tomorrow I have meetings all day with the deans and other dorm sups. Yesterday, my meetings were canceled and I had the whole day to myself. I'm not ready for boredom yet. There's too many things I like to do. I managed to get about 3 hours of practicing in yesterday. That was a happy thing. Hope I can keep that up this week. I haven't been able to do any serious practicing in a couple of months, and I miss it. Then I had time to start reading a commentary on the book of Hosea. That has been rather fascinating. I'll probably write a post on it once I've had time to compose my thoughts. It's strange being in the dorm and not having someone peak their head in every few minutes. It was strange not preparing for devos Monday night. It's strange doing an entire project in one sitting without being interrupted. I've decided I like things better the other way. I miss my girls. I'm sure there are plenty of interesting thing I could have written about tonight, but my mind is kind of a blur. I'll probably read it tomorrow and wonder why I even bothered to record my thoughts. So, there you have it--a look into my mind when it is not fully functioning. And I promise to write something better next time.

My family

2006-05-09T15:53:00.000-05:00

These are the most important people in my life. I love them dearly. I don't claim to have a normal family, but who wants to be ordinary when there are so many other options.

These are my parents, best parents in the world. And they're cool enough I think I would say that even if I wasn't required to. My dad is the most humble man I have ever met. He gets cuter the older he gets. I think he looks very distinguished. He's as steady as a rock. He taught me what it means to trust God. Mom is my friend. She's about the best preacher I ever heard. She doesn't...but she could. Probably the only person I've ever known can pull any Bible reference out of her head, and weave difficult, in depth theology into everyday conversation. My parents are missionaries to St. Vincent in the Caribbean. Yes, the very same island where Pirates of the Caribbean is filmed.

This is my brother. I think he wanted to be in the mafia when he grew up. Or maybe it was the secret service. I hope not or I just blew his cover. Oops. He's really not as dangerous as he looks. And some of my girls who have seen this picture haven't stopped drooling yet. Sorry ladies. He's a confirmed "bachelor till the rapture." Tim is amazing. With only a year between us, he's my little brother who wishes he was my older brother. We've been pretty inseparable since he was like two, I think. I hope that never changes.

This is my sister. She's two years older, but we never let that come between us. She's the one I can talk to about anything. She is friend and confidant. I go to her for advice, and for some reason she comes to me for the same. Anyone who can put up with an annoying little sister (and I did the annoying sister thing well) deserves a lot of praise.

This is my wonderful brother-in-law. We like him. Stephen can fix anything so we break things on a regular basis for him. He takes such good care of my sister. I'm not quite sure how we got along without him before he was part of the family.

And this is my niece, Michelle. For some reason she's obsessed with the violin. I'm sure I had nothing to do with that.