Roses, Raindrops, and Roaming

Some days are all roses; sunshine brightly pouring over every moment.

People are all joy, laughter. Dancing and singing and twirling last through the hours, people rushing with excitement.

Everyone is bustling with activity, happiness buzzing through the air like bees.

During these days, everything is filled to the brim with life and beauty and sweet scents (which will call back the memories in days to come).

But some days are all raindrops. Dark, stormy skies are swirling around carried by the howling wind.

Thunder rumbles with dissatisfaction, the building pressure and tension setting off streaks of lightning. The whole world seems waiting for the storm to pass.

Everything is dark and cool.

In these days, one knows the rains will pass, leaving the ground strengthened by the sky's' tears, the sky and earth both better for its release. One only has to wait for the storm to pass.

Still some days are all roaming. Clouds passing through the air.

Gray blankets cover the sky, not letting the sun in but not letting the rain fall. The clouds are simply there: quiet, calm, and dreary.

Stagnant. Like a ship sitting in the doldrums, with the waves still and easy but with no wind to give the sails direction.

Everything is stifled. No color exciting, no sound frightening; nothing wrong, but nothing quite right.
Everything is fine but only fine, and, as result, the day is bleak.

These days are filled with drifting endlessly, floating aimlessly, and standing restlessly.

Some days are mixtures. The roaming begins in the middle of rain. The rain drops land on the roses. The roses are found in the midst of roaming. Pain and joy and calm mingle together, squashed into a collage of good and bad.

In the collection of highs and lows, in the mingling of all kinds of days --- there, one finds life.

Beautifully Simple

Once a friend of mine told me to look at a tree.

So I did and commented that it was a very nice tree.

He shook his head and proceeded to accuse me of not seeing it.

I immediately protested,"I see the tree. It’s a lovely tree."

“You don’t see it. How can you not see the tree?”

“It's right there, I'm looking right at it. I see the tree.”

"No, you don't. If you saw the tree, you would be excited right now."

The argument lasted a while, only ending when I showed ample enthusiasm over a particularly exciting leaf. While the conversation was humorous, it made me wonder how many of us really look at our world. How many of us really see it?

While I don't expect everyone to go around getting hyped up about every tree in sight, I do wish we would look more closely, that we would pay attention to the small details around us. Our world holds so many treasures given to us to enjoy, and we ignore them.

How rare it is for us to stop and look at the clouds. For us to lay in the grass and feel the kiss of the sunshine. There is magic to be found in the hot mugs of tea, the sound of crinkling paper, the scent of pine and freshly cut grass; yet, we ignore this magic daily.   

We look at everything around us as 'just'.  Roads are just roads, squirrels are just squirrels, life is just life. In looking at the world as “just”, we miss the opportunity to find the spectacular in the ordinary.

Life is beautiful and filled with beautiful things that may never be more than lovely, but that's okay. If something is already lovely, does it really need to be more? Is it not enough for the stars to fill the sky with light? Is it not enough for the ocean waves to pound upon the shore with a rhythm unrivaled by any drum? Must these things have more purpose than beauty, and must we understand them in order to enjoy them?

There is treasure all around us, value in all the simple things that we just ignore and forget. All these sweet and wonderful things are shoved to the side, written off as just unimportant.

And we do the same to people. We look at the humans passing by and are numb to the fact that they are souls. Lives, being lived as fully as our own. We see the sheer number and think that because people are everywhere, they are ordinary. Pretty maybe, but as commonplace as roses.

They're just people.

Sometimes, we even write off ourselves. We think, or at least I think, “I'm just average. I'm unimportant. Replaceable, expendable, just there for one moment, not to be missed the next.”

“I'm just me.”

Hmph. If we are "just", well then, we're just enough, thank you.

See, just as I think there is magic to be found in all the commonplace around us, I think there's something special about every life. Every person brings something and even if that something is the same thing a thousand others bring, somehow, it's still unique and wonderful.

There is this great word that is explains it well: gestalt. Gestalt basically means “an organized whole that is more than the sum of its parts.”

That is what it means to be human, I would contend. People are more than their looks, their qualities, their personalities. When we get to know someone, it’s more than just their likes and dislikes we're discovering. We're discovering them, their whole, their totality, their pieces that can't be separated one from another.

Because a person is more than just the mixture of their traits and mannerisms. Take two people with completely similar skills and likes and personalities, and you still have different people. To be a person is to be a gestalt.

People are more that just the sum of the different pieces we define them by. You are a whole being, worth more than the sum you bring to the table. I am a whole being, worth more than just pieces that make me.

People might be common but we are each unique wholes of infinite value and as such, not one of us is "just" anything.

You are a masterpiece.

A spectacular something in your own simple packaging.

A treasure to be valued beyond measure.

No matter what, you are beautiful, unique in all the world.

You are not a common rose.

“You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world." ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.”

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Things Made of Paper

A father sat in his office, scribbling away. His desk light beat down upon the page and silhouetted his hunched form as he leaned across the table.

The door creaked open and a small head poked in. Bright eyes studied the man’s back, her head tilting and hair falling to the side as she slipped into the room. She opened her mouth to make her presence known, but she was halted in her speech by a grunt and a crumpling of paper. A moment later, the wad of white was carelessly tossed over the man’s shoulder, soaring across the room and landing with a crinkle and a cling within a metal wastebasket.

The girl blinked and her eyes widened, all thoughts of speaking vanished. Her bare feet padded across the wood and little hands landed on the cold rim. She glanced at her father and then peered into the bin, carefully pulling out and examining the discarded page. After smoothing out all the creases and reading the mess of words hidden between scratched out splotches, she looked back into the basket, the bottom of which was covered in wrinkled white spheres.  Her hand reached in.

A moment later, soft footsteps travelled across the room and the crack of light from the doorway disappeared, leaving the man alone with his thoughts once more.

Twenty minutes and six tossed pages later, the daughter returned in similar manner; carefully opening the door as to keep it from protesting creaks, silently plodding into the office. This time she merely glanced at the desk and then the little sprite headed straight to the basket, peering in with sparkling eyes.

With an arm full of pages, she left to the sound of sighs and scratching pen.

The third time she entered, the basket was almost full. The little girl picked up the balls one by one, tucking them gently into the crook of her arm. So involved was she in her work, she did not notice the sound of paper being torn from its notebook and crunched in frustration. Just as the daughter stood up and turned to leave, the paper ball flew toward her, bouncing off her nose and startling her. She fell backwards with a soft thud, papers spilling from her arms.

Pulling herself up quickly, she chased after the scattered treasures. As she leaned over to retrieve her fallen friends, she dropped more. For every page picked up, two more slipped from her grasp. She puffed in surprise, deciding on a new tactic. She dropped all the papers and glanced around the room, spotting what she needed.

In the corner on the comfy chair was a small blanket. She quickly dragged it off the chair and over to her pile of papers. Picking up her treasures, she arranged them on the cloth. Then slowly she pulled the corners together, not wanting to disturb the pile of white in the middle. Now her pages were safely confined in a blanket bag which she tossed over her shoulder with pride. Head held high, she slipped once more out the door, the metal wastebin clanging behind her as another thought was thrown away.

Hours passed and the father’s eyes grew red, his hair mussed by frustrated hands. He leaned back from his writing, rubbing his temples. Glancing at the clock, he sighed, realizing the lateness of the hour. Picking up his page, he read over what he’d written. He shook his head, crushing the paper in his grasp. The father pushed back from his desk and walked over to the trash. He lifted his hand slightly to drop in his last failed attempt of the evening, but stopped in surprise. The basket was empty. His eyes narrowed as he looked around the room.

Not a single page was in sight.

Confused, he walked out into the hall with his paper still in hand. He heard a faint rustling coming from the living room and turned that direction. His eyebrows raised  and his jaw dropped as he stepped into the room.

The family room floor had been transformed into a delicate world of white. Folded flowers were scattered about and a hot air balloon raised with paper clips rested on the edge of the coffee table, with several airplanes lying at its side. Paper had been rolled up to build walls of a cottage, no, a castle which rested elegantly against the leg of the table. Swans and butterflies surrounded the palace, the only subjects in sight.

And there in the center of paper creations sat his daughter, cross-legged on the floor, elbows out, head down in concentration. She was working on shaping a floppy eared dragon to sit atop her tower. When she finished, she held the creature in the air, turning it side to side. Satisfied, she placed him gently on his perch, then turned her head, noticing her father. Smiling brightly she jumped up and hugged him. He continued to shift his gaze from her to her creations with amazement, as she spotted the paper he held.

Gently she plucked the ball from his grasp, patting his now empty hand. The girl plopped herself onto the floor to decide what else to make.

Her father slowly sat down beside her, watching in amazement. His daughter smiled at him and pulled another sphere from the pile next to her, inviting him to join her.

He took the page and carefully smoothed it out. Then he began folding, helping her complete her kingdom of discarded words.

To Find a Heart

Where's my heart, For I can't find it.

I've lost it to the breeze.

I've run a thousand miles

To a place already seen.

I play the part of puppeteer;

I'm the puppet on the string,

Tangled in my web of roles,

Woven masks to which I cling.

Where’s my heart; I yearn to find it,

I’m running once again.

Life pulls from all directions

Till I’m stuck in a still-stand.

I dig a ditch only to fill it,

With all my empty plans;

Each day striving forward,

Building houses out of sand.

Sunset in the distance

Stops me in my sprint.

Questions form and fill my mind

As I gaze at light’s last glint:

How did this crazy race begin?

Where did my way part?

How can life so quickly spin?

Where did I leave my heart?

Building a Fire

Building a relationship is like building a fire.

The fire of friendship begins with the kindling;

The first meeting forming the spark, then later,

The wave of recognition across the parking lot,

Answered with a slight nod of acknowledgement.

Next time, it's a smile.

Next time, it's a hello.

Time passes and the flame builds, ready to be feed small sticks.

Eating together and talking of nothing,

Then walks and talks of deeper somethings.

The fire grows.

Every invitation is answered with eager delight,

Each random activity a chance to understand this person better.

Soon the fire is blazing steadily,

Now that friend is near and dear.

Spending time with them is joy,

And whenever they need you, they only need to call,

In a moment all else is put aside to be at their side.

The world can fall away every now and again,

If it means being there for this person.

You've invested time in this fire,

And now you that you feel the close warmth of friendship,

You're willing to work to keep the fire going.

. . . How is it in life,

We so often forget

That loving God is a fire,

A relationship that also requires

Our time and our willingness

To build it?

Just Write

Write something.

Anything.

Just stick something on the pages.

It doesn't matter. Just write.

Maybe the words will be beautiful.

Maybe they'll be awful .

Maybe you'll wake up tomorrow and delete every one.

It doesn't matter. Just write.

I don't feel like writing.

I can't think of anything to say.

My thoughts are full of to-do lists.

It doesn't matter. Just write.

So much time wasted.

So little time left.

So many words, I'll never get them all down.

It doesn't matter. Just write.

Can I really write?

I'm fading.

I'm unsure.

I think I may be lost again.

It's okay.

It doesn't matter.

Just write. 

On the Brink

Spring.
       On the Brink of summertime,
As told by the growing weight of the warmth,
The sun rays beating stronger day by day,
As told by the buds on the tips of branches,
Unfurling into floating foliage, filling the sky;
It is like a story.
It is the beginning moment in which
The hero sets off to find adventure,
With prospects bright and every confidence on his side.
Summer.
           On the Brink of the fall;
The wind carries the scent of smoke and settling spirit,
The crispness of the air promises a chill
Which has not yet arrived.
Still-green leaves drift to the ground as if to say,
"Just wait."
It is the moment of realization,
When the hero notices that all is not quite right,
And he finds purpose to his quest,
Beginning now his race to find the answer,
Before the last leaf drops and it is too late.
Autumn.
          On the Brink of winter,
Cool nights turn cold,
Stripped limbs shake off the remaining stragglers,
One by one; soon there will be none left.
The winds bears a biting edge,
Carrying mutters of snow and ice and sleep.
It is that moment of the tale,
When all seems dark and only growing darker,
With no escape and no retreat.
The hero must face the knowledge
That his quest is coming to its end,
And finding him unready.
Winter.
         On the Brink of spring.
Days beginning to brighten sooner, lighten longer.
The frigid temperatures softening their edges,
And from somewhere far off,
A breeze arrives with a sweetness,
And a promise borne on its breath.
Hope is whispered from trees ready to burst forth,
Snow ready to melt,
And frost ready to find its home elsewhere.
It is the moment of triumph seen in the distance,
When the hero presses through the dark,
Prepared to face the battle,
And, though being ready to try and fail,
He is sure that he can win.

Stories cycle as the seasons,
And sometimes cycle several times before the story's through.
When seasons slip by so swiftly,
Life's story often seems to land
On the brink.

Little Things in a Big World

Have you ever had a moment where in the midst of life's busyness and confusion, the world just seems right? Life just seems full?

I can now say that I have felt that, even if just for a brief time. You see, today I had my first experience with tears of joy. (Though somehow happy crying was just as ugly as regular crying. Go figure.)

The feeling began when I was sitting in my astronomy class, looking at a series of pictures which started with a bench and then zoomed out further and further until we got to the final picture. The last slide showed an image of clusters of galaxies. It was just a collage of white dots, each of which represented solar systems larger than we can fathom, galaxies such immense distances apart that we could never hope to reach them.

Needless to say, I was reminded of just how vast our universe is.

From there I went to the library and spent an hour surrounded by the scent of aging novels and the kind quiet which lends notice to the sound of rustling pages. Sitting in that library, literally sticking my nose into books to soak in their smells, I felt like I was on the brink of finding something. Yet I just couldn't reach it.

Finally I checked out my book and stepped outside to the warm evening air and the paling sky. I found myself a grassy spot beneath a tree and watched the clouds grow pink.

As I laid there beneath the branches, I felt a few tears trickle down my face. I sat there thinking of how incredibly massive our universe is and yet...and yet there is so much beauty in the tiniest details of life.

Earth is less than a speck floating in the edges of space and yet old leather covers collect fragrances. Clouds are painted with color, grass grows soft and fresh, and roses redeem bushes of their thorns. Butterflies pass with artwork on their wings and people walking by can lend smiles.

When I went back to my dorm I tried to explain how I felt to my roommate, but as I began to express it, I burst into tears. She immediately got up and hugged me and I cried.

I cried because I felt too full to speak.

Even though our universe is too huge to ever fully understand, and our world is microscopic by comparison, life has so much to offer. There is so much to see and discover, and joy can come from the tiniest sights and situations.

I cried today because somehow in spite of how huge the universe is, God still cared enough to give us simple pleasures. He still created our insignificant world with care and attention to the detail, so that in this big universe we can have joy in the little things.

Stuck on the Clouds

Pale blue stretching on forever, clear and bright;

Puffy white cotton balls floating beneath smoky streams;

Dark threatening clouds blanketing the air;

Colors streaking out, painting clouds pink;

Or the heavens turned black to reveal their glimmering lights --

I admit it.

I may have a slight obsession with the sky.

The atmosphere entirely captivates my view. I see nothing else when I step outside.

...Perhaps that's not true. I see the rest.

Yet, when I step outside, the sky is where my gaze is pulled.

Immediately.

Constantly.

Always and forever, my eyes are pulled up.

Up, up to where the butterflies dance and the bumble bees rush.

Up, up to where the birds soar at heights we could never reach.

Up, up to where the wind circles and gusts, unable to be felt.

Up, up to where our world meets the unknown,

And touches what is far beyond our sight.

I'm stuck looking up,

Obsessed with the beauty of the skies,

And the mystery that lies beyond.

Butterflies and Bible Lessons

I was working at the science center during the Butterfly Adventure event. Each room in the building featured some butterfly related activity, from crafts to experiments, to simple pictures on the walls. The room I was in that morning was filled with the butterflies life cycle. (Okay, actually the specimens on display were moths.) One table held big fat caterpillars, another displayed tiny eggs and old cocoons. The last table held a tall, mesh, pop up cage filled with freshly hatched luna moths.

It was a fairly quiet morning, so when a family with four kids entered the room they had my full attention. I watched as the dad noticed the butterfly displays and walked over to them, seizing an opportunity. 

"Hey, come look at this," he said, gathering his children close. "Look at these caterpillars." Picking up one of the spiky green larvas, he continued. "Pretty soon these guys are going to wrap themselves up and change into butterflies. It's just like how God changes us. The Bible says He makes us into a new creature.." The dad continued to explain the verse for a moment, his kids smiling and nodding. As soon as he finished, they were off staring at the other animals. They seemed totally unaffected by the lesson, but I couldn't help thinking about it. 

Though the analogy of the butterfly is often used when explaining the "new creation" verse, I never considered how perfect the example is. 

When the caterpillar crawls into its cocoon, it doesn't die and have another being pop into existence in its place. Instead, the larva is changed; every fiber in its body is transformed into a new shape and appearance. it hatches as a new creature, though it is still the same being. The butterfly is the final form of the caterpillar, not a separate life. 

See, we all can agree that when a butterfly lays an egg, a caterpillar is what will hatch. There is no way that the egg can crack open and have a butterfly come out, and skip over the wormlike step. The caterpillar has to come first but we all know the butterfly is what it is supposed to become. 

Think of this in regards to the spiritual condition. Sin is our inescapable caterpillar stage. We are born into this world as sinners, unable to hatch as anything else. For a period of time we go through life unaware of our state. Though it is our fate due to the fall, sin was never the life that was prepared for us. God has made plans and preparations so that we can be transformed into what He wants us to be: His children. 

When we become Christians we aren't shedding off the core of who we are in order to be replaced by perfect people. Instead, every fiber of our soul is slowly being transformed into what we were always meant to be. The old appearance and habits no longer fit with who we are as we grow into maturity. Sin loses its hold on us. We become the people we were created to be.

We shed off our caterpillar skin and trade it in for butterfly wings.

2 Corinthians 5:17, "If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things have passed away; behold, all things are become new." 

Independence Day

Gunshots cut through the air. Shouts and screams accompany the earth-shattering clamor of cannonballs crashing to the ground. The smell of gunpowder mixes with the stench of sweat and blood, and soil tossed up by the destruction. The war continues. 

The sun continues to rise as I walk out of my room to the kitchen. I smile as I tell my parents good morning and they look up from their food preparations to respond. In a moment they turn back to cutting vegetables and marinating meat for lunch today.

In a moment, a meeting room is quieted and a vote is called for. The delegates have come together to discuss one question: Will the colonies declare independence? Do they want to adopt this resolution? 
    
   "When in the course of human events..."

No events for us today. We'll celebrate with a simple day at home, hanging out with family. My sister pulls up in the driveway, coming to visit. All smiles and excitement and I wouldn't have it any other way.

The vote is almost unanimous. The delegates have decided, independence is the only way.  Two days later, the Declaration of Independence is formally adopted. It marks the nearing of the end of battle. 

I step outside to a battle ensuing, my sister and brother attacking each other with water guns. I hold my tray of food a little higher. "Hold your fire, hold your fire." They stop to let me pass and I grin. As soon as I'm down the hill, they begin again. I place the food on the table next to the grill and then wrap my arms around my father. "Happy Fourth of July Daddy."

He returns my hug. "Happy 4th of July baby girl."

I sit down next to my mom and stare up at the blue skies and watch the birds flying free.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America...solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States... And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.  

Happy Fourth of July to all those who live in America today.

Breathe

Breathe.

Breathe in,

Deep, long breaths. Draw in all the air you can hold

And release. Easy. Pause your thoughts for a moment.

Just breathe.

Deep, long breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Let the air flow through and calm concerns.

Breath is an interesting thing.

The passing air drifts in, drifts out,

And somehow can cleanse the whole body.

Breath turns to sighs. Why?

In a sigh air is trapped and held,

Then released all at once with sorrow.

Sighs are just breath accompanied by emotion.

A sigh of contentment, fueled by the cool night air.

A sigh of longing, as wishes are sent to the wind.

A sigh of exhaustion, when the mind is too tired,

And all that is left to do

Is to breathe.

Breath is an interesting thing.

It lets us express and de-stress, confess what we feel,

All without saying a word.

So breathe.

Deep, long breaths. Just to remind yourself you’re alive.

To empty out and let go, to refresh.

Just breathe.

Deep, long breaths. Pull in the freshness of the air.

Fill your lungs and feel a moment’s relief.

Breathe.

Hope for America

Today is Memorial Day, 2016.

A day to remember the soldiers who fought and died serving our nation. A day to honor soldiers who still fight and die for what they believe in.

In the world around us today, it can be hard to remember what those soldiers are even fighting for. America has fallen so far from what it was meant to be and people have lost faith in their nation.

People burn flags, raise their fists, and shout out against America while standing within its borders. I've heard people claiming they will move to another country if so and so is elected. At times it seems that Americans all hate their government and could care less about what happens to their nation.

So why do our soldiers fight? Is America still a nation worth dying for?

The soldiers fighting today seem to think so. What makes America worth the sacrifice then?

America is worth the fight because of what it is and what it has always been. I'm tempted to say that America is freedom. It is a country built of the rights of the people and the pursuit of a freedom like no other. Yet, with all the frustration and feelings of lost rights, I think I shall put the idea to the side and save that rant for another day.

Instead, I will say this: America is an opportunity. Throughout history one thing America has always remained is a place people run to for a new start. From the earliest settlers to those running from the oppression of the Nazis to refugees coming to America still today, people have always seen our nation as a place to go and make a life.

For those who have always lived here it is a place where they can become whatever they want to become if they push forward.

It's a nation that started as 13 colonies and became 50 states. It's a nation shaped and molded and grown by the ideas of the people. It's a nation of innovation that at one time helped lead the world in industry and science.

America is an opportunity, not only for individuals, but for a whole country of people. It is a nation that can become whatever it's people choose.

Our soldiers see this country as an opportunity worth dying for.

One way we can honor their sacrifice is by not giving up on what they fought for. America might seem to be spiraling into ruin, but it's not done yet. It can still come back. We can still rebuild it.

So take time today to remember our soldiers. Take time to say thank you for what they've done.

And most of all, don't give up hope for America.

10 Tips from Life Lessons

Just little over a week ago, I finished my freshman year of college. I am here to tell you that college is an experience like no other.

Being at a university means being thrust into a new environment, a new atmosphere. In a place filled with ideas you've never heard and people you've never met, you will inevitably learn something about yourself or about life in general. At least, that's how it was for me.

So I would like to share 10 tips for you based on what I learned this past year.

Tip 1- "Late" and "Early" are subjective terms. Don't be deceived into thinking everyone is agreed on the subject.  I entered college thinking that 10:30 pm was late and made friends with people who considered midnight early.

Tip 2- Always look up directions before you leave for your destination. Technology is unreliable, as I learned after countless car rides on random backroads, once being led to a bank which did not exist.

Tip 3- If you are going to eat a sandwich while driving, do NOT put jelly on the sandwich. I assure you, bad things happen.

Tip 4- Write it down! The greatest lie we tell ourselves is "I'll remember that later", so whether your thought is a phrase or an idea or a recollection that you need more toilet paper, write it down.

Tip 5- Speaking in front of groups works best if you breathe. Deep breaths before standing up are especially helpful.

Tip 6- Stop to smell the roses. Literally, stop and smell them. The roses smell wonderful.

Tip 7- Peer pressure is not always bad; sometimes it can lead to you trying something actually worthwhile, such as swing dancing. The trick is finding the right kind of people; ones who care about you and ones who will prompt you to try good things.

Tip 8- It won't kill you to talk to strangers. The people you come in contact with all have stories and it is worth the time it takes to speak with them. Even if all you do is say hi and lend them a smile, you might brighten their day (and brighten yours). So talk to people!

Tip 9- Know that life is hard. People hurt, times get tough, and there are days when life just crashes down on you. Don't expect everyday to be perfect because you will be disappointed.

Tip 10- But never forget that life is good. In the midst of all the turmoil and heartache, you can always get back up again. This year I have had friends who lost loved ones, who have dealt with sickness and  stress. I've sat silenced in the face of pain that I couldn't comfort, but each of those friends were able to find the strength to smile and continue forward. No matter how hard life gets, life is still good.

These 10 tips are what I learned at school. What have you been learning in your life recently?

Story of my Hands

Have you ever thought about how incredible hands are?

Almost every moment of every day, hands are bombarded with endless tasks. We reach out instinctively; opening, holding, grasping, catching, all without ever thinking about the tool we are using. Our hands are used for basically everything and yet how rarely we notice them.

A friend of mine, who is excellent at noticing the underappreciated, recently wrote a poem dedicated to hands. She noted their ability to tell stories, an interesting attribute to think about.

Though it takes some observation, you really can tell a lot about a person by their hands. The palms of a gardener are going to look different than those of a pianist. A sailor's hands are different from the lawyers. Thinking about it, part of what defines the story of a hand is the task it is used for most often.

The task of my hands has been brought up in my mind bit by bit in the past few weeks. My realization hit while I was standing in a worship service, singing along to the lyrics on the screen.

Standing there, I wanted so badly to sign as I sang. I have been learning ASL and I wanted to put my knowledge to use. Unfortunately, I only knew a few words here and there. In that moment, I thought to myself, "One day I'll praise God with these hands."

No sooner had the thought finished than the next one formed, "Why wait?" I realized that though I wasn't ready to sign every word to the songs, there are so much many other ways I can use my hands to worship God.

I realized I want to use my hands to create. Making something-a painting, a carving, a piece of furniture- brings me so much satisfaction and I realized I want to make something lasting that will glorify God.

I want to use my hands to communicate. Not just with sign language, but with writing and typing, I want my hands to be the filter through which I funnel my words and express truth.

I want to use my hands to serve God. In everything I do, every action and motion, I want to give Him the glory.

So standing in that worship service, I held my hands out, palms facing up. Those hands held out as I sing are now my reminder that everything I do, I want to be for Him.

I want the tasks that define the story written on my hands to be actions of service and surrender.

What story will your hands hold?

Simple

Something that I am slowly learning about myself is that I like things that are simple.

I like walking barefoot over stone and feeling that the ground is firm beneath me; stretching my toes out against the hardness and knowing that what I stand on is solid.

Things that are sure, things that are sound appeal to me. I prefer steps carved into the earth with layers of dirt packed beneath them rather than metal stairs suspended in the air held by nothing but steel poles.

I like things that are steady. In my eyes, the covered bridge that hasn't moved in years is much better than the suspension bridge that sways in the wind and tremors with footfall.

Things that are tangible, that can be taken at face value are what I need. Though I enjoy metaphors and riddles and listening to complex topics, my mind is far better suited to discussing the more normal, everyday ideas.

I prefer the ordinary to the extraordinary; because in my eyes, there is so much extraordinary to be found in the small, daily concepts that I have no need to delve into the deeper realms of intellect.

I like warm rain and wet grass.

Blue jeans and sneakers are always my first choice.

I like mountain views and windy days.

Give me a pencil and paper and I'll be happy.

I like good books with a hot cup of tea.

I could sit and study the dandelion for hours.

See, it's the small things that I love. The little ordinary bits of life make me smile, make me laugh.

I like things that are simple.

Fear of Falling

I was always a fairly cautious kid. When my sister and I were young and would play outside, I thought I was adventurous. I wanted to go exploring and climb trees. But at the same time, I was always the first to say, "Let's go back," or, "We shouldn't do that." I was the one to weigh the risk against the reward and find the risk greater. For all my want of adventure, I would still only go so far.

I would only go climb so far up the tree. I would only swing so high on the swing. I would only walk so far along the unknown trail.

Today while I was at the park with my brother, I realized I haven't changed much. I still have that fear of falling that keep me from climbing higher or jumping of the swing. In spite of the fact that I am now older and supposedly different, I still focus on the risks.

Sometimes in life it is so easy to get caught up in trying to be prepared and trying to be safe that we put ourselves in bubbles. For fear of failing, for fear of falling, we shy away from potentially painful or even just awkward situations. It can be easy to look at a situation and decide that there is too much risk.

What I'm slowly learning though (very, very slowly learning), is that sometimes the risks are worth it.

Tonight, when I actually for once in my life swung as high as I could for as long as I could, I thought about all the great things that have happened because I took a chance. It may not have been easier, and yeah, maybe there were a few risks that ended in disaster, but they were worth it. Because of chances taken, I've made new friends, tried new things, I've  learned and I've grown.

Swinging as I high as I could, breathing in the cool night air, ignoring the feeling of my stomach dropping, I realized thought about how life is risky.

And you know, life is worth the risk.

Reading and Living

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. -George RR. Martin

At my first reading of this, I agreed wholeheartedly. As a bookworm, I understand the ability of books to carry you off on adventures. A good book has the power to transport you to the world outside while you are still inside. It allows you to experience other worlds and places without ever leaving your home.

But a great book does more. A great book takes you on those adventures and leaves you wanting to go out and experience it for yourself.

See great books don't just transport you, they create a desire. They describe and explain in such a way that makes you crave the experience.

When I think back to myself as a kid, the stories I loved most almost always made me want to do something. Because of a book, I found myself wishing to go to the Arctic and see the Northern Lights. Because of a book, learning to sail has been on my bucket list for years. Because of a book, I wanted to travel, I yearned to discover.

Books have given me dreams; dreams that are so outside of myself and occasionally against myself that sometimes I'm amazed I want them. Great writing will do that to you. It makes you want to go experience the world.

So in my writing, I don't want to be satisfied with creating an adventure for the reader to be apart of. I want to write tales that will inspire people to go have adventures of their own. Reading should make you want to leap into action. You should come away from a book with new ideas and renewed spirit.

A great book makes you feel like anything is possible, and makes you want to try.

A great book makes you put down the books,
                                                                      and live.

Friendly Face

This past week, I was reminded by a five year old how to start a conversation and make a friend.

I was walking through a park, drinking a cup of tea one afternoon. The chilly wind cut through the warmth of the sun, but it was still a beautiful day for being outside. As I made my way toward the library, I saw a family pull into the parking lot. A little blonde boy climbed out of the car excitedly, and I couldn't help but smile at his loud and excited voice.

My path winded down a slight slope, leaving the playground on top of a little hill next to me. I had almost passed it completely when I heard that excited voice again.

"Hey!" he called.

I turned and sure enough, the little blonde boy was looking down at me. "Well, hi." I smiled up at him.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Karley."

"I'm Andy," he said in a matter of fact tone, gesturing to himself with the stick in his hand.

A girl even smaller than Andy came tottering over.

Andy noticed her behind him and pointed at her. "Oh, this is my sister,..." When he said her name, he slurred it in his little kid voice so I couldn't catch what he said.

She tried to say something as well, but Andy was not to be interrupted. He held his arm straight in front of him, holding his stick out to me. "I found a sharp stick!" He held his prize closer to him and inspected it as he continued, "It was made in China. It's really old, over a million years old!"

"Wow!" I said, my eyes widening. "That is old."

"Yeah." He ran down the hill and came to a stop a few feet in front of me, tilting his head to the side. "I'm five and I have a real nerf sword."

"Oh wow," I repeated, smiling at the boy.

"And I've seen a real gun." He held out his arms out about shoulder length. "It was this long." Before he could tell me the details of where he saw this impressive weapon, his mom started to call him.

His friend came over and Andy made his way up the hill, still talking to me. "This is Nick," he told me, talking over his friend's voice. Andy started to say something else, but decided against it as his mom called again.

He turned and left, giving into to his friend's urges to come back to the playground.

I went to the library with a grin on my face, Andy's words playing in my head and making me glow.

It always amazes me how kids are able to so fearlessly speak to people they don't know. They don't worry about if what they are saying is right.

The thing is, kids seem to understand the importance of talking to people. They understand that sometimes, when it comes to making friends, it doesn't matter what you say as long as you say something. All you have to do is start by saying hi.