Protection, Potatoes, and Guardian Angels

People talk about Guardian Angels. Anytime we come close to danger, have a near miss or close call, we think and even say, that "man, you must have an angel watching over you". While I'm not convinced that heaven is organized with heavenly beings assigned to each of us specifically, to guard only us day and night, I can tell you, first hand, what it is like to have an Angel offer you protection.

I was seventeen, with my driver's permit in hand, driving around my mom in her little blue Kia. She had food deliveries for a few church friends, and I was her chauffeur for the day.  

We were heading to the Coleman's, who I hadn't seen in ages (by my internal timepiece). When we arrived, I was immediately swept away by Austin, the 8 year old boy who was dying to show me his new video-game. He led me to his room, and there sitting on his floor was his cousin, Angel. The last time I had seen her she was a toddler, barely talking, and now here she was, a cute little girl with black hair, maybe six years old already. I couldn't believe how much the pair had grown.

Soon, Angel was bouncing on the bed as she told me the entire history of every Barbie doll she owned. Whenever Austin interrupted to explain a trick he was doing on his game, Angel would admonish him swiftly and continue her tale. I listened with a grin, while splitting my gaze dutifully between her and the game, trying to satisfy both children. 

Finally, my mom came into the room to reclaim me, and Angel begged me to stay a little longer. I explained I had to leave, because I was driving today. She gasped. 

"You drove here?" Her little eyes grew wide. 

"Sure did," I answered with a smile. My mom nodded her confirmation. 

"Oh! Wait right here!" Angel held her hands up to motion me to stay and darted out of the room, her small feet pounding through the house. When she returned, she held a floppy blue and pink stuffed butterfly. "Here!" She dropped it into my hands. "This is for you!"

"For me?" I asked with a laugh, taking her gift gently.

"Uh huh. To keep you safe while driving." She hugged me tight and my heart warmed, and that afternoon, the butterfly sat on mom's dashboard, my own little protector. 

A few weeks later, I got my license and turned 18. I went off to college, and that Christmas, I got my first car; a 2001 Chevy Impala, which I quickly named the Potato. 

Before I drove off to school, my mom rushed over to her vehicle, retrieved the butterfly, and handed it to me. "Got to have it to keep you safe," she reminded me.

With a laugh I took it, and placed it ceremoniously before my steering wheel.  Angel's butterfly sat there for the next two years, sliding around my dashboard and staring out the window. Half the time I forgot it was there, but it turns out, the butterfly guarded me well.

Yesterday, my dad took the Potato to another friend of ours, a dealer and a mechanic. A few hours later, my father came home and proclaimed my car dead. Turns out that she had a gas leak and the engine mounts were shot. At any point during the last few months (or, perhaps even at any point during my two years of driving the car), my gas tank could have blown up or my engine could have slid right through the hood of my vehicle. 

I was shocked. I thought the Potato just needed an oil change and a new filter thinga-majig . Come to find out is was a miracle the car had lasted so long , and that I had never been injured. You might say I had an angel watching over me.

Now, I don't believe in signs. I don't believe my car's breakdown means anything, like I shouldn't drive or whatever. But, I do believe in hints, and I certainly believe in reminders. 

I take this break down as a hint to treasure life. We live in a world of risk, a world of random chemicals in our food, rising seas and melting ice caps, and used cars that breakdown without warning. It's a miracle that any of us get through a day alive.

That's the funny thing about life. Every moment truly is a miracle, a daily gift from God that we receive only by His grace. Every single one of us could breathe our last breath at any moment without warning, and yet, we live without worrying where our next breath will come from.

And we can live with even less worry when we know that we have a Lord who cares about us, who is in complete control of our world. I do believe I was protected while I was driving around the past two years, not by a butterfly, but by the Maker of the Heavens and Earth, whose love is offers all the protection I need.  ( Now, whether He used an angel to guard me... that's yet to be determined. ;) ). 

So when I do get another car, I'm going to stick that butterfly right back on my dashboard. Not as some talisman against evil, but as a reminder. A reminder that every single day has risk, that every moment is a gift, and most of all, as a reminder to not live life afraid. The God of the Universe is my protector, and I want to thank Him daily for the life He's given me. 

Quiet

The wind is calling. Daring you to root your feet in blankets of grass, to warm your lungs with draughts of sun and breathe in drafts of summer. The air calls, it sings and shouts with whispers in your ear; can your soul not hear it? When did your heart go deaf? Perhaps it only speaks the language of stone. Look to the mountains then. Open your eyes, the stars will sign to you. Perhaps the ice is more easily understood. Watch the frost etch its message in code on your window pane. Is your mind blind? It certainly is not mute. It babbles as the brook, but unlike water, has nothing to say. Hush. Dig your fingers in the dirt and let the softness of the soil, the dust and clay remind you. And still the wind is calling, calling, if only you would listen.

The Smell of Autumn

The smell of autumn,
Falling leaves spreading their scent through the air,
makes me long for Austria.

For some reason, the warm musk of woods and wet leaves reminds me of the dirt path I biked down. The path on which my sister and I sung on the top of our lungs, on which the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels acted as the background for our melody.

The golden leaves blanketing the mountains makes me wish for the wide open fields which I passed, riding along mountains far across the sea.







I miss the flowers, the lake. The tall grass which shielded the boats from view, until you stepped right up to the rocky shore.





And if I sit still enough, I can almost hear
the mountains, calling gently and echoing from 
from the Swiss Alps to my own Blue Ridge
hills. And in that moment, 
I wish for nothing more, 
than to wander. 



"There is something in October
sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name."
         -Bliss Carman                               

Summer Sojourns, Part 3: People of Oxford

I was lost.

Now, to be fair, I meant get lost.

I had this great idea to do an urban walkabout in Oxford, to intentionally wander aimlessly and see where I found myself. What I neglected to consider was my lack of any sense of direction, which is rather important for finding one's way back.

After about 20 minutes of unintentional wandering and frequent glances at the city maps (which are thankfully common on Oxford streets), I managed to find familiar ground.

With a sigh of relief, I stepped toward the crosswalk. As I waited for the light to turn green, I heard someone call out, "Excuse me, young lady." I looked around for the source of the voice.

The woman speaking was resting against the building behind me, sitting on the little outcropped edge of the building's base. "Excuse me, but I see you're wearing a cross. Are you a believer?" she asked. Her voice was slow and steady, her words layered with a heavy accent I couldn't identify, suggesting that English was not her first language.

It took me a moment to answer. In my mind, I noticed her messy dark hair pulled back in a bun, her deep brown skin starting to show signs of age. Her eyes were wide and focused on me, and I admit for a moment, I was nervous. Warnings from overly-cautious, well-meaning adults danced in my head, reminding me that it might not be safe to advertise my American-ness or Christianity here is another country.  But then my pause lasted too long, and I answered the only way I could.

"Yes."

She smiled and nodded. "Good. I am a believer too," she laid her palm on her chest and then waved her hand back toward me. "Now, excuse me young lady, but can I ask you a question?"

I stepped closer to her. "Sure."

"Do you believe God understands us?" She leaned forward as she spoke, crinkling her brow as though deep in thought. "I know He hears us when we pray, but does he understand?

You see, I have two children. They are both in their 30's and they are alone. I have been praying for God to give them spouses, but still they are unmarried. So I think to myself, perhaps He doesn't understand." Her voice was rough with uncertainty, wanting to know the reason for God's apparent silence.

"I think that He always hears us," I said slowly, trying to think of how to best phrase my response, "But, just like a father doesn't always grant the wishes of the child, God doesn't always give us exactly what we request."

"Ah, I see." Her eyes prompted me to continue.

"We have to remember that God's timing is different from ours. That everything happens according to His plan. While we might not always like it, God's time is always best."

"Yes, I agree. Thank you, young lady. " She looked content and leaned forward again, "So you think that when it is right, God will give my children spouses?"

I floundered for a moment, and then answered that I think if her children wanted to get married, God would help them find the right people. (Part of me was very unsure of this answer, because what do I know about marriage? But it seemed to satisfy her.)

After a few moments, we ended up discussing how God works in the small everyday parts of life. She was in perfect agreement with me on this note.

"You see, I am a cleaning lady," she told me, "and I work at the college. One of my jobs is to gather the trash. At times the bag gets heavy from being full. Now, you will laugh at me, I know, but I must tell you, one day I was bringing out the trash. The bin is very high, and the bag was so heavy that I could barely carry it. Now, I picked it up and I prayed, 'God, on the count of three, give me the strength to lift this into the bin.' And when I counted to three, I tell you, the bag felt lighter and I threw it in." She looked at me with a grin and a shake of her head, "I say this to make you laugh. But He really helped me."

After a few more minutes of talking, I asked if I could pray for her, and her eyes lit up as she nodded and told me her name, and the names of her two children. I held her hands and spoke to the Lord with this woman, half way around the world from home, right there on the side of the street.

As I finished, she thanked me again and asked me about myself, whether I was a student and what my major was. While she looked at my intently with her brown eyes, rimmed with a sliver of blue, I explained what I was studying and said, "I can't imagine doing anything else."

She nodded her head and repeated my phrase. "I can't imagine doing anything else. That, that seals it for me. That tells me it was planned, that it was meant to be, "she said.

As this woman thanked me for encouraging her, and told me it had been a blessing meeting me, I thanked her in return and hugged her. But as she kissed both my cheeks, like a grandmother saying goodbye to a grandchild, I don't think she knew how much the conversation meant to me.

With her words, this woman had reaffirmed for me my entire focus in college, making me feel that what I am studying is worth it. She reminded me of what I believe, and while I don't know if I said all the right things or not, I know meeting her was one of the highlights of my trip. A highlight I almost missed, because when I looked at her, I focused on her appearance and forgot her voice.

When we parted, she said to me, "Let me tell you one last thing you lady. Enjoy every moment, always be happy, and focus on God." She patted my hand as though to seal in her words. And as I walked away, I smiled, thinking how glad I was that I had gotten lost.

Summer Sojourns, Part 2: 6 Ways England is Different from America

America and England are two very different places. In some ways, the differences are less noticeable than with other countries. We have the same language (for the most part), the same modern technology, even some of the same fast food chains. (For example, I saw 6 Starbucks in London within a 15 minute walk, and a KFC in Oxford city centre.) Even so, the two cultures are very unique, and so here are a few of the main differences I noticed.

1: Bikes and Buses - I was in Oxford for 5 weeks and didn't have to drive at all (it was glorious!). There were bike paths and lanes everywhere you went, and bike racks on almost every street. For those who don't like biking, buses were always an option, available not only within the city, but also to places like London and Bath. Basically, if I lived in Oxford, I would never drive again.

2: Store hours - Stores closed much earlier than in America. Most shops closed around 4 or 5, and rarely opened before 9. One of the girls I was with tried to get an early start to her day and went for coffee at 8. The only place she could find open was a Starbucks in one of the college buildings. And there were no 24 hour stores that I saw.

3: Ice - Ice is not a thing in England (or many other places in Europe). Doesn't matter what you ask for, restaurants just aren't in the habit of giving you ice. Once, one of my friends asked specifically for ice in her water, and the waiter gave her one cube. So before going to England, get used to less cold drinks.

4: Polite vs. Friendly - Something interesting about British culture is that everyone is polite. When I turned a corner and found myself biking on the wrong side of the road, I was yelled at twice, and both times the person shouting referred to me as "ma'am". Yet, people aren't very friendly for the most part. Whenever I would walk down the street, I noticed that people don't make eye contact, and even when they do, there would be no nod or wave of acknowledgement. If I said good morning to a stranger or smiled in greeting, the response would be kind but rather confused.

5: Language - British has a very different vocabulary than American. Some of my favorite differences are:
a) Garden = Instead of yards, everyone has a 'garden', which I think is lovely.
b) Pudding= All dessert is pudding, even if it isn't pudding. (Which made me think of Americans who call all soda 'coke'.)
c) Take-away= You don't get to-go containers for your food, you get take-aways. (I once asked a waitress for a to-go box for my fries and received a very lost stare. Chips and take-aways, chips and take-aways.)

6: Tea- Tea in Oxford is a much bigger deal than coffee, which made my day every day.  Everywhere I went, I could get hot tea, and they would often bring it in my own personal tea pot with my cup and creamer. Also, sugar cubes are amazing, just saying.
           - On a side note, iced tea is not very common, and when I did get iced tea, it was rarely sweet. I did see lemonade a good bit though.

So  there you have it, 6 of my favorite quirks of England. What are some of your favorite cultural differences?

Summer Sojourns Part 1: Oxford, A Culture of Preservation

Oxford City Centre

A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots. -Marcus Garvey

Have you ever had the opportunity to step into a new culture and discover something about yourself? This summer I  was able to travel and spend 6 weeks discovering myself in two different countries and five different cities/towns. My journey began in Oxford, a city full of history and learning, a city characterized by a culture of preservation.


Walking down cobblestone sidewalks, one's eyes are constantly drawn upward to admire the beautiful stonework covering the walls nearby. Each building is brushed with hues of grey, white, and yellow, the aged stones looking as though someone painted them in watercolors. Put simply, the city is gorgeous. Part of its wonder lies in the history encased in ever street you walked down. Almost every mall, fast food restaurant, and tea shop is housed in buildings hundred of years old. The modern is blended perfectly with the past.

Oxford's Natural History Museum

The Glass Roof And Metal Arches of the Museum

In city center, there are at least three museums, each one free to the public. The first one I found was the Natural History Museum. You step inside and are struck by the high iron-work ceilings, and glass windows in the roof, with dinosaur skeletons stretching toward them.

The metal columns rest on stone bases, which rest on stone floors. As you walk through the aisles of cases displaying birds and reptiles, you almost can't pay attention to the objects before you. The building itself holds too much interest, tells too much of a story in its deliberate blend of old and new. This is intentional, my professor explains to me, to show how the new, modern ideas of science, rest on the foundations of the past.

Then  there was on the Ashmolean museum. The building is four or five levels of artifacts upon artifacts, from almost every culture. Egyptian statues and Greek vases, a whole room of Chinese brush-paintings, and another filled with rows and rows of English china--I spent two hours wandering through and still couldn't see everything, even though I began to spend less and less time with each section. The sheer amount of information available was incredible.

Perhaps just as interesting, in the theme of history, are the churches scattered throughout the city, many still being used for the same purpose they had hundreds of years ago. Some sanctuaries were so ornate that you walk in and are immediately overtaken by the color and carvings and stained glass windows that fill every inch of the room. Other churches you walk in and are touched by the simple beauty of white stones and gently sloping archways and the sheer space of the room. Each church told a story, about the values and beliefs of the people who attended services there, about how they worshiped, and how they viewed God.

The Rad Cam

My favorite set of buildings, though, and maybe the best testament of Oxford's culture of preservation, are the libraries. The Bodleian library is actually a system of buildings and offsite storage areas (one of which is an old salt mine) filled with millions of books.  The core buildings in Oxford city center consist of the Radcliffe Camera (affectionately called the Rad Cam), the Upper and Lower Reading rooms, and the Gladstone Link, which is an underground tunnel, with two levels full of books, connecting the Bodleian reading rooms and the Camera

The purpose of this library system is first and foremost as a scholarly collection, to gather and preserve the books. This means that while you can go in and access materials, you can't check any of them out. It's like the whole library is the reference section; you can go use the books, you just can't leave with them. Which made it an incredible place to study, honestly. The buildings themselves were again amazing, paintings along the edge of the ceilings, stone staircases and metal spiral staircases, and windows overlooking Oxford. There were rows and rows of desks with people coming and going. Sitting in those libraries, you realized what a priority learning is in Oxford. These books represent years of history, years of people coming to study, years of people wanting to safeguard the past to give to the future.

Walking down the streets of Oxford, the past is undeniably present in every corner. History isn't being erased and replaced by today's world but instead is acting as the foundations on which today is built. It is actively being preserved, even as the future moves forward and develops around it and through it. Being in that culture made me appreciate more than I ever have before how much the past has to offer us now, and made me appreciate how young America truly is. We are just a little sapling in comparison to so many other cultures, and sometimes I wounder, how well are we caring for our roots?

On the Subject of Giving Up

"Ichi, Ni, San..." and so on we went, counting off kicks in Japanese. It seems like forever ago, those classes at No Limits Karate. I spent a good portion of my childhood in the dojo, which my father ran for 8(ish) years.  In the moments when I was tired or frustrated, unable to master a new technique, I would always want to say "I can't" and give up. But those words didn't exist while I was on the mat, and when you can't give up, you only have one choice: keep going. And when I kept going, all those things I thought I couldn't do, I did.

Amazing how stuff like that sticks with a person. To this day, in my head, anything is possible. Every dream is worth trying. Even when things look rough, I just remind myself that goals take time, and that if you care about something, you need to see it through until the end.

As a result, I have a tendency to stay. I'm the person who waits by the window one more minute to see if that last firework will shoot in the sky. I'm the fisherman who throws my line in the water once more, because maybe this time the fish will bite. I'm the hopeless optimist waiting patiently for disappointment, because sometimes you have to keep walking through the storm before you can see the sun.

But there is a time that you have to say enough is enough. The fireworks are over. The fish won't bite. The restaurant is not going to pick up business; the event is a bust; the club isn't getting new members--and it is simply time to let it die.  

Maybe some dreams are meant to remain undone. 

Consider for a moment Great Gatsby. Gatsby stood for so long, staring at a light at the end of a dock. He stood, waiting for the opportunity to take hold of a dream from years past. When Daisy finally came, he was so happy, until he realized she had moved on. What once was a world of possibilities had now become a closed door, which he still looked at like a window. He thought that Daisy would leave Tom, that he would be able to woo her back and that it would be as though nothing had ever happened. But life had happened and nothing could undo the time lost. In chasing his impossible dream, Gatsby made himself believe a lie, and in the end, he fell. 

If a goal is unachievable, and yet we continue to chase it, we waste ourselves. Would it not have been better for Gatsby, and even for Daisy, if he had just let her go and found a new dream to chase? While we find it admirable that his love was so steadfast, in the end, it was wrong of him to want to erase the life Daisy had made for herself. It was just as wrong for Daisy to encourage him in his hope. 

There comes a point where pushing forward is no longer perseverance but instead is self destructive. If this is the case, the only healthy thing to do is give up, so that we can start fresh. 

When I was about 13, I gave up karate. Not long after that, my dad gave up the school. He still cared about karate, sure, but it was time. Karate was no longer his priority. He turned his attention to ministry, and now instead of running a dojo in a warehouse, he runs a food pantry and church (still in a warehouse). The point is, if my dad hadn't been willing to give up on one dream, he never would have been able to pursue what he cared about most.

(No Limits Karate school, Dad in the front, me in red behind him)

As hard letting go may be, as wrong as quitting may seem, sometimes it really is the best answer. The dream is already dead, and we just have to be willing to drop it. The question then becomes, how do we know when to scale the walls and when to walk away?

Contemplation and Canoes

Pushing my paddle against the ridge, I lean forward until my vessel leaves the land. My craft is floating, steered toward the stillness of the early morn. As I cut right, the sun wakes, and with its rays rise hazy clouds. The white mist trickling in captures colors, leaving streaks of orange and yellows across my view.

A breeze blows by. The wind catches against my skin as it passes, tugging at my clothing and hair until it’s free. Then it races on, to dodge through mazes of leaves and branches.

Morning is brightening now, the sun lifting higher and spreading further into the shadows. Specks of starlight twinkle ahead, trapped by the day and resting lightly on the silent plane of silver. I break the glass with my motion, scattering shards as my paddle propels me onward. Even gliding smoothly, I can’t help but rustle the image of this mirror. The folds ripple out and startle the tiny stars, which shiver and sparkle in the wake. A slap rings out across the way, as something tries to break free from beneath the glass. In a moment, everything is quiet again. The mirror evens itself out and all is pristine once more.

I pause when I see land before me, the shore of a floating island visible in the distance. Like a disk bulging on both sides, the ground of this island rises roundly to meet the line of trees reaching for the sky. At a similar angle, the dirt sinks toward the trunks which support the upside-down branches below. What is above is perfectly mimicked in what lies underneath, so that this earth-bound Laputa finds its balance in its matching sides.

The glass around the island ripples; the ground must be pressing forward. I note the mirror sits perfectly centered, cutting horizontally across this ship of land. The island hangs beneath the glass as much as it rises above; half the trees set in the air while the rest are trapped in the deep, in the darkness around. This piece of earth stretches in all directions, seeking out all at once the secrets of both the heights and depths. As it travels onward, what can be hidden from its net? The mirror is unmasked for these trees and rocks, for Laputa digs deep beneath the reflected image. The island travels through both light and dark.  I, on the other hand, merely drift along the surface, slipping by unnoticed.

Parchment Deserts

  (A bit of paint chip poetry)                                        

        Parchment deserts

               Unroll beneath the candle-sun.
        Their sand-dune ridges raised;
                Their shallow grooves stretch in inky shadows.
        Across the grainy page,
                People and pens trace uneven lines,
        Footprints, printed black in their wake.
                               Parchment deserts
                          Colored creme; yellowing, aged, and wrinkled.
                                    The wasteland never traveled,
                          Unraveled scrolls still whisper,
                                     Stories, found in the folds of
                                                        Parchment deserts;
                                                                     The stories never read.

A Tribute to My Brothers

Chivalry is dead (or so people claim). Society complains that young men need to step up and learn to lead already, that they need to act as gentleman. Apparently, guys just don't know how to be men anymore.

While maybe this is true for most of the world, I am happy to report that the friends I have met at college are extremely kind and thoughtful. They are perfectly chivalrous knights.

 I, however, am a terrible damsel in distress. I'm too busy taming the dragons myself to ever consider accepting the knight's aid. In my independence, all help is completely unnecessary, as I totally have everything under control, all of the time. *coughs and waits for lightning* Any offers of kindness are brushed off with a smile and a "No, I've got it," while other thoughtful gestures are completely lost to my obliviousness. Yes, chivalry is dead, but only in my lack of ability to acknowledge it.

Now, to be fair, I don't intentionally avoid chivalry. The fact is, I have simply built up a mindset in which I always want to take care of other people. Others caring for me in return doesn't fit that image, so it always takes a while for me to register kind acts. Especially from my guy friends. I feel a little guilty, because they always try to be nice, and I always squash their attempts to be gentleman before even realizing what they are doing.

So here is a thank you, to all the wonderful brothers I have been blessed with since coming to college; a thank-you for all the attempted chivalry which I totally ignore. On a regular basis. And which you continue to offer anyway. (True patience right there.)

Thank you to the men who hold doors open for me so consistently, though I never think to expect it.

Thank you to the men who challenge me and clear the plates from the table first, to remind me that others like to help too.

Thank you to the men who can actually reach to put streamers in the ceiling, rescuing me from having to balance on stools.

Thank you to the men who help me carry dogs and tables and other random, heavy objects which I'm too proud to admit I'm not strong enough to lift.

Thank you to men who give me rides, and then quietly return the gas money I try to give you (sneaky hobbitses).

Thank you to the men who offer to put gas in my car, even though I decline.

Thank you to the men who help me fix my vehicle, because I'm clueless and you care about safety.

Thank you to the men who act as role models for my little brother, in ways I couldn't as a sister.

Thank you to the men who surprise me with your thank you's and your compliments.

Thank you to the men who offer me a hand to help me up, even though I never notice until I'm already standing.

Thank you to the men who are always willing to come to my aid, during those times I actually realize I need help.

Thank you to the men who look after me, without ever implying that I couldn't do it myself; the men who are there when I need them, even when I'm not willing to ask.

Thank you for being the wonderful friends I used to think I didn't need.

(As for everyone else, let me just ask out of curiosity, do you ever have trouble accepting help from others? And do you find it harder to accept help from people of the opposite gender? Leave a comment below. :) )

Working toward Rest

Are you busy? Do you feel like you are constantly running from one task to the next, never able to catch your breath?

Then you, my friend, are not alone. This semester I have realized more than I ever that I am overcommitted. I sign up for everything and have no idea how to slow down. Even though I know that I do too much, I have no idea how to change that. One answer that has been repeated to me over and over is that I need to learn to say no. The other answer people keep giving me is that I need to rest.

Let me tell you, rest is the most difficult thing for me. Half of me wants to sleep all the time and ignore every responsibility, while the other part of me spends every quiet moment stressing over the work I'm not doing. True rest is an unachievable goal, to be stared at but always put off for another day.

So I pray. I pray that God will help me find rest in Him, as His Word promises. This is something I have done on numerous occasions. But this week, as I was reading Psalm 62, reading aloud the lines in verse 5 "Find rest, O my soul, in God alone, my hope comes from Him,"  it hit me.

How could I sit and ask God to be my rest, when I don't take any time out of my busy life to come to Him?

How on Earth do I expect to find rest when I refuse to go to the source?

So often in my mad rush to accomplish the "necessities," my spiritual walk falls by the wayside. I throw prayers into the air when the spare moment meets the thought of God, but other than that, I do nothing to nourish my soul. It seems my Bible time is always the first priority to be cut out of my overflowing schedule.

In the same moment I decide not to spend time in the Word, I send up prayers asking God to give me strength. Then I find myself surprised at the late nights spent in exhausted panic over all my little tasks. It is so easy to become stressed and exhausted, especially when I'm not spending time with God.

So my first goal for balancing my life is to make more time for God. Spending time in His Word is rest, in and of itself, and I'm certain that it will help me find rest in other areas.

I want to encourage you find quiet moments as well. What are some ways you can try to find rest in your life this week?

(P.S, read a great article today on rest, which actually sparked the writing of this post. I highly recommend it to my fellow busy bees. Create and Protect "Margin" in Your Scehedule)

Pause in Starlight

Earth, sky, moon, and stars, all seem cemented, riveted together by the frost...Big stars hang in the woods between branches like blue lanterns. Small ones are strewn all over the sky like daisies in a summer field.-- Dr. Zhivago,  Boris Pasternak


I wobble down the road, eyes searching the sky.
Where are the stars? They're far to faint to find.
Too much light, Too much light,
It blinds them from my view.
So further down the road, I go, off to somewhere new.

Buildings crowd the streets, and streetlamps scattered round,
Chaos mixed with noise, stars nowhere to be found,
Cars rush by, headlights fly,
Glinting yellow fills the air.
Still further down the road, leave behind all other cares.

Hazy white and orange mix, set against the black of night,
Slowly the noise lessens, stars still veiled in light,
People fewer, buildings fewer,
Just enough to block my view,
Still further down the road, I roam, away from blinding hues.

Away from all the sounds, away from windows glass.
Pavement on the sides, fade away to grass.
Streetlights gone, all light gone,
Quiet darkness fills my eyes,
So there along the road I pause, below the waiting skies.

Here on the edge there's nothing, where anything could be,
Hiding in the stillness, in shadows, I can't see.
Go back, I think, go back,
The city's still in view.
Go back down the road, there's much there left to do.

The quiet here is ominous, too open for any sound.
Here the world is empty, clear for miles round.
Don't move forward, Don't move forward,
But I step into the dark.
For one has to stand in silence,
For one to see the stars.

Story of A Spider

 “I’ve lost my mind.” I mumble to myself.

I am sitting on my dorm floor, looking a big ugly spider sitting in the corner. My roommate and suitemates are out.

“Just kill the spider.” I tell myself.

But it isn’t bothering me. There is no one else around for it to bother, either.

I stand up and go to my desk. If I have to poke the spider out of the corner anyway in order to kill it, why not scoop it into a cup and release it outside?

Because it’s a spider, that’s why! It’s entirely unnecessary.  

I glance back at the creepy crawler. It is sitting totally still.

I sigh and grab a throwaway cup and a folder off my dresser. “I’m crazy.”

Bending down, I place the cup right against the corner. Carefully, I poke at the spider with the corner of my folder.

It runs into the cup, which I set upright quickly and cover with my folder. I smile. Success! Then I look down and realize I’m in my pajamas, and my hair is wet.

                Whatever, I think. I’ll only be outside for a second. I pull on a hoodie, though, just because.

                Then I remember. The door at the end of my hall sets off an alarm if it is open for more than 15 seconds. The door at the end of my hall doesn’t let you come back in through it.

                If I go outside, I’ll have to walk all the way back around to get back in. I look at the spider. I should just kill it and be done.

                “But it’s already caught,” I think. “I’m already committed.”

                So, I grab my ID and my key, shove them in my pocket and pick up the troublesome spider. “You’re lucky I’m alone in this room. Otherwise I would have killed you immediately.”

                I open my room door to leave, and as soon as I do, a wasp flies right in. I glare at it. “No, no, no no, no. I am not doing this again! Get out here.” The wasp ignores me and lands on my closet.

                But my hands are still full of my spider trap. “Fine, stay there.” I close the door and walk outside, hair wet, feet bare, and a spider in a cup. The hall door closes behind me and I walk into the grass, mumbling about my lack of sanity. I release the spider, telling it, “Don’t even think of coming back in.”

                It scurries off and I walk to the front door of my dorm. I go back into the building, down the stairs, and back to my room.

                I walk in and stare at the wasp… and proceed to repeat my insane process for a second time.

                What? I can’t kill a wasp! What if I miss? It would sting me.

                So back out my exit door I go. “I really must be crazy. I must be totally out of my mind,” I say aloud.

                But I release the wasp. And as I walk back inside, I look at the sky settling into its evening colors and feel a weird sort of happiness. Maybe the happiness came from getting to walk outside and see the sunset because of those bugs. Maybe it was because that spider and that wasp really weren’t bothering anyone. So didn’t they deserve a chance to live?

                 Perhaps those bugs were there to remind me that life is valuable, in any form. Just because we have the power to inflict pain, doesn’t mean we should.

                Or maybe, just maybe, I’m just plain crazy.

Let's Be Real

Small. 

That's how you feel.

Wrapped tightly in your shell, 

Layers of identities building a cocoon 

Which you don't know how to escape.

Hurt. 

That's how you feel. 

Hiding behind your smile, 

Answering safely with "I'm fine,"

A lie you've told so often 

that you almost believe it.   

Lost. 

That's how you feel. 

Not sure where you're going, 

Or what you should believe, 

Or how you can live as you. 

In our world, it's common for us to hear the message of, "Just be you." With everything in society pushing for deceit, telling you to put on the best show you can, it isn't surprising that there has been a bit off pushback. A desire to just forget what the world says, and just live as me.

How many people actually do that? How many people actually stop paying attention to what others think and just live out what they believe?

The reason I am mentioning living by beliefs is because what we believe is a major part of what forms us. Decisions we make, perceptions we have of people and the world, and views we hold of right and wrong are all colored by what we believe.

Living genuinely partially requires knowing what our beliefs are, and be willing to put those beliefs into action.

I've been learning about the life of Paul the apostle in one of my classes, and I have been amazed to realize just how tough he was. Paul was persistent almost to a fault. Boldly he preached the message he believed in, no matter how much persecution he faced.

At one point while reading about him, I actually said to my roommate, "They like legit stoned Paul." The passage shocked me a little, because although I had heard that Paul had been stoned, it had clicked in my head before.

The people stoned Paul and then dragged him out of the city because they thought he was dead. That hit me. Paul was so beaten that they were convinced that they had killed him. Then Paul just gets up, goes back into the city, and then leaves the next day to go preach some more.

Paul showed amazing perseverance, and in many ways, honesty. He never failed to proclaim the gospel, believing its words strongly enough to live them out daily. His faith never seemed to waver in the face of persecution, and his life was nothing if not consistent. He believed he was called to preach, and so he did.

So often we have a hard time today living out our faith or worldviews. What we say is rarely shown through our actions. Even our actions are often inconsistent, one day showing us to be loving, the next showing us to be hateful.

If we really believe what we say we believe, why is it so hard for us to live genuinely?

One reason is that, while yes, living genuinely partially deals with beliefs, living genuinely also requires honesty. A seemingly obvious statement to be sure, but one difficult to achieve.

It can be so easy to deceive others, and even to deceive ourselves. When we meet people, we want them to like us or respect us, and so sometimes without even thinking about it, we show them only the parts of ourselves that we want them to see.

We have different faces to match different people, pulling each mask out at the right time. Who we are, or who we want to be, is lost in a sea of identities we can hardly keep up with.

When people ask if we are okay, we don't want them to know of our hurts. Maybe we don't want to burden them, maybe we don't want to appear weak, or maybe we just don't want to face the answer of no. So instead we say we're fine, and bury the hurt deep within ourselves, where all it does is grow.

We refuse to face our own problems. Convincing ourselves that we are okay becomes a daily habit, reminding ourselves of others pain, to which our hurt could never compare. How can my problems matter, when their problems are so much worse?

We deceive ourselves in other ways too, ignoring pieces of our identity that we don't like, and ignoring wrongs that we commit.

We deceive ourselves into thinking everything is under control when it is all falling apart.

We convince ourselves that we are better, or worse, than we actually are.

In these lies to self and empty displays to others, we create an image of ourselves that just isn't real. This false image is impossible to live out, but living truly as ourselves feels harder. It would require being honest with other people, risking their disapproval or even concern. It would require being honest with ourselves.

In thinking about this, I came to realize, that the only one who is never fooled by our shows is God. No matter how much we trick ourselves and others, God always can see straight past our facades. And in the end, all of our actions, everything secret will be brought to light. We aren't hiding anything from Him, and nothing will stay hidden forever. To me, this is comforting, because even when I'm lost in lies, God sees past them all. He knows me, even when I don't. It gives me hope that there's a way to find truth.

But back to the topic at hand. Whether you agree with me or not, whether you believe in God or not, you do believe something. So let me end with this:

Is it worth honestly living out what you believe?   Is it worth living genuinely?

Spring in January

Yellow.
Sunshine pours in through the window,
Squeezing past the grey clouds
Which claim that it's still winter.

Yellow.
Dresses are pulled from the closet,
Though it should be too cold to wear them,
because the South doesn't care.

Yellow.
Grass is soft from the rain,
And uncharacteristically warm
Against bare feet and arms.

Yellow.
Streaks of light stretch across the sky,
And dance across the lake far earlier
Than they should when it smells of spring.

Yellow.
Flowers on weeds match the color
Of my mood. A smile brought by
Breezes, makes me think of

Yellow.
Summers filled with laughter and life,
Though those days are still far off,
Right now that joy is captured.

Blue,
And white and grey are nice,
And while cold does have its perks,
I love when winter's

Yellow.

Times and Tides

Psalm 89: 8-9 "O Lord God of hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto thee? or thy faithfulness round about thee? Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, thou stillest them." 

Psalm 90:4 "For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night." 

Time is like the sea, and we're all floating in it. Suspended, drifting as the water passes by.

Sometimes life is calm, and the sea is silent. The waves seem to stand still; the moments passing slowly under the surface as if not to disrupt the peaceful cover. Other times, the minutes rush as swirling eddies around us, disappearing into the currents. Waves crash and years pass, whirling away and leaving us barely afloat.

Time is untamable. Pulsing, for with every beat of my heart, a second slips away. The droplets fall through my fingers to join the salty spray; the hours of wasted moments lost to the breeze.

 I am a vessel, carried forward by the currents without ever having raised my sails in consent. It is a scary feeling, to know that though I am woefully unprepared for my journey, the waves won't wait for me to learn. This ship I'm on has no anchor for me to drop. Life's voyage has begun, and there can be no stopping it.

Even with my sail's lowered, time's pulling me along. My ship is ever moving, sailing forward to the day when my voyage will end. There is no way to know how close or far that shoreline is. No way to guess how many storms there'll be, or how far I'll travel, or how or where I'll land. I can't stop the currents from flowing; there is no slowing them now.

The only thing I can do is choose.

Do I let the currents drag me where they will? Or, do I raise my sails and set my own course?

This ocean of time surrounds us and dares us with its depths.

What will you decide to do with it?

New Year's

Years slip together seamlessly. In spite of all our grand ideas about what a new year is, or what it means, or what goals might be accomplished in it, the day before new year's day passes much the same as the the one after it. Jobs, homes, families -- nothing really changes. Life is still the same.

Yet somehow, the new year manages to have an air of freshness to it. Maybe it's just me, but writing a date starting with 1 and ending with a new number feels like standing at a beginning.

Perhaps it is merely because I know have 11 more months ahead of me, 11 more months to try and make this year great.

Perhaps the feeling comes from the tradition of resolutions seeping into my head.

Perhaps the new year is just a good excuse to try once more to change.

Whatever the reason, January has a fresh feel to it, an air of hope.

For January is a blank canvas, calling for paint. It is a lump of clay, ready to be molded. It is a blank page, begging to be filled with words.

Silly or not, the new year is a beginning. It is a new block of time just waiting to be lived in.

So my question for you is simple: What will you do with your year?