Hiya Boys and Girls
hmmm, that headline makes me feel like Bozo the Clown, or some other creepy clown, I don't think I like that.
Speaking of Bozo the Clown, my elementary school used to have carnivals for fundraisers (I think that's what they were for, for me it was just fun) and my mom would volunteer and always ended up manning the "Bozo Buckets" game where you had to throw pouches into buckets and you got a prize depending on how far down the line (and farther from where you stood) you could get the beanbag in the bucket. Yeah... welcome to my unbridled stream of consciousness.
Have I ever told you that my parents used to make me "ding" at the dinner table? It's true. Actually, I think it might have been my sister's idea-- sounds like something an older sister would think of. Anyhooo, yeah, I was encouraged to "ding" when I changed subjects because my mind would run along at a speed beyond that of normal human comprehension. Therefore, I would be talking about school lunch and then switch to what happened on the bus ride home before my family had any idea what was going on. My mind kind of works in a "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" type way where I associate two random events based on a string of occurrences without actually going through those occurrences with the people around me. yeah. that's it.
I don't know why I'm rambling today. Maybe I just need to "purge" my mind a little. Get out the random stuff so I can actually focus on what needs to be done. This is helping.
What I really wanted to say here, today, is that I really appreciate everyone's support of my decisions-- whether that be to run a marathon, or to realize that it's not going to happen. Thank you. I appreciate your support more than I could iterate at this moment. It means a lot to me. AND, if you got through all that mumbo jumbo at the beginning of this post, then you deserve an extra thanks. ;-)
as a side note, I had to "ignore" a lot during the spell check of this post. that makes me laugh. (especially for an aspiring copy editor type person such as myself)
the end.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Defeat
Or shall I say "de-feet"? Yeah, it's a bad pun, I know, but I'm feeling bad enough to use it.
After much counsel, prayer and debate, I have chosen not to recommit to the Nike marathon. There are many, many variables to factor in to the equation.
It was a very difficult decision, but am now certain it was the correct one. Thank you for your support. 100% of all donations already given will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, which is actually better than the 75% they would have received had I continued. So, at least that's good.
I'm going now. Talk to you later.
Or shall I say "de-feet"? Yeah, it's a bad pun, I know, but I'm feeling bad enough to use it.
After much counsel, prayer and debate, I have chosen not to recommit to the Nike marathon. There are many, many variables to factor in to the equation.
It was a very difficult decision, but am now certain it was the correct one. Thank you for your support. 100% of all donations already given will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, which is actually better than the 75% they would have received had I continued. So, at least that's good.
I'm going now. Talk to you later.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
I Need a Hero
In eighth grade I dated a boy named Dave (and by dated I mean we mutually liked each other for a few weeks and once held hands during a school basketball game). Dave was a ninth grader and the typical class clown. He was goofy, outgoing and mischievous. I don't remember when it was that I first noticed him or how we came to meet, but I'm pretty sure I will always remember him.
I will remember Dave in the same way I remember my elementary school boyfriend, Randy. You see, one day during our fun class hour some guy made fun of me and Dave beat him up. In the same way, Randy once tackled his best friend because he was chasing me down. Granted, I do not condone fighting, it is not a solution to anything, but those might have been some of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.
I have no idea what those boys are up to now, but I will remember them as heroes. I will remember that they defended me, regardless of the consequence. Dave got kicked out of his favorite class and Randy faced the wrath of choosing to side with a girl over his best friend, even in second or third grade. They found defending my honor worthy of receiving punishment of their own.
On the recommendation of a friend, I just started reading a book called Captivating. Normally, I'm quite skeptical of Christian self-help books. So, I was happy to read that this wasn't one, but just seemed like one. Being that I just started, I will not, as of yet, give my endorsement of this book, but it brought up a point that I wanted to share.
At the very onset of the book, the authors, John and Stasi Eldridge, state things they believe are true of all women. One of those 'universalities' is that all women want a hero. Over the past few weeks, this concept has been becoming more and more apparent to me, more and more real.
I know I'm not the only woman who was brought up on fairy tales filled with princes sweeping fair maidens away, revealing the true princess hiding inside even the most commonplace of girls. Throughout the years, however, I've become jaded to ideas of white knights slaying hideous captors, rescuing me from my isolated turret in order to ride off into the sunset. Really, it's not fair to hold men to such fantasies, is it? Maybe not.
Not only do the authors state that women want a hero, they claim that men desire to be a hero. Like Dave and Randy, men want to be able to stand up for and defend a worthy woman. (There are obvious Biblical allusions here to Christ standing up for and defending His Bride the Church even unto death, but I won't go into that) According to the authors, men want something worth fighting for and women want to be worthy.
It's an interesting concept and I'm still soaking it in. I'm made to desire to be worthy of the affections of others. And I'm made to give affection. I'm not only made to want a hero, I'm made to be worthy of one.
In eighth grade I dated a boy named Dave (and by dated I mean we mutually liked each other for a few weeks and once held hands during a school basketball game). Dave was a ninth grader and the typical class clown. He was goofy, outgoing and mischievous. I don't remember when it was that I first noticed him or how we came to meet, but I'm pretty sure I will always remember him.
I will remember Dave in the same way I remember my elementary school boyfriend, Randy. You see, one day during our fun class hour some guy made fun of me and Dave beat him up. In the same way, Randy once tackled his best friend because he was chasing me down. Granted, I do not condone fighting, it is not a solution to anything, but those might have been some of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.
I have no idea what those boys are up to now, but I will remember them as heroes. I will remember that they defended me, regardless of the consequence. Dave got kicked out of his favorite class and Randy faced the wrath of choosing to side with a girl over his best friend, even in second or third grade. They found defending my honor worthy of receiving punishment of their own.
On the recommendation of a friend, I just started reading a book called Captivating. Normally, I'm quite skeptical of Christian self-help books. So, I was happy to read that this wasn't one, but just seemed like one. Being that I just started, I will not, as of yet, give my endorsement of this book, but it brought up a point that I wanted to share.
At the very onset of the book, the authors, John and Stasi Eldridge, state things they believe are true of all women. One of those 'universalities' is that all women want a hero. Over the past few weeks, this concept has been becoming more and more apparent to me, more and more real.
I know I'm not the only woman who was brought up on fairy tales filled with princes sweeping fair maidens away, revealing the true princess hiding inside even the most commonplace of girls. Throughout the years, however, I've become jaded to ideas of white knights slaying hideous captors, rescuing me from my isolated turret in order to ride off into the sunset. Really, it's not fair to hold men to such fantasies, is it? Maybe not.
Not only do the authors state that women want a hero, they claim that men desire to be a hero. Like Dave and Randy, men want to be able to stand up for and defend a worthy woman. (There are obvious Biblical allusions here to Christ standing up for and defending His Bride the Church even unto death, but I won't go into that) According to the authors, men want something worth fighting for and women want to be worthy.
It's an interesting concept and I'm still soaking it in. I'm made to desire to be worthy of the affections of others. And I'm made to give affection. I'm not only made to want a hero, I'm made to be worthy of one.
Monday, August 08, 2005
HELP!
So, I've hit a mega wall with my marathon training. Not only have I injured both of my I.T. bands (something that can be worked out, but takes extra time and money), my asthma has been kicking my butt this summer and my fundraising hasn't been going so well (to say the least).
After much debate, I thought about bowing out of the race. However, I have received a little more affirmation and would like to recommit to run the 1/2 instead of the full-- IF I can get the required funds in by TOMORROW!
I don't need 100% of the funds in order to recommit, just 50%. That's $1,600-- compared with the $575 I have already raised.
Here's where you can help.
If you ever thought about donating to the cause, now's the time. Go here to donate now. I'm really looking for a sign here in order to continue.
Please help. = (
~me
p.s.-- thank you very, very much to those of you who have already donated! you guys rock! = ) If I do have to bow out, please know that 100% of your donations will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I am really hoping to be able to go on, though, with renewed energy and spirit.
So, I've hit a mega wall with my marathon training. Not only have I injured both of my I.T. bands (something that can be worked out, but takes extra time and money), my asthma has been kicking my butt this summer and my fundraising hasn't been going so well (to say the least).
After much debate, I thought about bowing out of the race. However, I have received a little more affirmation and would like to recommit to run the 1/2 instead of the full-- IF I can get the required funds in by TOMORROW!
I don't need 100% of the funds in order to recommit, just 50%. That's $1,600-- compared with the $575 I have already raised.
Here's where you can help.
If you ever thought about donating to the cause, now's the time. Go here to donate now. I'm really looking for a sign here in order to continue.
Please help. = (
~me
p.s.-- thank you very, very much to those of you who have already donated! you guys rock! = ) If I do have to bow out, please know that 100% of your donations will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I am really hoping to be able to go on, though, with renewed energy and spirit.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Here's to time
I am a rather selfish person. I know this and admit to it. I like to have things my way. I like to be in control. Most of the time, not being in control agonizes me to the level of nightmares and threats of ulcers. I just like to look out for number one. Over the Rhine sings a line that describes the sentiment quite well: I know I'm not a martyr. I wouldn't die for anyone but me.
Ok, unfortunately the line isn't completely "spot on." Because, you see, in all my vanity and selfishness, there are times when I am not selfish enough.
Time. Actually, there's a great example.
Some may see my time schedule as hectic, impossible, overbearing. Some may get frustrated with my being late here or leaving early there because they think I am not respecting their time enough. Maybe I'm not. Maybe that's my selfish side. I, however, view the chaos in a completely different manner.
I don't fill my schedule in order to "have my cake and eat it, too." Rather, I try to do as much as possible to see and please as many people as possible. In all honesty, more than I am selfish, I am a people-pleaser--or, as I have heard it more appropriately named, an approval suck.
I want your approval. I want you to like me. I want to make everybody happy.
I have been like this for as long as I can remember. In my relationships, in my friendships, with my teachers, with my family. All I ever wanted was for everyone to be happy.
The only problem is, sometimes elating the world leaves little time for one's own enjoyment. I know, if all I want is to see everyone else happy, wouldn't doing so make me happy? Not when the task I've set before myself is so impossible. It is rather empirically improbable, if not impossible, to make everyone I know happy. Not only because I am not the only force and influence in their lives (although my vanity might argue otherwise), but also because sometimes--if you really, truly love someone-- what you have to say will not make them happy.
In truth, I cannot love you without disagreeing with you. I'm not even sure if I can love you without hurting you. Sure, I have comforted people out of love, but I have also angered people out of love. I have lost friendships out of love. That stings the most.
I didn't say the things just to be right. As a matter of fact, hurting people I love doesn't feel right, at all. Granted, I will admit that my tact in these situations isn't the greatest, but if they really love me, then they should understand, too. They should know that I realize how selfish I am, but what I really want is their happiness.
In this way, I am not selfish enough. I spread myself too thin. I have allowed others to walk on me in the name of keeping a friendship-- but is it really a friendship then? Or a lie?
When it comes to boys, I don't think I could ask someone to choose me over all else-- because I want him to choose me. I want it to be his choice, not my ultimatum. And I want him to be my choice, as well.
I won't even get started on how much I want to please my family.
All of this, however, wears me out. It drains me. And when something isn't "right," I want to fix it. I run scenarios through my head all day and horrible dreams/nightmares haunt me all night.
Noticing all of this, a friend recently told me that I don't know how to relax. Perhaps there's truth in this. And in this way, I am not selfish enough. I need to learn how to take time out for me. However, I believe it is a lesson that will take time in itself. So, here's to time.
I am a rather selfish person. I know this and admit to it. I like to have things my way. I like to be in control. Most of the time, not being in control agonizes me to the level of nightmares and threats of ulcers. I just like to look out for number one. Over the Rhine sings a line that describes the sentiment quite well: I know I'm not a martyr. I wouldn't die for anyone but me.
Ok, unfortunately the line isn't completely "spot on." Because, you see, in all my vanity and selfishness, there are times when I am not selfish enough.
Time. Actually, there's a great example.
Some may see my time schedule as hectic, impossible, overbearing. Some may get frustrated with my being late here or leaving early there because they think I am not respecting their time enough. Maybe I'm not. Maybe that's my selfish side. I, however, view the chaos in a completely different manner.
I don't fill my schedule in order to "have my cake and eat it, too." Rather, I try to do as much as possible to see and please as many people as possible. In all honesty, more than I am selfish, I am a people-pleaser--or, as I have heard it more appropriately named, an approval suck.
I want your approval. I want you to like me. I want to make everybody happy.
I have been like this for as long as I can remember. In my relationships, in my friendships, with my teachers, with my family. All I ever wanted was for everyone to be happy.
The only problem is, sometimes elating the world leaves little time for one's own enjoyment. I know, if all I want is to see everyone else happy, wouldn't doing so make me happy? Not when the task I've set before myself is so impossible. It is rather empirically improbable, if not impossible, to make everyone I know happy. Not only because I am not the only force and influence in their lives (although my vanity might argue otherwise), but also because sometimes--if you really, truly love someone-- what you have to say will not make them happy.
In truth, I cannot love you without disagreeing with you. I'm not even sure if I can love you without hurting you. Sure, I have comforted people out of love, but I have also angered people out of love. I have lost friendships out of love. That stings the most.
I didn't say the things just to be right. As a matter of fact, hurting people I love doesn't feel right, at all. Granted, I will admit that my tact in these situations isn't the greatest, but if they really love me, then they should understand, too. They should know that I realize how selfish I am, but what I really want is their happiness.
In this way, I am not selfish enough. I spread myself too thin. I have allowed others to walk on me in the name of keeping a friendship-- but is it really a friendship then? Or a lie?
When it comes to boys, I don't think I could ask someone to choose me over all else-- because I want him to choose me. I want it to be his choice, not my ultimatum. And I want him to be my choice, as well.
I won't even get started on how much I want to please my family.
All of this, however, wears me out. It drains me. And when something isn't "right," I want to fix it. I run scenarios through my head all day and horrible dreams/nightmares haunt me all night.
Noticing all of this, a friend recently told me that I don't know how to relax. Perhaps there's truth in this. And in this way, I am not selfish enough. I need to learn how to take time out for me. However, I believe it is a lesson that will take time in itself. So, here's to time.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Music for My Life?***
Got this survey through Dave.
This was really difficult for me!
***After further thought, I had to make some changes. check it.
yeah, yeah, so I like Patty Griffin's stuff a lot. deal with it. = )
Got this survey through Dave.
This was really difficult for me!
***After further thought, I had to make some changes. check it.
| Opening credits | Not Alone- Patty Griffin |
| Waking up | New Year- Death Cab for Cutie |
| Average day | We Go On- The Normals |
| First date | Be Careful- Patty Griffin |
| Falling in love | Anna Begins- Counting Crows |
| Love scene | So Are You To Me- EastMountainSouth |
| Fight scene | Never Get What You Want- Patty Griffin |
| Breaking up | At This Moment- Billy Vera and the Beaters |
| Getting back together | When it Don't Come Easy- Patty Griffin |
| Secret love | Green and Gray- Nickel Creek |
| Life's okay | Friday, I'm in Love- The Cure |
| Mental breakdown | Come Pick Me Up- Ryan Adams |
| Driving | Romeo on the Radio- The Normals |
| Learning a lesson | Poughkepsie- Over the Rhine |
| Deep thought | Happy- 100 Portraits |
| Flashback | Quite Often- Trent Dabbs |
| Partying | All Night Long- Will Hoge |
| Happy dance | My Sharona- The Knack |
| Regreting | Too Far To Walk- Andrew Osenga |
| Long night alone | Please Do Not Let Me Go- Ryan Adams |
| Death scene | Give Me Jesus |
| Closing credits | Peter Pan- Patty Griffin/Requiem- John Rutter |
yeah, yeah, so I like Patty Griffin's stuff a lot. deal with it. = )
Monday, July 25, 2005
Breathe
I've told you this before, but let me say it again: I think in pictures. I wonder what it would be like if I lost my sight. Have I stored up enough visions in my short twenty-six years in order to continue thinking in pictures? Could I ever store up enough images, soak in enough beauty and splendor from the world around me?
Perhaps the movie-screen of my mind would become more Wonka-esque. In the absence of reinforced visual reality, maybe my imagination would finally be free to wander into other worlds and dreams. Greens might thrive more vividly and blues might swirl into greys and purples and blacks until they merged, finally and indefinitely as one.
I like to imagine even the most ordinary, mundane tasks as pictures. Breathing, for instance. I like to close my eyes and take deep breathes, imagining the air flooding into my lungs as water released through a valve. It plunges in a sense, my breath. As I inhale, air swirls down my windpipe, plunges into my lungs, pooling for a moment in an oxygen eddy before the next batch of fresh air moves in, displacing the old.
Unfortunately, however, that sensation occurs mostly on good days. Then there are days like today. Today my breath stops short, just before reaching my clavicles, and turns around immediately. Days like this I tend to constantly yawn. Days like this, I wish I could go back to bed and not deal with any pictures or words or any form of cognizance, really.
Sure sounds like a Monday to me.
I've told you this before, but let me say it again: I think in pictures. I wonder what it would be like if I lost my sight. Have I stored up enough visions in my short twenty-six years in order to continue thinking in pictures? Could I ever store up enough images, soak in enough beauty and splendor from the world around me?
Perhaps the movie-screen of my mind would become more Wonka-esque. In the absence of reinforced visual reality, maybe my imagination would finally be free to wander into other worlds and dreams. Greens might thrive more vividly and blues might swirl into greys and purples and blacks until they merged, finally and indefinitely as one.
I like to imagine even the most ordinary, mundane tasks as pictures. Breathing, for instance. I like to close my eyes and take deep breathes, imagining the air flooding into my lungs as water released through a valve. It plunges in a sense, my breath. As I inhale, air swirls down my windpipe, plunges into my lungs, pooling for a moment in an oxygen eddy before the next batch of fresh air moves in, displacing the old.
Unfortunately, however, that sensation occurs mostly on good days. Then there are days like today. Today my breath stops short, just before reaching my clavicles, and turns around immediately. Days like this I tend to constantly yawn. Days like this, I wish I could go back to bed and not deal with any pictures or words or any form of cognizance, really.
Sure sounds like a Monday to me.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
[RANT]
PSA: I EAT
Bottom line, I have had an eating disorder. No, it is not currently "active" but, yes, it will probably be something I fight with for the rest of my life. I know this. I am *painfully* aware of this. I am not trying to hide it from you or from myself.
And yet, every roommate I have ever had has questioned me about my eating. Every roommate I have ever had has accused me of not eating. Granted, sometimes I eat more or less than other times, but there are really only about three or four roommates out of the (counts on fingers--takes off shoes--starts over) approximately two dozen roommates that I've had since I headed off to college who were actually living with me during the "active" times.
No, I don't make it a habit to gorge myself in front of others. I eat out-- a lot. I have generally had the good fortune of working places that provide food or have a lot of free food available to me. I have friends who make me food and eat out with me.
Also, given my eating history, I do tend to eat alone some. Sometimes I get food when no one is looking. I am not using the marathon as a weight-loss tool. If anything, I've gained weight in training and it will only make me eat more in order to stay healthy and fit!
I know people are only asking because they're just worried about me and care about me and are looking out for me. But, seriously, I already have a nutrition doctor. Please, just be my friend instead.
[/RANT]
PSA: I EAT
Bottom line, I have had an eating disorder. No, it is not currently "active" but, yes, it will probably be something I fight with for the rest of my life. I know this. I am *painfully* aware of this. I am not trying to hide it from you or from myself.
And yet, every roommate I have ever had has questioned me about my eating. Every roommate I have ever had has accused me of not eating. Granted, sometimes I eat more or less than other times, but there are really only about three or four roommates out of the (counts on fingers--takes off shoes--starts over) approximately two dozen roommates that I've had since I headed off to college who were actually living with me during the "active" times.
No, I don't make it a habit to gorge myself in front of others. I eat out-- a lot. I have generally had the good fortune of working places that provide food or have a lot of free food available to me. I have friends who make me food and eat out with me.
Also, given my eating history, I do tend to eat alone some. Sometimes I get food when no one is looking. I am not using the marathon as a weight-loss tool. If anything, I've gained weight in training and it will only make me eat more in order to stay healthy and fit!
I know people are only asking because they're just worried about me and care about me and are looking out for me. But, seriously, I already have a nutrition doctor. Please, just be my friend instead.
[/RANT]
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Archives
So, in case anyone aside from my mother was trying to get to my archives and noticed about a year missing, they are now on the side bar. That is all.
News on training: well, I've already succeeded in having an old injury flare up. It's actually an injury that will probably never go away, but will hopefully subside enough through certain measures. I'm getting extra exercises in to strengthen the muscles and am going to try to get it massaged out, because that's about the only way to stretch the muscles. bah.
On top of that, humidity is horrible and strangling. That's that.
Fun fun fun. woo hoo.
At least it's a great cause and the people have been super cool!
OH! And, if you'd like to donate online, here's a link to my page. Remember, it's for the kids. :-)
Ok, I'm outie. Perhaps I'll write something that has nothing to do with weather or running soon. But probably not. ;-)
So, in case anyone aside from my mother was trying to get to my archives and noticed about a year missing, they are now on the side bar. That is all.
News on training: well, I've already succeeded in having an old injury flare up. It's actually an injury that will probably never go away, but will hopefully subside enough through certain measures. I'm getting extra exercises in to strengthen the muscles and am going to try to get it massaged out, because that's about the only way to stretch the muscles. bah.
On top of that, humidity is horrible and strangling. That's that.
Fun fun fun. woo hoo.
At least it's a great cause and the people have been super cool!
OH! And, if you'd like to donate online, here's a link to my page. Remember, it's for the kids. :-)
Ok, I'm outie. Perhaps I'll write something that has nothing to do with weather or running soon. But probably not. ;-)
Friday, July 08, 2005
In the Light of Darkness
I posted those pictures two days ago. Then, yesterday, London was attacked and I almost took them all down because the smiles looked so rude and out of place.
And yet, I left them-- if only to be a reminder that there is still joy somewhere in the world.
I was complaining to a friend yesterday about some trite matter and he said (somewhat tongue in cheek, I believe) that I should think about people in London who have real problems right now. To this I abashedly bowed in defeat.
You see, the thing is this: I *want* to think about the world problems, and yet I *do not* want to at all. There are just so many of them! Terrorism. AIDS. Poverty. Natural Disasters. Ecological Damage. World Economics. Social Security. Homeland Security. Foreign Security. Moral Security.
SIN.
Which of these things is greater? Which of these should I worry about now? Today? Honestly, I can't worry about all of them. It would crush me. Even Atlas bowed under such weight. I only know of one Man who could carry such a burden and even He cried out to God, "Why have you forsaken me?"
This may sound incredibly shallow-- but it's just so much easier to think about what's going on with me-- and even there lies a root to every one of the problems listed--- sin. There's enough darkness in my own heart. If I thought about the darkness of every heart of the world, I may never smile again.
Thankfully, there was One who did consider every dark heart and who took the weight of it all. One who shouldered the burden and rose in triumph over it. Because He did so, we do not have to be eternally crestfallen. Because He has promised to wipe away every tear one day. And that gives me hope enough to smile.
I posted those pictures two days ago. Then, yesterday, London was attacked and I almost took them all down because the smiles looked so rude and out of place.
And yet, I left them-- if only to be a reminder that there is still joy somewhere in the world.
I was complaining to a friend yesterday about some trite matter and he said (somewhat tongue in cheek, I believe) that I should think about people in London who have real problems right now. To this I abashedly bowed in defeat.
You see, the thing is this: I *want* to think about the world problems, and yet I *do not* want to at all. There are just so many of them! Terrorism. AIDS. Poverty. Natural Disasters. Ecological Damage. World Economics. Social Security. Homeland Security. Foreign Security. Moral Security.
SIN.
Which of these things is greater? Which of these should I worry about now? Today? Honestly, I can't worry about all of them. It would crush me. Even Atlas bowed under such weight. I only know of one Man who could carry such a burden and even He cried out to God, "Why have you forsaken me?"
This may sound incredibly shallow-- but it's just so much easier to think about what's going on with me-- and even there lies a root to every one of the problems listed--- sin. There's enough darkness in my own heart. If I thought about the darkness of every heart of the world, I may never smile again.
Thankfully, there was One who did consider every dark heart and who took the weight of it all. One who shouldered the burden and rose in triumph over it. Because He did so, we do not have to be eternally crestfallen. Because He has promised to wipe away every tear one day. And that gives me hope enough to smile.
Friday, July 01, 2005
It's Friday, I'm in Love
I've been marinating this post for a little while, but after reading Dave's about favorite song lines, I decided to pop this baby on to the grill.
I listen to a lot of mellow/sad music. When I want to get hyped up, I have to search through my music for something appropriate-- and it may only be a song here and a song there. There are only a couple of cds that I can pop in and let run without running into downer mode somewhere along the playlist. (no, I don't have an ipod or an mp3 player to make playlists-- or even a cd burner to make mixes. yes, I am bitter about it, so please don't bring it up. thanks) ;-)
Any hooo...
There are certain songs, though, that can make me smile at almost any time- such as The Cure's Friday I'm in Love, or for that matter, basically anything by The Cure. What are the others, you ask? Well, let's see, shall we? (now, remember, these make me happy- so even if they're lame, I hope you understand and will not rain [too hard] on my parade)
Songs That Make Me Almost as Happy as a New Lipgloss:
Drop the Pilot--Mandy Moore's version
Short Skirt, Long Jacket--Cake
Bye, Bye, Bye--N*SYNC (I know, I know)
Anna Begins--Counting Crows
Guero, E-Pro and Girl--Beck
Come Pick Me Up--Ryan Adams
Righteously--Lucinda Williams
This Is How We Do It--Montel Williams
When You Come Back Down--Nickel Creek
Love Fool--The Cardigans
Kiss--Prince
There are probably more, but these come to me off the top of my head.
What songs make you smile?
I've been marinating this post for a little while, but after reading Dave's about favorite song lines, I decided to pop this baby on to the grill.
I listen to a lot of mellow/sad music. When I want to get hyped up, I have to search through my music for something appropriate-- and it may only be a song here and a song there. There are only a couple of cds that I can pop in and let run without running into downer mode somewhere along the playlist. (no, I don't have an ipod or an mp3 player to make playlists-- or even a cd burner to make mixes. yes, I am bitter about it, so please don't bring it up. thanks) ;-)
Any hooo...
There are certain songs, though, that can make me smile at almost any time- such as The Cure's Friday I'm in Love, or for that matter, basically anything by The Cure. What are the others, you ask? Well, let's see, shall we? (now, remember, these make me happy- so even if they're lame, I hope you understand and will not rain [too hard] on my parade)
Songs That Make Me Almost as Happy as a New Lipgloss:
There are probably more, but these come to me off the top of my head.
What songs make you smile?
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Stone Cold
While running the other day I learned it's better for your joints to run on asphalt instead of concrete (ie, the road instead of the sidewalk). It was one of those insights where I kind of went, "duh, that makes sense, why didn't I think of that sooner?" However, due to the slant of the road, it's not always good to run on there either...
Any way, the whole thing got me thinking about the physical attributes of concrete vs. asphalt. I once read a joke about Wisconsin that said it only has three seasons: football season, winter and construction season. I don't remember when, but I learned a long time ago (probably when I was working for the city parks dept) that concrete and asphalt have to laid at a specific time of year and at specific temperatures in order to provide the highest quality and safety.
You see, all objects expand and contract with the weather. It's a physical attribute of matter: when molecules heat up, they move at a faster speed and the substance of which they comprise, expands. When they cool, molecules slow down and compact a little more, causing the object to sort of shrink. This is why I can't make rings pass over my knuckles in the summer that will fall off of my hands in the winter.
Have you ever wondered why there are man-made partitions in sidewalks? It's so they can inhale and exhale with the changing temperatures. If they were one big slab, they'd break apart in the winter or crunch together like teutonic plates in the summer. Asphalt has a little give and take in its composition, so it breathes better throughout the seasons. It also gives a little more underfoot for runs.
God states twice through the prophet Ezekiel that he will remove hearts of stone and replace them with hearts of flesh. Usually when I think about a heart of stone, I think about being stubborn, about putting up walls to try to keep things in or out. I never really think about the inflexibility of a heart of stone. A heart of stone can't expand and contract without cresting or cracking. It is unable to "breathe," or more importantly, unable to beat.
When I harden my heart, I'm not just putting up walls, I'm closing off my life lines-- literally. Figuratively I'm cutting off friends, family, God. Literally, a heart of stone can't swell and fall with the pressures and depressions of life. When heat comes, it will crust up and when cooled, it will break open- revealing chambers suffocated by the swell. It has no give and take. It has no respite and requires a consistency found only in death-- a fate all too assured for such a heart. For in the end, all stone can do is fracture, fragment and fail.
While running the other day I learned it's better for your joints to run on asphalt instead of concrete (ie, the road instead of the sidewalk). It was one of those insights where I kind of went, "duh, that makes sense, why didn't I think of that sooner?" However, due to the slant of the road, it's not always good to run on there either...
Any way, the whole thing got me thinking about the physical attributes of concrete vs. asphalt. I once read a joke about Wisconsin that said it only has three seasons: football season, winter and construction season. I don't remember when, but I learned a long time ago (probably when I was working for the city parks dept) that concrete and asphalt have to laid at a specific time of year and at specific temperatures in order to provide the highest quality and safety.
You see, all objects expand and contract with the weather. It's a physical attribute of matter: when molecules heat up, they move at a faster speed and the substance of which they comprise, expands. When they cool, molecules slow down and compact a little more, causing the object to sort of shrink. This is why I can't make rings pass over my knuckles in the summer that will fall off of my hands in the winter.
Have you ever wondered why there are man-made partitions in sidewalks? It's so they can inhale and exhale with the changing temperatures. If they were one big slab, they'd break apart in the winter or crunch together like teutonic plates in the summer. Asphalt has a little give and take in its composition, so it breathes better throughout the seasons. It also gives a little more underfoot for runs.
God states twice through the prophet Ezekiel that he will remove hearts of stone and replace them with hearts of flesh. Usually when I think about a heart of stone, I think about being stubborn, about putting up walls to try to keep things in or out. I never really think about the inflexibility of a heart of stone. A heart of stone can't expand and contract without cresting or cracking. It is unable to "breathe," or more importantly, unable to beat.
When I harden my heart, I'm not just putting up walls, I'm closing off my life lines-- literally. Figuratively I'm cutting off friends, family, God. Literally, a heart of stone can't swell and fall with the pressures and depressions of life. When heat comes, it will crust up and when cooled, it will break open- revealing chambers suffocated by the swell. It has no give and take. It has no respite and requires a consistency found only in death-- a fate all too assured for such a heart. For in the end, all stone can do is fracture, fragment and fail.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
What's that? You Want a CD Recommendation? Alrighty Then.
So, if you haven't heard of Aqualung, I'm sorry. However, the good news is that I just told you! yay!
For those of you who have already heard of the greatness that is Aqualung and are currently saying, "duh, I could have told you that." Well, to you I say, "why didn't you?"
Although the album, Strange and Beautiful released in March, I just picked up and expect it to haunt my CD player for quite some time. After numerous attempts at band formation, and a couple of record deals for said bands, Matt Hales finally branched out on his own. If you can remember far back enough, you might recall Hales' launch pad into fame with 30 seconds of haunting music in Volkswagen's 2002 (or was it 2003?) ad for the new Beetle.
Haunting? Maybe I should call it "strange and beautiful." At least, that's what Hales called it. That's right, it appeared on his 2003 release and is the title track of my current new favorite CD. Wait, did I just say "2003 release?" Yep. He's a Brit, so the UK got first dibs and then apparently there was a Japanese release of Still Life in 2004. Meanwhile, we didn't get the Strange and Beautiful release here in the states until this past March. And now he's playing here in Nashville this weekend. mmmmm.
What does he sound like? Well, Rolling Stones put it this way, "Hales delivers keenly focused keyboard-based drama that blows away all pretenders trailing in Coldplay's wake," and then gave it four stars. For those of you well accustomed to my musical pallet, no great surprise lies in my enamored review of Matt Hales' drowsy, whimsical style. Therefore, I highly recommend you check it out for yourself.
The end.
So, if you haven't heard of Aqualung, I'm sorry. However, the good news is that I just told you! yay!
For those of you who have already heard of the greatness that is Aqualung and are currently saying, "duh, I could have told you that." Well, to you I say, "why didn't you?"
Although the album, Strange and Beautiful released in March, I just picked up and expect it to haunt my CD player for quite some time. After numerous attempts at band formation, and a couple of record deals for said bands, Matt Hales finally branched out on his own. If you can remember far back enough, you might recall Hales' launch pad into fame with 30 seconds of haunting music in Volkswagen's 2002 (or was it 2003?) ad for the new Beetle.
Haunting? Maybe I should call it "strange and beautiful." At least, that's what Hales called it. That's right, it appeared on his 2003 release and is the title track of my current new favorite CD. Wait, did I just say "2003 release?" Yep. He's a Brit, so the UK got first dibs and then apparently there was a Japanese release of Still Life in 2004. Meanwhile, we didn't get the Strange and Beautiful release here in the states until this past March. And now he's playing here in Nashville this weekend. mmmmm.
What does he sound like? Well, Rolling Stones put it this way, "Hales delivers keenly focused keyboard-based drama that blows away all pretenders trailing in Coldplay's wake," and then gave it four stars. For those of you well accustomed to my musical pallet, no great surprise lies in my enamored review of Matt Hales' drowsy, whimsical style. Therefore, I highly recommend you check it out for yourself.
The end.
Monday, June 13, 2005
They Must Not Know Me
I am a weak person. When it comes to my "spiritual life," I don't have a "thorn in my flesh," I have a freaking briar patch. Honestly. They may not all prick at once, but they're still there-- always. They don't go away. They're like incurable cancers for my soul. They might go into remission-- but they're still there, bidding time until the chance to become active arises once again.
Depending on how I move and turn, a pricker is there to remind me of my faults. And you know what? Sometimes the pain feels good. No pain, no gain, right? bah. And yet, it's true that sometimes I relish the pain; I play chicken with the pain. I see how far the thorn can dig into my flesh before I cry uncle and crawl back into the only Healing Hands I know.
Yesterday was Communion Sunday. Usually I *love* communion Sunday. I run to the altar, ready to lay my wretched self before my God. Yesterday I felt hobbled. I prayed for God to meet me where I was, to pick me up and carry me to the table-- to cradle His beloved between His shoulders. I prayed to even be that beloved one.
Eventually I shuffled to the front, briar patch in tow, and cried and hugged friends and took the body and blood of Christ to my sour lips. I felt as if my body might reject it-- or worse, it might reject being in my body. I prayed that it would, like a drop of soap in a pool of oil, dispel the darkness, displace the yuck.
And people asked me if I was ok. No. No, I'm not-- but I will be, hopefully, someday. Someday.
Then, in the wake of feeling so inadequate as a person, much less a Christian, one of the Church elders suggested I lead a class or something! Say what?!? I had sent him some of my writing and he loved it. From these short essays (things I've published here), he determined that I have a lot to teach the women, the people, of our church. To teach our church (since the people are the church). I felt like running and hiding. Me? You've got to be kidding me. You must not know me that well.
I wouldn't know what to say! I wouldn't know what to "teach"! I'm far too inadequate to teach others! I once asked my dad to teach me how to golf. He said no and that there was too much wrong with his stroke to teach me.
People, when it comes to spiritual strokes, you might as well call me Happy Gilmore--I have my own, not-so-graceful, form, etiquette and style. He asked me to pray about teaching; about leading some sort of small group or however it is that God would want me to lead others. hmmm, I guess that means I *actually* have to pray... something I don't seem to do much. So, I'll pray. Um, and freak out. And then try to pray some more-- or at all.
Who knows. Maybe God wants to teach the Church about taking sloppy strokes, replacing monstrous divots and cute plaid pants. Maybe nothing will happen at all and the whole silly idea will just slip away. Or, maybe it has nothing to do with anyone else, maybe He just wants to work on my stroke... we'll see.
I am a weak person. When it comes to my "spiritual life," I don't have a "thorn in my flesh," I have a freaking briar patch. Honestly. They may not all prick at once, but they're still there-- always. They don't go away. They're like incurable cancers for my soul. They might go into remission-- but they're still there, bidding time until the chance to become active arises once again.
Depending on how I move and turn, a pricker is there to remind me of my faults. And you know what? Sometimes the pain feels good. No pain, no gain, right? bah. And yet, it's true that sometimes I relish the pain; I play chicken with the pain. I see how far the thorn can dig into my flesh before I cry uncle and crawl back into the only Healing Hands I know.
Yesterday was Communion Sunday. Usually I *love* communion Sunday. I run to the altar, ready to lay my wretched self before my God. Yesterday I felt hobbled. I prayed for God to meet me where I was, to pick me up and carry me to the table-- to cradle His beloved between His shoulders. I prayed to even be that beloved one.
Eventually I shuffled to the front, briar patch in tow, and cried and hugged friends and took the body and blood of Christ to my sour lips. I felt as if my body might reject it-- or worse, it might reject being in my body. I prayed that it would, like a drop of soap in a pool of oil, dispel the darkness, displace the yuck.
And people asked me if I was ok. No. No, I'm not-- but I will be, hopefully, someday. Someday.
Then, in the wake of feeling so inadequate as a person, much less a Christian, one of the Church elders suggested I lead a class or something! Say what?!? I had sent him some of my writing and he loved it. From these short essays (things I've published here), he determined that I have a lot to teach the women, the people, of our church. To teach our church (since the people are the church). I felt like running and hiding. Me? You've got to be kidding me. You must not know me that well.
I wouldn't know what to say! I wouldn't know what to "teach"! I'm far too inadequate to teach others! I once asked my dad to teach me how to golf. He said no and that there was too much wrong with his stroke to teach me.
People, when it comes to spiritual strokes, you might as well call me Happy Gilmore--I have my own, not-so-graceful, form, etiquette and style. He asked me to pray about teaching; about leading some sort of small group or however it is that God would want me to lead others. hmmm, I guess that means I *actually* have to pray... something I don't seem to do much. So, I'll pray. Um, and freak out. And then try to pray some more-- or at all.
Who knows. Maybe God wants to teach the Church about taking sloppy strokes, replacing monstrous divots and cute plaid pants. Maybe nothing will happen at all and the whole silly idea will just slip away. Or, maybe it has nothing to do with anyone else, maybe He just wants to work on my stroke... we'll see.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Whudda Thunkit?
So, I've hit a few milestones as of late. I believe they're share-worthy.
I took my first real vacation as an adult two weekends ago. Since college, I've gone on missions trips and spent numerous weekends heading back to the motherland or attending to wedding festivities, but two weekends ago I got to go to Florida and sit around doing nothing but soaking in rays, reading and enjoying the fellowship of some great friends. Now *that's* an actual vacation.
As of last Saturday morning, I am officially signed up to train for the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco, October 23 with Team in Training. Over the next five months I will not only get to kick my butt in gear (Saturday was my first run in about a year... four miles, not too bad) and get a Tiffany's Necklace for a medal-- I will also get to raise money to help Leukemia and Lymphoma research-- and yes, I will set up an online account so that you can all help me raise the $3,800! This is a big step for a girl who would duck out of the mile warm up in 8th and 9th grade track practices! Whatever, I was a sprinter! Remind me to get new shoes and refill my asthma inhaler... Seriously, I don't know which thought seems most daunting right now, running 26.2 miles, raising $3,8000 or having to be at group runs at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings in order to prepare. ;-)
Thanks to Teacher Dave for letting me know that Relevant picked up my Skydiving essay! It's my first time being published!!! yay!!
fun times, friends, fun times.
So, I've hit a few milestones as of late. I believe they're share-worthy.
fun times, friends, fun times.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The World's Got Me On A String
My freshman year of college I decided to go skydiving with a group from my dorm. Being that I was already 18, I didn't need parental consent, so I didn't tell my parents until after I had done it, which allowed them to freak out but be happy for my safety. It was actually a rather safe process. We had to go through extensive training. We spent one night watching safety videos and then an entire afternoon practicing on-site before they let us anywhere near the plane.
The kind of skydiving we did was called "static line." Basically, your ripcord is attached to the plane so that, when you're at the end of the static line, your parachute is pulled for you. A large portion of our training involved "what to do if your static line fails to pull the ripcord." Every jumper pack was equipped with a primary and a backup parachute, you know, just in case.
Due to weather conditions, our foursome didn't make it into the air that day and had to come back later, but when we did, there were so few people around we got to go up twice each, if we wanted. And, honestly, who doesn't want to jump out of a plane twice in one day?
Looking back, I can pretty much view the actual act of skydiving in four phases. First of all, you have the anticipation: riding up into the sky, huddled on the back floor of a little plane, waiting your turn. For me, this phase involved a lot of praying. "Dear God, please don't let me die." The second phase is the actual jump: the fear of stepping out into the sky and letting go of the plane. Here, there is actually too much attention being paid to the actual process and being prepared for "plan b" should the static line fail, that little attention is being paid to anything else.
Third, after the anticipation of the jump, the shock of the jump and the relieving jerk of an opening parachute, comes the wait. This is the most peaceful part of the jump, if you're not impatient. I remember sitting up in the air thinking, "wow, the world looks amazing from up here," and "wow, this is taking forever!" You can toggle left or right here, maybe do a little circle or whirly gig, but, especially for a novice such as myself, you just wait and keep your eye on the landing ground.
Finally, fourth and last, comes the landing. After the seemingly endless stint of sitting on top of the world, you have to focus in again and prepare for the quicker-than-you-ever-thought-it-would-come-at-you landing. The closer you get to the ground, the faster it comes at you and if you're good (or lucky), you'll hit the ground running. If you're not, you'll end up like me, on your hands and knees in a mound of muddy snow: twice.
Right now I feel like I'm in the third phase of this particular stage of life. I've been anticipating big things, I've mustered the courage to let go of the plane and I've felt a little tug of assurance at my back, opening to a canopy above. I'm just waiting like a kite on a string, trying to not let my impatience ruin the view and focusing on landing, hoping it doesn't come too quickly or too fiercely.
My freshman year of college I decided to go skydiving with a group from my dorm. Being that I was already 18, I didn't need parental consent, so I didn't tell my parents until after I had done it, which allowed them to freak out but be happy for my safety. It was actually a rather safe process. We had to go through extensive training. We spent one night watching safety videos and then an entire afternoon practicing on-site before they let us anywhere near the plane.
The kind of skydiving we did was called "static line." Basically, your ripcord is attached to the plane so that, when you're at the end of the static line, your parachute is pulled for you. A large portion of our training involved "what to do if your static line fails to pull the ripcord." Every jumper pack was equipped with a primary and a backup parachute, you know, just in case.
Due to weather conditions, our foursome didn't make it into the air that day and had to come back later, but when we did, there were so few people around we got to go up twice each, if we wanted. And, honestly, who doesn't want to jump out of a plane twice in one day?
Looking back, I can pretty much view the actual act of skydiving in four phases. First of all, you have the anticipation: riding up into the sky, huddled on the back floor of a little plane, waiting your turn. For me, this phase involved a lot of praying. "Dear God, please don't let me die." The second phase is the actual jump: the fear of stepping out into the sky and letting go of the plane. Here, there is actually too much attention being paid to the actual process and being prepared for "plan b" should the static line fail, that little attention is being paid to anything else.
Third, after the anticipation of the jump, the shock of the jump and the relieving jerk of an opening parachute, comes the wait. This is the most peaceful part of the jump, if you're not impatient. I remember sitting up in the air thinking, "wow, the world looks amazing from up here," and "wow, this is taking forever!" You can toggle left or right here, maybe do a little circle or whirly gig, but, especially for a novice such as myself, you just wait and keep your eye on the landing ground.
Finally, fourth and last, comes the landing. After the seemingly endless stint of sitting on top of the world, you have to focus in again and prepare for the quicker-than-you-ever-thought-it-would-come-at-you landing. The closer you get to the ground, the faster it comes at you and if you're good (or lucky), you'll hit the ground running. If you're not, you'll end up like me, on your hands and knees in a mound of muddy snow: twice.
Right now I feel like I'm in the third phase of this particular stage of life. I've been anticipating big things, I've mustered the courage to let go of the plane and I've felt a little tug of assurance at my back, opening to a canopy above. I'm just waiting like a kite on a string, trying to not let my impatience ruin the view and focusing on landing, hoping it doesn't come too quickly or too fiercely.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Thrown by the Unthrown
I've been thinking. I know, it's a dangerous activity, but I've engaged in it, nonetheless. I've started wondering what those famous words in John 8, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and "go and sin no more," really meant to the woman caught in adultery. So often these passages are preached as ones of freedom. These words freed the woman from her accusers, freed her from debt, freed her from her sinful life... the only life she may have ever known.
I think these words wrecked her life. It may have been a shamble of a life, but what it was wrecked, nonetheless. I've heard it preached that the adultery was a set-up: how else could all of those godly Pharisees know where to catch such a sinful act? I've also heard that perhaps the woman wanted to get caught. Perhaps she let down her guard. Perhaps she was in such a horrible state that she didn't care who knew anymore.
I've had this feeling. You may scoff but, honestly, if no one sin is graver than another, than I can feel that anxiety, too. And I have. It's a strangling feeling. It's a feeling somewhere beyond lonely. It's isolatory. It's a deadly silence.
Even if she didn't abide by the laws of Moses, she clearly knew them. In such a saturated environment, it would be hard not to. This woman knew where her acts would lead; she knew the consequence. I think she let down her guard because she wanted to be caught. She wanted to be stoned. For her, death was the only way out.
Finally, her day out had come and she was caught. Maybe standing before Jesus wasn't as hard as we all think it might have been. Standing there in her shame. Maybe she was relieved; relieved to finally be released from her suffocating secret. Perhaps she stood there relieved that her hellish life would finally be over. She stood there awaiting the stones.
And then came those words, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and her accusers turned slowly away. Her hopes of release slipped from their reluctant hands as her heart fell with every stoney thud to the earth. And the tears probably streamed faster and harder now, her face turning red with anger towards the man who stole her only way out.
Then Jesus looked up. He met her eyes and her fever cooled, her hands began to tremble in a way they never had before. He confessed he would not condemn her, he would give her freedom. Freedom to return not to the life she's always known, but to something else-- what she did not know. "Go and sin no more," he said.
And with those words, her hollow lifestyle shattered, revealing a tender, new child. The life she had known was over, just as she wanted, but she was not yet released. Now she had to learn everything anew. But something in those eyes both calmed and riled her soul. Just the fact that she finally felt the presence of a soul was enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach. Now she had a new skin, one delicate and pure, yet stronger than any of the surrounding stones.
Her old life was wrecked. Her whole sense of being was wrecked. The only way she could think of to get out of this world was no longer an option. And yet, Christ had given her a new way out, one she could have possibly never imagined: one difficult to comprehend even after the fact.
As a child of God, myself, one who has heard, "go and sin no more," I still have a difficult time accepting the saving power of grace. I still expect stones and lightening bolts, plagues for my misdeeds. I expect penance. I expect to do my part. Grace takes most of that away. God says, "In repentance and rest is your salvation... but you would have none of it." (Isaiah 30:15) Grace wants me to repent and then rest in it's faithfulness.
This sort of revelation wrecks my world. It takes away my control, leaving my mode of operation in a pile of rubble-- a heaping pile of uncast stones.
I've been thinking. I know, it's a dangerous activity, but I've engaged in it, nonetheless. I've started wondering what those famous words in John 8, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and "go and sin no more," really meant to the woman caught in adultery. So often these passages are preached as ones of freedom. These words freed the woman from her accusers, freed her from debt, freed her from her sinful life... the only life she may have ever known.
I think these words wrecked her life. It may have been a shamble of a life, but what it was wrecked, nonetheless. I've heard it preached that the adultery was a set-up: how else could all of those godly Pharisees know where to catch such a sinful act? I've also heard that perhaps the woman wanted to get caught. Perhaps she let down her guard. Perhaps she was in such a horrible state that she didn't care who knew anymore.
I've had this feeling. You may scoff but, honestly, if no one sin is graver than another, than I can feel that anxiety, too. And I have. It's a strangling feeling. It's a feeling somewhere beyond lonely. It's isolatory. It's a deadly silence.
Even if she didn't abide by the laws of Moses, she clearly knew them. In such a saturated environment, it would be hard not to. This woman knew where her acts would lead; she knew the consequence. I think she let down her guard because she wanted to be caught. She wanted to be stoned. For her, death was the only way out.
Finally, her day out had come and she was caught. Maybe standing before Jesus wasn't as hard as we all think it might have been. Standing there in her shame. Maybe she was relieved; relieved to finally be released from her suffocating secret. Perhaps she stood there relieved that her hellish life would finally be over. She stood there awaiting the stones.
And then came those words, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and her accusers turned slowly away. Her hopes of release slipped from their reluctant hands as her heart fell with every stoney thud to the earth. And the tears probably streamed faster and harder now, her face turning red with anger towards the man who stole her only way out.
Then Jesus looked up. He met her eyes and her fever cooled, her hands began to tremble in a way they never had before. He confessed he would not condemn her, he would give her freedom. Freedom to return not to the life she's always known, but to something else-- what she did not know. "Go and sin no more," he said.
And with those words, her hollow lifestyle shattered, revealing a tender, new child. The life she had known was over, just as she wanted, but she was not yet released. Now she had to learn everything anew. But something in those eyes both calmed and riled her soul. Just the fact that she finally felt the presence of a soul was enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach. Now she had a new skin, one delicate and pure, yet stronger than any of the surrounding stones.
Her old life was wrecked. Her whole sense of being was wrecked. The only way she could think of to get out of this world was no longer an option. And yet, Christ had given her a new way out, one she could have possibly never imagined: one difficult to comprehend even after the fact.
As a child of God, myself, one who has heard, "go and sin no more," I still have a difficult time accepting the saving power of grace. I still expect stones and lightening bolts, plagues for my misdeeds. I expect penance. I expect to do my part. Grace takes most of that away. God says, "In repentance and rest is your salvation... but you would have none of it." (Isaiah 30:15) Grace wants me to repent and then rest in it's faithfulness.
This sort of revelation wrecks my world. It takes away my control, leaving my mode of operation in a pile of rubble-- a heaping pile of uncast stones.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
But You Have Such a Youthful Spirit
This past Sunday I had lunch with a new friend. We've known each other for quite some time, but we don't really know much about each other. We've hung out in groups, but this was our first one-on-one. It was nice.
We got to learn more about each other, including ages. Since she just moved to Nashville a short number of months ago, I suppose I assumed she graduated recently. Well, you know what happens when you assume, right? yeah. What's funny, to me at least, is that she thought I was about 21 or 22-- a few years younger than herself, while I am, in actuality, a year her senior.
She was shocked. Was it my wife-beater tank and my cute little skirt? My sparkly self-tanner? (which, for the record, I would prefer to not have sparkles) No, she's seen me in more refined attire and a paler complexion. I mean, she doesn't even know about my snickerings at the President's pronunciation of the word "assume." She just thinks I have a youthful way about me. I'm ok with that.
This test is pretty right on, though. The age I act changes by a year depending on whether I answer that I watch The OC or CSI. So, the question begs to be asked: What Age Do You Act? Holla...
This past Sunday I had lunch with a new friend. We've known each other for quite some time, but we don't really know much about each other. We've hung out in groups, but this was our first one-on-one. It was nice.
We got to learn more about each other, including ages. Since she just moved to Nashville a short number of months ago, I suppose I assumed she graduated recently. Well, you know what happens when you assume, right? yeah. What's funny, to me at least, is that she thought I was about 21 or 22-- a few years younger than herself, while I am, in actuality, a year her senior.
She was shocked. Was it my wife-beater tank and my cute little skirt? My sparkly self-tanner? (which, for the record, I would prefer to not have sparkles) No, she's seen me in more refined attire and a paler complexion. I mean, she doesn't even know about my snickerings at the President's pronunciation of the word "assume." She just thinks I have a youthful way about me. I'm ok with that.
This test is pretty right on, though. The age I act changes by a year depending on whether I answer that I watch The OC or CSI. So, the question begs to be asked: What Age Do You Act? Holla...
You Are 25 Years Old |
25 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax. |
Friday, May 06, 2005
Excuses, Excuses
I do my best, most creative thinking at night. Right before falling sleep, I lay in bed, my mind reeling and twisting around colorful imagery. My brain rattles off deep, intellectual essays expounding upon theological and psychological revelations. Well, perhaps not to you, but they're awfully revealing to me.
Well, they might bring you revelation, if only I posted them for you. You see, the thing is this: my words never seem to flow as well by morning's light. I know, I know, I should write them down at night so that I can then share them with you in the morning. I thought of that last night, but it seemed too much effort at the time. It really is the weirdest thing. It's like my mental word processor shuts down when I fall asleep, without saving the project on which I was working.
I have a lot of great thoughts. Thoughts about waiting. Thoughts about singleness. (those two are actually not connected) Thoughts on emptiness and echoing. Thoughts about how God takes all that away. I was just about to say, "if we let him," but it's not even about letting him, it's about realizing that he can... and has. It's funny how we lock ourselves in imaginary cages like that.
It reminds me of a quote from The Last Battle; Chronicles of Narnia, Book 7, "You see," said Aslan. "They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning instead of belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out."
We are all so selfish, prideful and independent that we don't see the beauty of being weak, dependent on someone else's strength-- especially when that someone else is all-powerful. I suppose all of this is to say that I realize my own god-complex more and more with each bedtime, mini-revelation. If only I could carry those lessons through the night.
I do my best, most creative thinking at night. Right before falling sleep, I lay in bed, my mind reeling and twisting around colorful imagery. My brain rattles off deep, intellectual essays expounding upon theological and psychological revelations. Well, perhaps not to you, but they're awfully revealing to me.
Well, they might bring you revelation, if only I posted them for you. You see, the thing is this: my words never seem to flow as well by morning's light. I know, I know, I should write them down at night so that I can then share them with you in the morning. I thought of that last night, but it seemed too much effort at the time. It really is the weirdest thing. It's like my mental word processor shuts down when I fall asleep, without saving the project on which I was working.
I have a lot of great thoughts. Thoughts about waiting. Thoughts about singleness. (those two are actually not connected) Thoughts on emptiness and echoing. Thoughts about how God takes all that away. I was just about to say, "if we let him," but it's not even about letting him, it's about realizing that he can... and has. It's funny how we lock ourselves in imaginary cages like that.
It reminds me of a quote from The Last Battle; Chronicles of Narnia, Book 7, "You see," said Aslan. "They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning instead of belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out."
We are all so selfish, prideful and independent that we don't see the beauty of being weak, dependent on someone else's strength-- especially when that someone else is all-powerful. I suppose all of this is to say that I realize my own god-complex more and more with each bedtime, mini-revelation. If only I could carry those lessons through the night.
Subscribe to:
Comment Feed (RSS)