At the Castle in the Air

     "You must never feel badly about making mistakes," explained Reason quietly, "as long as you take the trouble to learn from them. For you often learn more by being wrong for the right reasons than you do by being right for the wrong reasons."
     "But there's so much to learn," Milo said, with a thoughtful frown.
     "Yes, that's true," admitted Rhyme, "but it's not just learning things that's important. It's learning what to do with what you learn and learning why you learn things at all that matters."

[The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster]

If it be true, I conclude something huge.

But in the end, God doesn't need a defense.

He is who He is.

Amen.

I'm irrationally excited about this.

Tomorrow, I get to relive my childhood through

A HARRY POTTER COSTUME PARTY.

Feel free to be thoroughly impressed with all of these wands Laina and I made

[Ingredients: chopsticks, hot glue, paper, twigs, wire, beads, paint, and love]

They all have their own little personalities, and it makes me ever so happy.

The entire collection:

Favorites:

I think that one on the left is the best, but that gnarly black one is mine.

[I'm going as Bellatrix Lestrange, I know you were wondering]

There's also going to be a horcrux scavenger hunt. JUST SAYIN.

#pleased

Forgive me for asking.

[by Propaganda]

Question:

(And this is embarrassing)

———You ever been scared you had no idea what you were talking about?

Yeah, me too.

Honesty perplexed.

I've lied and so have you, Christians.

Lying.

Like you never had questions?

Like you never had a moment

when your inner dialogues

were all of a sudden in third person like,

"Are you really buying this?"

You're lying.

Like your eyes are 100% always satisfied by your spouse and you don't need accountability

—neither of which is biblical, by the way.

YOUR EYES ARE NEVER SATISFIED.

Us, overgrown primates with egos, lying.

You quote the devil when you declare yourself okay!

You get it but you don't get it.

Like you've never planted your Chuck Taylors firmly in the sinking sand…

You're lying.

We for centuries sing hymns of grace,

and THIS IS WHY IT'S AMAZING!

And if it's not, you don't understand…

Or you're lying.

Which is why your friends don't believe you. 

There is just as much Jesus' blood on your hand as there is his.

You sure you understand the cross?

Forgive me for asking.

Forgive me for asking.

And Muslims— excuse my boldness— but what if you're lying, too?

Like you don't ever have questions?

As if you've never wondered why Allah's ears only hear directionally,

and if you accidentally point it slightly north easterly then you've blasphemed?

As if the thought has never crossed your mind

that the Jihad has interpreted the Quran correctly

and you are what we Christians would call 'lukewarm'?

Which makes you much more like my evanjellyfish churchianity would allow me to admit. 

And you call me on it; I'll deny it, just don't believe me

because I'm lying.

I strain at gnats; I focus on silliness; I act like God has joined a political party— just like you.

As if you've never thought,

"What if I was paralyzed and I can't make my pilgrimage to Mecca—

yet I follow the text better than my whole family? Is there enough mercy for me?" 

Forgive me for asking.

Forgive me for asking.

I know it's wrong for me to front like I understand your theology

as well as I think I understand mine,

but I know we can agree on this: 

Something is deathly wrong with us. 

And you, smarty pants— don't front—

Like the little you know about our universe, you ready to draw conclusions about it's origins?

Maybe we don't know as much as we think we do…

———Science still can't explain yawning.

Like you never took your world view to its furthest conclusions?

>>>>> That if human behavior is just what protoplasm does at this temperature,

then there is no need for humanitarian effort,

because these atrocities weren't wrong,

IT'S JUST THE UNIVERSE WEEDING OUT BAD GENES.

Them is fingernail-on-chalkboard words, ain't 'em?

You're lying.

Maybe I'm wrong, maybe you're right.

Maybe we'll find out the day after the world ends.

Yeah, I guess we're all a little inconsistent,

SO MAYBE WE CAN JUST SHOW EACH OTHER SOME GRACE.

Forgive me for asking.

Forgive me for asking.

Forgive me for asking.

You ever bury yourself in self-righteous guilt?

[Huh, me too.]

Are there fresh tally marks on the walls of your brain's prison,

[Mine, too]

hoping that the count of good deeds outnumber the bad ones?

Are your miserable failures your badges of honor?

And when you count those tallies, 

and the day the good outnumber the bad,

pat yourself on the back:

YOU HAVE JOINED THE REST OF HUMANITY.

You, too, are lying.

Like you never thought, "Someone might catch me in my contradiction."

Yeah, me too.

You ever think to yourself, "I have no idea what I'm talking about"?

Yeah, me too.

Forgive me for asking.

Forgive me for asking.

[Free, legal download of this album here.]

the origami thing.

"What's with all the birds?"

-anybody who has ever noticed how many paper cranes I make daily.

Well...

I need to be doing something with my hands
------ otherwise I have a hard time listening.

Possible ADD? Not sure...

I used to doodle.

Teachers got mad.

I started biting my nails.

Mom got mad.

In the 7th grade, I watched David Lee make a paper crane.

I watched and learned and began clumsily making little birds of my own.

Teachers didn't yell when flammable avians began appearing on their bookshelves, my mom could handle the tiny creatures cluttering the counters around our house (as long as you could see some white at the ends of my nails), and I was able to pay attention in AP U.S. History; everybody's happy.

As a bonus, my long nails are helpful in making irrationally tiny cranes, which other people always seem to get a kick out of.
After a while I could do it with my eyes closed.

It might be conservative to say that I make lots of them.

I don't know what my point is.

I've just noticed recently
that tons of people I know associate me with paper cranes.

I like it, I think...

But it's a little odd.

I suppose I can see how this random useless talent might be endearing to people. The end result --a paper bird-- isn't what I'm in it for; I just need to be doing something with my hands. Though, I do enjoy the look of joyful fascination on peoples' faces when I place a minuscule bird in front of them.

It looks a little something like this:

tee-hee.

Must I choose?

People always ask what my favorite season is. I wish there was a label for each mini-transformation stage between each season, cause those are clearly the best. 

I always say winter, though, not because of the weather, but because all the best things happen in winter:

• hot chocolate
• skiing
• family hang out time
• snowflakes
• fires in the fireplace
• christmas
• sledding
• decorating cookies
• snuggling
• clementines
• wearing scarves, sweaters, mittens, boots, ear muffs...
• every glimpse out the window is awe-inspiring.

Romans 1:20

For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made, so that men are without excuse.

The best thing about creation, I think, is it's inherent and never-ending flux.
When I think about it, I know I'm the most joyful at the turn of the seasons:
When the leaves just begin changing colors and it's brisk in the mornings..
At the very first snow when the world is completely transformed...
When there are still heaps of melting ice here and there,
but tiny buds start poking up out of the frozen ground...
And when the rain and the wind of spring in Iowa take a break and we get that first cloudless, sunny morning and everybody just exhales slowly and breathes in the calm, warm summer air.


It's seeing God at work.


I thrive on change, my soul finding peace in those moments when I'm assured that life is moving on, continuing the ebb and flow, watching the earth being born and growing and dying and having new life rise out of the ashes... And the best truth of this life: in Christ, we're new creations as well.


Life's a beautiful thing, isn't it?

Has anyone else noticed how long my recent posts have been?

Yeah, me too.

I thought it was time for some lighter material.

Or maybe not lighter.

Maybe just less.

Gainer showed me this video.

And it made me extremely happy,

like,

happy-tears, bubbly-feeling-in-your-stomach,

can't-wipe-that-stupid-grin-off-your-face, happy.

I'm not sure why.

Me and paper cranes, we go way back...

Freshman year I watched David Lee make one

and I figured out how.

There are now flocks of flamable birds on all my teachers' shelves.

Dozens made every day.

I do it now without thinking about it.

But when I do take the time to think about it,

I find that there's something endearing

about my frail attempts at creating an imitation of life,

those little folded pieces of winged paper;

like a child playing,
pretending to do their parents' work.

I used to pretend I was an architect, like my dad...

All I would do was color pictures on old blueprints.

Things haven't changed much.

Use it.

This whole blog thing, I think it's good. For me. It's Vick's VapoRub for my soul, or something. Okay, maybe not the best metaphor. Whatever, I'm trying to mull through a few ideas right now and string them together in the process. Forcing myself to write out my honest thoughts for others to see has been really hard for me. Which is odd, cause I'm incredibly vocal about my opinions 98.3% of the time.

But it's these ideas-- and I now realize this is what Stephen King was talking about--- it's these complex issues I'm struggling with that get at the heart of me; the destitute truths buried down deep somewhere I'd rather not have exposed to sunlight... That's the stuff that people need to see, and it's also the stuff that's hardest to let people see. It's much more comfortable for me to hide behind this facade of carefree lunacy and sarcasm, never taking anything seriously and bursting into cachinnation when anyone takes me seriously.. I promise that's genuinely a part of who I am, and both my creator and my brothers have had profound influences on that part of me developing. But it nags at me sometimes, that some people only see that side of me. And there are weird quirks to my personality that I do need to mold; there are moments, quite frequently, when I, like every other sinful human being (which is all of us by the way), realize that I'm not being an accurate representation of my savior. Not even close. And it breaks my heart, little by little, until I feel that I shouldn't have this gift I didn't deserve in the first place-- Why didn't Jesus pick someone better suited to shed his light on an unbelieving world? 

I was sitting in a doctor's office yesterday, waiting for my name to be called, and I overheard a woman talking with the receptionist about an elderly man they both knew. It was the woman's grandfather, and the receptionist had met him a few days before. And the way they described this man, the way he treated everyone around him... He would see someone looking a little down and, no matter where they were or who it was, he would take their hands and pray for them right there. His gift of kindness and gentle wisdom and a joyful spirit... I could close my eyes and picture his wrinkled, friendly smile just pouring out Jesus' love. They both spoke with such conviction about what an astonishingly godly man he was, the legacy his actions shouted from the rooftops. 

I have these gifts, these seemingly random, sometimes frustrating gifts that my gracious Savior has blessed me with, that I occasionally shove to the back corner because I'm afraid to do what He created me for. I led worship at my church two nights ago. I can't tell you how terrifying it is for me to get up in front of people and display what I perceive to amateur guitar skills and an incredibly mediocre singing ability. I seem like the type of person who would love getting up on stage and performing... False.

I cry.

I'm crying just attempting to type how it makes me feel. Inadequate is the word  the tempter is screaming at my subconscious. When it comes to my gifts, I have an insatiable lust for perfection, recognition from others, satisfaction with myself... And it's crippling. It shouldn't be a hard way to bless others. Music. Art. Written works. It seems basic enough... But I am inherently either petrified of something not being good enough-- me not being good enough-- or, if by some miracle I'm satisfied with whatever it is that I'm doing, I completely soak up the glory and approval of those around me like a glass of ice water on an Iowan summer's day, when the heat index is like 117 and it hasn't rained in two weeks. I cannot find balance. I cannot find balance on my own. Cowardice and pride, two things that, for me, appear to be two conflicting feelings, are my two greatest sins. And it happens when I haven't centered everything I do around Christ.

I'm going to paint a picture today, and I'm going to paint it for my Savior, to bless and uplift those around me. I'm not going to punish and berate myself when it isn't perfect, and I'm going to rebound any praise I get right back at my Lord and Master, the Creator who is ultimately responsible for every single piece of fruit the labor of my tiny, uncoordinated hands that He has graciously given me produce. Thank God for my ability to even hold a paint brush. To even have a voice. To be able to convey my ideas, to be able to learn new instruments with slightly above-average ease. Nothing I do comes from me. NOTHING I DO COMES FROM ME. I am NOTHING. This life is NOT a story about me. I am a wave in the ocean. I am a speck of dust in the wind. I will be gone in the blink of an eye-- but with a shred of help from my Master, maybe my sinfully proud, feeble self can leave a glimpse of a legacy that glorifies Him, that points straight to the cross and undeniably cries out that Jesus rose; because that is the greatest and most noble thing I, or anyone, could possibly accomplish in this life.

Also, who am I kidding? Vick's VapoRub is SUCH an accurate metaphor.

burn, burn

All I want is time.
Free, expansive, unimpeded time.
to do with as I please.
Time to play my guitar.
All I want to do is play my guitar until my fingers bleed.
And then I'll superglue them shut and play more, more, more.
I want time to create art,
as much as I want, in whatever medium I want
at my own leisurely pace,
with no one telling me that taking the ACT
and applying for colleges is more important.
My grandchildren won't care how many colleges I applied to.
They won't treasure my test scores and show them to their children.
My great-grandmother's paintings are hanging all around my house.
I want time to read,
and not, like, obscure excerpts from King Lear
or random short stories about racial tension that my AP lit teacher piles on us.
I want to get lost in scripture for hours
and not have to worry about anything but what is pouring into me.
Last night I was 34 psalms deep
...when I got a text from a friend.
There are other distractions in my life that I want to have the option of escaping from.
I want to re-read all my favorite books,
and I want time to sit for an hour after i've finished them,
and just revel in their poetic construction and meaning.
I want time to laugh with my nieces.
And not worry about all the other pressing, 'important' things I need to be doing.
I want to swing and play dress-up and sing for hours.
I want time to go on a walk.
just walk around
in the cold and the still and the silence
and marvel at my Creator's creation.
That would be the greatest christmas present ever,
besides maybe the guitar that my mom is trying to hide in her room,
if someone were to simply ask me if I would like to go on a walk.
where to?
where ever we end up.
nothing else to do today
nothing we should be worrying about
no deadlines to meet.
I've already taken the stupid ACT...
I want to take an entire day
to just call all the people I haven't spoken with since summer,
people whose lives I wanted to invest it to a great extent,
until I let my busy schedule get in the way.
There's no excuse for that.
There were ministry opportunities that faded away
as I watched from behind my planner
filled with scratchy notes and reminders.
I feel like there isn't enough time in the world for me
to do whatever it is I'm supposed to do.
to be whoever it is I'm supposed to be.
to blossom like a flower in early spring,
growing in my creativity
and my understanding
my faith
my love
my joy
my influence
my conviction
I want to grow into whatever sort of woman God wants me to be.
I want to calm the chaos
I want to invigorate the mundane.
I want to never say any commonplace thing
or settle for mediocre.
I want to be set ablaze
to have an insatiable thirst for more of beauty, light, love, my God.




I want more.




The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
...And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost

"I could drown in your kerosene eyes"

Where Do My Bluebird Fly?

this season

I love.