Once upon an August morning...

I was jerked awake at precisely 5:27 by a squirming knot in my stomach. Its cause was this dreadful realization: I had parked in a place where I could get a ticket... or possibly towed. Rushing outside with an impending sense of doom, waves of relief washed over me as I saw my fabulous, enormous, wood-paneled wagon still sitting in the lot (next to a tiny smart car, which gave me quite a laugh) completely ticket free.

Praise the Lord!

                          —Not even for sparing me a headache and inconvenience, really, but for this:
I was dragged out of bed in a frenzy, fully expecting the worst, only to step out the front door and literally have my breath taken away by one of the most glorious sunrises I've ever seen. Vivid magenta clouds illuminated the horizon, ribbons of crimson and gold reaching their spindly fingers up into the retreating darkness. And in that moment, I was struck by the overwhelming mercy of my Savior.

So I drove to Cup of Joe, got some chai, and sat on the river,
drinking in God's word and the splendor of His creation. 


                                                                   But this I call to mind,
                                                                          and therefore I have hope:
                                                                   The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
                                                                          his mercies never come to an end;
                                                                   they are new every morning;
                                                                          great is your faithfulness.
                                                                   “The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,
                                                                          “therefore I will hope in him.”

[Lamentations 3:21-24]

how Iowa is a picture of Truth

I had a dream one of the first nights of being in Jacksonville, and it went something like this:

Meandering up a country road, the wide horizon of a Midwestern landscape stretched out before me. Pale yellow gravel crunched beneath my feet as I stepped onward. Smooth hills rolled up to meet me, enormous waves of earth too lethargic to ever crash like the surf on Neptune Beach. As I walked, the world around me came into crisper focus; tall black-eyed susans gained prevalence among the wild, unkempt grasses growing in the ditches and I watched the dust around my feet, agitated by movement, stir up in purposefully chaotic wisps, carried away in the breeze. Glancing beyond a faded road sign standing askew, I became aware of a hazy light reaching over the crest of the rising ground ahead. I pressed on up the incline to the prize of gaining the summit; a broad, fruitful valley opened up beneath me, the patchwork quilt of farmland laying out as in a hammock under the sun. Details previously overlooked became obvious; the farms yielded alfalfa, beans, and corn, and I discovered deer tracks and a thin, twisted stream cutting through the Earth— nuances found only by those who walk this path with purpose. The road wound down into the valley, and I spotted it in the distance, a narrow golden thread stretching over the opposite brim, reaching on and on toward what I know only to be a beautiful Mystery.

Comprehension of the gospel, I'm beginning to think, is not a destination that I reach, but rather a road upon which I have walked, am walking, and will continue to walk into eternity. My inability to fully grasp the majesty of God's sovereignty and grace, then, is not an inconvenience, but a joy and a gift daily given; the longer I walk, the sweeter His revelation.

You will most likely find this to be at least a little bit offensive.

[but stick with me anyway]

I struggle with pride.

...That seems too nonchalant a statement. Let me try again:

Every single day, hundreds of thoughts that cross my mind are saturated in sinful pride. It was many years into my Christian faith before I actually labeled what I was doing as sin, and it was many years before I realized the extent of that sin in my life. Having repented and asked for forgiveness, I still struggle with pride daily. It's my vice— my own personal poison. I didn't choose it. It's a root that runs deep, but I know that by Christ's power I can overcome all temptation and sin in my heart, because I have been convicted about my sin by the Holy Spirit, and God has promised to conform me to Jesus' righteousness. 

There are a lot of people God placed in my life who could probably see with vastly more clarity than I just how deep in sin I was. But those people didn't inform me of how despicable my pride was. They didn't pass judgment on me; they recognized that this wasn't their job. Their job was to show me love, and that's exactly what happened. They heaped friendship and grace and encouragement into my life by the truck loads. My sanctification process took a long time to begin, and it's still not even close to completion, but you know what? That's been God's plan all along. It was only ever going to be accomplished in His perfect timing.

If those Christ-followers in my life had instead spent years trying to convince me of the sin in my life, making me feel dirty, worthless, and unholy— how effective do you think that would have been? If those people had spent our time together throwing scripture at me, outlining the flaws in my character and lifestyle— do you think I would have responded favorably? Even if I saw my pride for the despicable thing that it was, do you think their judgment would have spurred me toward actual, genuine repentance?

Highly unlikely.

"...do you not know that God's  K I N D N E S S  is meant to lead you to repentance?"

[Romans 2:4b]

— — —

Is everybody tracking with me? Are we all in agreement?

OKAY.

So, now I want you to go back and read that again— but any time the word 'pride' appears, I want you to read it as 'homosexuality' instead.

Seriously. Go back and read it again.

— — —

Did I lose any of you?

All of a sudden, there's an issue. Christians being homosexual? And not being immediately and openly rebuked? I can hear the objections being raised: "Christians have to hold one another accountable!" "We're called to lives of righteousness!" "We shouldn't allow our brothers and sisters in Christ to continue in sin!"

I fully agree.

Did you hear me?

I   f u l l y   a g r e e .

The church— NOT THE GOVERNMENT, BUT THE BODY OF CHRIST— must be accountable to one another, pushing each other towards righteousness and coming alongside one another in order to strive to follow Christ's commands.

Let's not make the mistake of thinking, however, that it's our job to change people.

That's the Holy Spirit's job.

Mankind has been historically unsuccessfully mandating morality. If there's one thing I've learned from studying the past, it is this: obedience in the hearts of men cannot be achieved through laws. When religious institutions or governments have tried, the people either openly oppose, disobey in secret, or adhere out of fear— never freely, genuinely, or willingly.

If you want our government to adopt God's law,

do you also want your salvation to come from how well you follow it? 

—because if we think we can moralize society through legal means,

we are removing Christ from Christianity.

Have we forgotten our first love? We, too, were lost in sin before Christ washed us clean. And yet every single believer— who has been born again and made new— still struggles with sin.

I am simultaneously disobedient and righteous.

At the same time a sinner and a saint.

Already and not yet.

This mystery cannot be fully understood by men, let alone accomplished through their efforts.

I'm pleading with you: never place morality above the scandalous grace which we have all found in Jesus Christ. It took me years of being a Christian to truly acknowledge my sin for what it is and begin actually desiring for it to be eradicated from my heart. This is a process of sanctification that all believers go through.

So why is it okay for you and me, but not okay for homosexuals?

We preach love and mercy and grace,

but where is its tangible manifestation?

Step back from this heated political debate for a moment and honestly ask yourself: Do I really believe that judgment and legalistic mandates of my religious beliefs will win anyone to Christ?

Isn't bringing people to the Kingdom our ultimate goal?

This world is broken.

My heart aches for the sinful condition of our culture.

It's riddled with pain, immorality, grief, violence, and hatred.

But let us never make the mistake of assuming that manmade institutions are the solution.

This world doesn't need moral laws;

THIS WORLD NEEDS JESUS.

The law brought death.

LIFE COMES THROUGH SACRIFICIAL LOVE.

I know it's hard to love people who don't seem to deserve it...

But, more often than not, those are the people who need it the most.

We've been recipients of completely undeserved forgiveness and grace.

We've had judgment entirely removed, though we did nothing to earn it.

We're daily given second, third, and four-hundred and ninety-eighth chances.

forgive as he forgave

comfort as he comforted

serve as he served

encourage as he encouraged

bless as he blessed

sacrifice as he sacrificed

withhold judgment as he withheld judgment

LOVE AS HE LOVED

"This is the practical, tangible working of the vision
that forces us to see, oppose, and cast out

not the people who oppose the gospel,

but the spiritual strongholds that possess them to do so.

You want to know how to bring people to Christ?

Identify the spiritual strongholds that stand between them and God,
and tear them down with pointed, intentional love.

Overwhelm the lies of the enemy in a person's life with such
a powerful, observable manifestation of God's love

 that they cannot help but see who they are
in God's eyes.

This is the love of the Father—
intentional love

 —and this is the only love that will beckon people to salvation."

[The Vision by Mattie Montgomery]

†

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]

THAT kid.

I sat in the back row of an early-morning Humanities III class, trying to keep a low profile. Most of the 35 students looked as though this was the last place in the world they wanted to be.
     "Have any of you read Frankenstein?" our professor asked us expectantly. Myself and three others raised our hands.
     "Only four?" He blinked at us enthusiastically, allotting an awkward silence before gushing about modern day allusions to Mary Shelley's novel. He then held up a copy of the Communist Manifesto.
     "I bet even fewer have read this one... Anybody? Anybody?" I'm probably going to need more coffee to keep up with this guy, I thought to myself, raising my hand along with one other student. He grinned at us.
     "What high school did you go to?" he asked me. Thirty-five heads turned my way.
     "Ames," I replied quietly, trying to suppress any part of my personality that might resemble Hermione Granger.
     "Ah, yes. Well, a bigger high school would emphasize great literature..." Okay, he is putting unnecessary amounts of effort into making me sound like a pretentious snob. As he began to enlighten us on the cultural relevance and criticisms of Marxism, I hoped silently that the next book would be new to me. When he inquired about 1984, I may have grimaced before putting my hand in the air once again.
     "What did you think? Was it a happy book?" he asked, giving me uncomfortably extended eye contact.
     "Interesting, but not happy," I responded. He got a chuckle out of that, which annoyed me a little because I was trying my best to be humorless. A discussion with the rest of the class of utopian and dystopian societies followed and I thought I was out of the woods.
     "Now, I would guess that most of you have never even heard of this book. I'm the only Humanities professor that uses it... A Sand County Almanac!" He began to share with us the merits of this book, which Mr.Schuck, my 7th grade science teacher, read to us in its entirety. I gladly remained silent. As he didn't technically ask if we had read it— and I wouldn't technically say that I had— I was spared confirming everyone's suspicions that I am, in fact, THAT kid.

It's better than perfume.

Jesus came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone lay against it. Jesus said, "Take away the stone." Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, "Lord, by this time there will be an odor, for he has been dead four days." Jesus said to her, "Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?" So they took away the stone. And Jesus liften up his eyes and said, "Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this on account of the people standing around, that they may believe that you sent me." When he said these things, he cried out with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out." The man who had died came out, his hands and feet bound with linen strips, and his face wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to them, "Unbind him and let him go."

[John 11:38-44]

As I view God as the Author of the universe, I like to think he is the ultimate expert at literary devices. I have to admit that I'm a bit of a nerd; I geeked out when I got to this passage in John. The foreshadowing, the metaphors... It's all so exciting! Partially because it's great literature, and partially because its implications affect the lives of everyone who has ever lived.

Right now I wanna hop out of this specific event in order to look at the broader implications, because I believe that this story isn't just about Jesus raising a man from the dead—which is awe-inspiring and incredible on it's own. I believe it's also a pre-game show for Christ's own death and resurrection— GET READY, PEOPLE: IT'S GONNA BE BIG— in addition to a picture of what it looks like when He rescues us from our sinful state of spiritual death. 

I've got 5 bits of goodness. Ready?

"Lord, by this time there will be an odor,
for he has been dead four days."

You know, sometimes I think that God made decomposing things smell so revolting to us as a kind of metaphor in order that we might understand how despicable sin is in His eyes. Now, the only thing I remember learning about math throughout my high school education was this: if A=B and B=C, then A=C. In other words, if people are sinful and sin is death, then people are dead in their sin. Yet Jesus descended from eternal bliss into this sin-infested mire without blinking. He doesn't care about the hopeless, disgusting state of people when we're dead— no matter how revolting it is to him. The living people around him are like, are you sure you wanna go there? It's gross. Have you ever smelled something that's dead? Naaaaasssstyy.

BIT NUMBER ONE: Christ forges on into our filth anyway;

he cares about us that much.

__________________________________

"Did I not tell you that if you believed
you would see the glory of God?"

Not if you do well enough in school. Not if enough people say you're a nice person. Not if you're successful enough at work. Not if you're a good enough friend, neighbor, child, sibling, or parent. Not even if you're a good enough Christian. 

BIT NUMBER TWO: The prerequisite for seeing God's glory

is NOTHING MORE than believing.

__________________________________

"Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this on account of the people standing around, that they may believe that you sent me."

Jesus is constantly chatting with the Father; I'm pretty convinced they have that whole telepathy thing going on... But I think the moments when Jesus decides to communicate with Him verbally are the sweetest, because we know that he's only doing it so that we can hear. 

R.A. Torrey said,

"The chief purpose of prayer is that God may be glorified in the answer."

Isn't that beautiful? I mean, it's not like God is unaware of your needs until you tell Him about them. "Oh, good heavens— I didn't see you down there!" But when we ask God for things— and get them— we know that they came from God and can thank Him for them and give Him the praise and honor He deserves. Check out Jesus' prayer. He's thanking God and bearing witness that the miracle he's about to perform came solely from Him. What a classy fella.

BIT NUMBER THREE: Every miracle is done so the people who see it will know

it came from God.

__________________________________

"Lazarus, come out."

What a boss! This one is short and sweet. 

BIT NUMBER FOUR: The nature of the universe, the laws of physics, life and death...

Jesus has authority over everything.

__________________________________

"Unbind him and let him go."

This, at first glance, seems like the least important bit of dialogue in the entire passage. Like, kay... Obviously we don't want Lazarus to be mummified now that he's up and at it. But hear me out for a second:

The strips of linen used to wrap corpses were soaked in oil, spices, and perfumes; this was a Jewish custom with no other purpose than to keep the body from stinking so much. The stench of death was disgusting to them... Sound familiar? Except, instead of trying to cover up the smell of death, Jesus reverses death. He makes perfume obsolete. Do you understand the implications of that? The first time I read it, I didn't.

In our sinful state, we do stuff to try to make us seem less filthy. We try to train ourselves to be kind, generous, and thoughtful. We toil after perfection and try to be "good people" in order to cover up the stench of our rotting, sinful souls. With half-hearted attempts, we wrap our crappiness up in failed imitations of good deeds, always tainted with selfishness and pride. Just like spraying perfume on a rotting corpse, we know we're fighting a losing battle.

But Christ says, "unbind him and let him go." He doesn't bring extra-strength deodorant to the table; he wipes the slate clean, starting over from scratch. Christ makes us new creations. We don't have to constantly cover up our shameful sin, because HE HAS SET US FREE.

BIT NUMBER FIVE: We no longer have to strive after our own righteousness, because

Christ's is sufficient.

[Hebrews 10:14]

For by a single offering, Christ has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified.

†

I go to Paris every night.

Ah, isn't it marvelous?
What a lush lifestyle I lead...

But let me clarify; it's not the clean, tourist-friendly, manicured part of Paris that I visit each evening. No, it's something much more robust– the seedy underbelly of a north-western Parisian suburb called Sartrouville. The place I go has some real character to it, and not the kind you see in the movies. This place has a story etched in the cracks of aging drywall and graffitied on stone walls older than the country in which I was born. This story was left out of the history books; it was neither glorified nor white-washed nor ironed out and put into picture books to be read at bedtime, followed by tucking in and exchanging bisous.

———

The place I go is where, upon first introductions, people kiss one another on the cheek; my temperament flourishing in this new, platonic sentiment; the memory of handshakes morphing into something disaffected, unfriendly, cold.

Where everyone smokes cigarettes like the air they breathe; the once-appalling stench becoming strangely familiar— strangely comforting— like the unpleasant, musty spice of your grandpa's basement which carries you swiftly to a place of complete amenity.

Where everything is more petite; the cars, the rooms, the beds, the classes, the people. Where the gaps between meals are unbearably massive, but each time you sit down to dine is an elaborate, prominent event, lasting for hours and hours...

Where the world's best bakery sits happily on each and every city block, the neighborhood stretching out from the scent of fresh baguettes, fearful of establishing itself too far from the captivating smell upon which daily life thrives.

———

With a whiff of cigarette smoke, I'm suddenly descending the filthy, beautiful stairs of the métro, hearing a blind man pour his soul through a tarnished brass saxophone and clutching my purse like my life depended on it.

Each night I catch the scent of my face lotion— the lotion I bought the night before my flight to the country that captivated my heart— and all at once I'm standing in a cramped 4x6 bathroom, emotions soaring, clouded by extreme jet lag, trying to figure out these unusual faucets and worrying that I'm taking too long; 'it's rude to spend too much time occupying the bathroom' I hear Madame Dobernecker saying in the back of my racing mind; I think it's so odd that the toilet is in a different room than the sink; I can't find "I think I have a fever" in my phrase book; wait, what time is it in Ames right now? Oh, what a day it's been; I wonder what we'll have for breakfast...

———

It's a fleeting idiosyncrasy, the ability of a particular smell— more than any other sense— to so rapidly transport you to a different place, a precise moment in time.

If you like muffins...

This essay was my final paper in a humanities class. 

It is obnoxiously long for a blog post; I am aware of this.

It pretends to be deep, but I'm quite confident that my feeble three hours of working on this paper did not produce any profoundly groundbreaking thoughts which I am morally obligated to share with mankind.

This is just for your amusement, if you are, in fact, looking to be amused.

So, if you're familiar with René Descartes... Or you enjoy pondering the nature of God and the universe... Or you feel like subjecting yourself to four pages of philosophical rhetoric.... Well, then this blog post is for you.

Knock yourself out:

Prompt: Descartes offers several proofs of God’s existence. Evaluate his proofs. What would count as success for Descartes? If you think Descartes is successful, what is the concept ‘God’ that Descartes is employing?

René Descartes was a rationalist philosopher. The rationalists wanted to prove everything by reason alone, because they thought that 'the senses' were unreliable. Generally, people tend to think that the existence of God can only be proven by using both senses and reason, but Descartes' attempted to logically prove the existence of god with reason alone. One can build arguments against in his theories, but I have concluded that Descartes presents valid, successful reasoning.

René Descartes spent significant amounts of time considering human knowledge, and in doing so he attempted to whittle down extraneous, circumstantial human understanding to find the things that he could know for sure. He discarded all the wisdom, understanding, and information he had gained from his experiences and his senses, which he had deemed untrustworthy, and discovered that he knew essentially nothing at all. He doubted every bit of knowledge he thought he had, everything except his very existence. The reasoning behind this was that, because he doubted, he could be at least sure that a being who doubted had to exist. He could be certain that he himself was in existence. This is the meaning behind Descartes' famous saying: 'Cogito, ergo sum.' — 'I think, therefore I am.'

After arriving at this premise, Descartes ventured to prove the existence of a god. His proofs can be simplified and summarized as such: First: I exist. Second: in my mind there is the notion of a perfect being. Third: an imperfect being, like myself, cannot think up the notion of a perfect being. Fourth: therefore, the notion of a perfect being must have originated from the perfect being himself. Fifth: a perfect being would not be perfect if it did not exist. Sixth: therefore, a perfect being must exist.

So is Descartes' reasoning sound? Does this argument irrefutably prove to us that there is a god? I think we can all agree that the first point is valid. We can all be sure of our own existence. No one argues that they don't exist; if they did, they wouldn't be there to argue their opinion anyway.

The second proof, however, is not as irrefutably true as the first. It is apparent that Descartes had an idea of a perfect entity in his mind. I find that I am in the same position as he, but there are certainly people in the world who don't have this kind of idea. What are they supposed to believe? Should they assume that, because Descartes and myself believe there is a god, God exists and simply failed to put that idea into their minds? Or should they make the assumption that a belief in a god is not the innate, natural position that Descartes thought it was? It is very evident that not everyone in the world has this idea of an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving god. Many Christians actually believe that mankind is not capable of conceiving and grasping the idea of God. This seems to be in direct conflict with Descartes' belief that everybody has this idea of a perfect being from birth, yet this Christian belief does not contradict Descartes' view; it supports it. Ecclesiastes 3:11 says, "He has set eternity in the hearts of men; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end." So all people, while incapable of fully comprehending God—though some do more than others—have an inner longing for something that lasts beyond this life. This idea carries over to support the Descartes' third point.

He postulates that an imperfect being, such as himself, would never be capable of thinking up the notion of a perfect being. When I make blueberry muffins, I'm under no delusion that the muffins think about me. Yet I can conclude even more decisively that they aren't thinking up a mystical creature that invented them. They aren't thinking at all; they're muffins. Now, if when I was making them I had sprinkled into the batter a teaspoon of imagination, that might be more plausible. But it isn't within the power of the muffins to acquire such an imagination; that ability rests with the baker—me—assuming I possess, somewhere in my kitchen, a jar of imagination without which baked goods of any kind could not hope to fathom myself, the Easter Bunny, or any notion of what happens after they've been chewed up and swallowed. The point is this: the ability to imagine lies in the creator, and the creator alone. This is something Descartes recognized. If creation has the capacity to imagine things, it is imperative to understand that that ability could have only been given by a Creator. This brings us to the fourth and fifth pieces of his argument.

The fourth and fifth points present very simple and valid lines of logic, which are congruent with all previous proofs. If one logically reaches the conclusion that an imperfect being could not imagine perfection without the idea of perfection, or eternity, having been placed in the imperfect being's mind, the next practical resolution is that perfection must, in one form or another, exist. To try to reason the acquisition of a notion of God that didn't come from God is to attempt a rather vast leap in reasoning; how else could a flawed being fathom perfection? Furthermore, in response to the fifth postulate, how could something be perfect that does not exist? Existence is a necessary attribute of a perfect being; existence is a necessary attribute of anything. This is backed up in the reasoning of the first, second, and third postulates and reflected in Descartes' view of our knowledge derived from experience. 

Descartes successfully builds a logical argument to prove the existence of a god. He does not succeed in determining which god, specifically, but instead the inherent truth that a perfect being does exist. He succeeds in that he is able to reach a conclusion not from senses or knowledge gained from experience, but merely from the nature of existence itself. This is the essence of his reasoning. Like any conclusion reached using Descartes method, the understanding and acceptance of each piece of this puzzle is crucial in grasping the theory as a whole. Pascal reminded us that this is the most important conclusion we can reach; as C.S. Lewis said, "Christianity, if false, is of no importance and, if true, is of infinite importance. The one thing it cannot be is moderately important."

Dear Mom and Dad (and anyone else who might care),

I'm all settled in my dorm...
There are lots of nice people in my hall.
We just watched a movie with a projector on a giant screen under the stars.
And by we,
I mean hundreds of people that I don't know who also happen to go to UNI.
It wasn't a good movie, so I watched the cosmos instead.
I'm done with my homework.
I get it done early.
My teachers are all normal human beings.
Some of them are even kind.
I couldn't find one of my classes on Tuesday and I didn't tell anyone.
It wasn't my fault or anything; my schedule had the wrong room number on it.
Don't worry, I figured it out. Eventually...
And went and talked to the professor,
to apologize for my freshman-ness,
and see what I missed and how I could be prepared for the next class:
I handled it by myself.
I felt like a grown-up,
and a scared little kid,
all at the same time.
Every morning I wake up a little too early.
So I go to the union and eat a muffin and drink some juice and read my bible...
And I wait for my day to begin.
People smile at me.
I smile back.

It's been a while since I hit my head on my loft.

A while translates into roughly 6 hours.

I clipped my nails today, because I couldn't play my guitar.
Someone tell my nieces that their aunt loves them, okay?

I'm scared to try to use the coin laundry machines.
I stay up later than I mean to every night.
I miss my brothers.
Advice from my first week: if your biggest pet peeve is air blowing on you,
don't live in a place that's SO hot you're forced to have fans on you 24/7.
I've been eating remarkably heathy meals each day.
My love of spinach is accredited to Earl Taylor.
Thanks, bud.
This morning I awoke to discover the astonishing fact that
both my watch AND the clock on our wall had stopped working overnight.
I proceeded to freak out, thinking I had overslept,
only to find my phone, which had fallen on the floor, revealing the time to be
5:38 AM.
Yep.
I've been quoted in two peoples' Facebook statuses this week.
Reading one made me cry...
The other one was:
"We're church shoppin' like it's Black Friday!"
Explanation:
At the end of the week,
I will have gone to precisely 11 church-affiliated events.
Separate churches.
Separate events.
I'm tired.
I miss my house church.
I miss my Mother church.
I miss...
Remind me to buy batteries.
And more tea bags.
And probably some instant oatmeal, if it's on sale.
I went on a run the other day.

My ancient phone has been working well-- I know you were wondering.

The desk lamp I got from Goodwill has a warning about UV radiation.........

Should I be concerned?

Luke: I've had some time to read C.S.,
but I don't know if I'll be done by Labor Day.

My heels hurt when they touch the floor each morning.
Not so sure what that's about...

Today I called my high school French teacher,
and I thanked her for preparing me so well.
Many of the people in my classes can't pronounce basic vocabulary...
I feel like a French wizard--- magically capable of helping them out.
Sometimes I break pens.
Pencils, highlighters, staplers...
Mom... Should I be watering our plant more? How much sunlight does it need?
I miss your morning hugs.
And the other-times-of-day ones, too.
So far I've only made two paper cranes during my entire time here.

I have a terrible feeling that that's symbolic in some horrible way...

I want a best friend.

I want a best friend who lives near me.

I want a best friend who lives near me and loves Jesus.

I want a best friend who lives near me and loves Jesus and shows it.

I've said my name, majors, hometown and grade more times this week
than my junior and senior years combined.
Dad, you know what a feat that is.
... and I have a picture of us
skating when I was 11 years old
framed on my desk.

With Colossians 1:9-12 and "Do good" written by it.

Sometimes I just feel like crying.
You know what I mean?

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.

Becoming invested..... and thirsty.

The general consensus of my mind has been that English teachers always make me over-analyze literature. We're forced to dissect it, and I would often let it ruin my own experience of the novel. Or poem, short story, essay, whatever. Just a few weeks ago, I had a teacher reiterate over and over again that every single word in a written work is chosen with care, specifically picked to convey a unique thought. And I called shenanigans. Every word? Not a chance.


But I'm sitting here, polishing the only story I've ever written and been mildly satisfied with, and I'm realizing the truth behind it all.


It's all in the subtleties, and my stomach turns when I think of someone skimming over this thing I've poured countless hours into, only to miss what I'm trying to say. To miss the feel, the message. There is no intrigue if I just come out and say it, that's how crappy novels are written. You have to discover it in the chipping paint, to peer through the keyholes and put the 299 pieces together to find the missing cardboard jigsaw. It's in the stolen glances, the memory of freshly brewed coffee's scent, snow drifting to the ground with quiet serenity, or the way she brushes the hair out of her eyes.


Don't dissect



Drink.

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

whelmed.

Apparently, by virtue of being me, I'm not allowed to act solemn. Or somber or gloomy, or even be quiet, at any time. Anything other than ecstatic, actually. At least not without my mother asking me if I am depressed. I almost laughed when she said that, but then I was momentarily curious. I've never been a real believer in depression. I mean, I acknowledge that there are people out there who are genuinely depressed and really do need help, but I think a lot of the time it's just used as an excuse by people who are going through a bit of a rough patch... (We all have them)

Anyway, I humored that perhaps I really am depressed and proceeded to look up the symptoms of depression.

It turns out I currently have like 93% of the symptoms. Yikes, kids.

After we sorted it out... "Come on, really? Let's be honest: it's me; I'm not depressed," my very astute mother proceeded to wonder aloud if I should see a doctor. For what? Well, maybe there is something tangibly wrong with me.

Other than....

having a poorly functioning immune system that lets me be sick for 34% of my life,

being anemic and hypotensive (crappy blood and not much of it),

having a severely crooked spine that has been recently accused of causing frequent migranes and joint pain,

.... frequent migranes and joint pain,

and being an obscenely stressed, over-worked senior in high school?

naww, I'm good.

And I'm not being sarcastic when I say that, however difficult that might be to believe. I don't need a doctor poking and pricking and testing me only to inform me that I need vitamins or something... The determining factor between going through some difficult stuff (with physical or mental health), and being depressed, is something to lean on and trust it. My mom could tell when I hadn't been giving stuff up to Jesus; my joy was gone. My level of energy and happiness is down to an earthly level, and that is unusual for me, apparently. I hate when life and business crowd out my quiet time, but it happens a lot. And it's sooo obvious to the people around me. I love and hate this. I hate when God gets shoved aside and it affects me negatively, but how cool is it to see what a change Christ can make in a person :)

I guess I don't want to hide when I'm writing in this thing. I don't really know who will read it or what they'll think of it, but what I really don't want is to be artificial. Sometimes I think that if I can be 100% open and honest with everyone, (literally, anyone and everyone could read this) then people will see my sincerity and be drawn to Christ through something I said or wrote. But that's not what it's about, really. It's about what I do. And when my actions are negative because I haven't been drinking in the Word... Well, that particular brand of conviction makes tears come to my eyes.

But we're called to confess our wrongdoings out in the open. I don't just want to be the type of person who only writes about awesome stuff that happened, or be all preachy to whichever poor soul may have stumbled upon my blog.. If God shows me something amazing, I'm won't hesitate in writing about it. If at all possible, I'll probably take a picture. But life has ups and downs, and right now I'm in a valley. I think that's a fair thing to say.. I'm striving to be genuine here... I'm tired and discouraged and overwhelmed and in pain almost constantly. But my Father is breaking me so that He can mold me.

And I think that process just began, here.. in front of this stupid Dell with tenth avenue north playing and a hundred million tabs and word documents open with home-workings and obscurities vital to the never-ending application process, where I decided that I needed a moment to breathe before plunging back down into the demands of my station in life.

Thanks for sharing this moment with me.

Autumn's colors

Sometimes, when I'm writing or typing something, my ideas flow too fast for me to keep up with them. I'm chasing after leaves on the wind, able to snag a few before they blow away... but not all of them. I feel like those are lost forever, but I don't know how much it matters, because I don't know how valuable they were to begin with.

I write without thinking, carelessly throwing words onto paper. Maybe because, through some narcissism rooted deep in my subconscious, I think that every thought that drops through my mind is a jewel to be cherished...

I don't know what it is, but the whole blog thing probably isn't very curative in that regard...

These leaves weren't caught in chronological order.

People used to chisel their ideas into stone.

I wonder how many actual jewels were lost in that grueling process...

I take everything for granted.

I don't want to take advantage of anything anymore.I want to appreciate and cherish every blessing I have.

I want to see people loving each other and be in awe of creation's beauty and wonder at my existence....

and I want the result of all of that to be me simply longing to know God more.

I want to be thirsty for a closer relationship with Him.

I want that relationship to be obvious to the people around me.

I want it to catch them off guard

and make them wonder at their existence.

I want....

'Want' kind of means desire, it doesn't seem necessary.. You have "wants" and "needs", and apparently that makes the things you want superficial.

It used to feel more like you were lacking something, a deeper need. "In want of..."

So I think that maybe I should go back to every place I used the word 'want' and change it to something like, 'have a deep, inherent, longing need'

Needing to know more of God is buried in my DNA.

inherent. not unnecessary.

The Gaze of Ra

"Ancient Greek Tradition has Prometheus stealing fire from heaven, fire used to light the path toward civilization. You can see the sun this way, if you wish, as Prometheus riding his horse into space and time, a lantern in his hand, held out toward the planets, a bit of it spilt into the belly of a furnace, forging steel, the steel splintering off to spark and die away on a blacksmith shop floor, little smidgens of fading heaven, little cosmic mysteries, plucked from the sparkling hair of God.

In Egypt the sun was the eye of a god: the sun god Ra, in the evening, closed his eyes and opened them again in the morning, thus the light by which we work and see and have our being is the gaze of a god...

In the Hebrew tradition, which splintered off into the Christian tradition, which is how I was raised, light is a metaphor. God makes a cosmos out of nothingness, a molecular composition, of which He is not and never has been, as any thing is limiting, and God has no limits. In this way, He isn't, and yet is. The poetic imagery is rather beautiful, stating that all we see and feel and touch, the hardness of dense atoms, the softness of a breeze (atoms perhaps loose as if in play) is the breath of God. And into this being, into this existence, God first creates light. This light is not to be confused with the sun and moon and stars, as they are not created until later. He simply creates light, a non substance that is like a particle and like a wave, but perhaps neither, just some kind of traveling energy. A kind of magnetic wave.

Light, then, becomes a fitting metaphor for a nonbeing who is. God, if like light, travels at the speed of light, and because space and time are mingled with speed, the speed of light is the magic, exact number that allows a kind of escape from time. Scientists have played with atomic clocks, matched exactly, setting one in a plane to fly around the world, and another motionless, waiting for the return of its partner. When they reunite, the one that traveled rests milliseconds behind the one fixed. The faster you move, physicists have found, the less you experience time. And if you move at the speed of light, you will never age; you are outside of time; you are an eternal creature.

But before you strap on your running shoes, you should know scientists warn us that with speed, matter increases in density, so an attempt at the speed of light will have you imploded by the time you hit Wichita, your atoms as dense as bowling balls. And to make matters worse, your density increases on a curve; the faster you go, the greater the density, and though you can get close to the speed of light, matter and that magic speed can never meet; the faster you go, the steeper the trajectory on the graph. You and I, made from molecules, cannot travel at the speed of light and cannot escape time, at least not with a body.

Consider the complexity of light in light of the Hebrew metaphor: we don't see light; we see what it touches. It is more or less invisible, made from nothing, just purposed and focused energy, infinite in its power (it will never tire if fired into a vacuum, going on forever). How fitting, then, for God to create an existence, then a metaphor, as if to say, here is something entirely unlike you, outside of time, infinite in its power and thrust: here is something you can experience but cannot understand. Throughout the remainder of the Bible, then, God calls Himself light. The perfection of the Hebrew metaphor is eerie, especially considering Eratosthenes wouldn't play with sticks and shadows for several thousand years, discovering Ra was, in fact, never closing his eyes."


Oh Donald Miller... Even while reading Through Painted Deserts for the fourth time, you are a breath of fresh air.

We serve an awesome God.

the reason blogs exist.

I'm speaking from a completely singular perspective when I say,
I think every person has a desire, if not natural tendency,
to express their thoughts to others.
Maybe that's just the way I am,
and no one else shares this sentiment.
But it seems to me that even those
who aren't audibly opinionated
still have something they're passionate about,
something to contribute to discussion,
and they have a longing to do so.
The back side of this is that, for the majority of people,
again, many of them being in the not 'audibly opinionated' group,
have a difficult time doing this.
And it's not because we lack eloquence,
diction, the required vocabulary,
or literacy for that matter..
It's because we're unsure of how others will react
to our passionate way of thinking.
What we perceive to be others' opinions of us
severely affects how we act and what we say.
"I am not who I think I am, I am who I think YOU think I am."




The most important things are the hardest to say.
They are the things you get ashamed of,
because words diminish them --
words shrink things that seemed limitless
when they were in your head
to no more than living size when they're brought out.
But it's more than that, isn't it?
The most important things lie too close
to wherever your secret heart is buried,
like landmarks to a treasure
your enemies would love to steal away.
And you may make revelations that cost you dearly
only to have people look at you in a funny way,
not understanding what you've said at all,
or why you thought it was so important
that you almost cried while you were saying it.
That's the worst, I think.
When the secret stays locked within,
not for want of a teller,
but for want of an understanding ear.


Stephen King