2013: Make it Meaningful

The new calendar hands me a snazzy empty grid to fill with life. Is it opportunity, or is it intimidating? 

I begin to plan for the new year; I pick out meaningful things from the endless list of opportunities and drop them onto that handy sectioned cardstock. But the word meaningful catches me. Meaningful. It’s used so often to describe the old year that I feel it’s a mandate: Find thou something meaningful in this year!

I can’t.

I’m not going to look back and point to 2012 and tell you that my character took great strides, and that I 

gained a sense of direction.

It wasn't like that.

My definition of meaningful changed.

In June I went to New York City with my choir. I would describe it to you in the varying hues of the markets we visited, or the audiences we sang for, or the places we ate. But all that comes to mind is “We had so much fun!” It was a pleasurable and empty trip. We went. We sang. We came home.

In September I went to Colorado with Katie. I won’t try to describe it to you. I can only try to clarify the meaning it taught me.

There was fellowship. There is a fellowship in a choir, just as there is a fellowship in God. But a choir needs a purpose. God is purpose. And to fellowship in Christ then, is meaningful as nothing else can be.

Things came of this fellowship. Study. We came together every morning, afternoon and evening for lectures. We studied the solidness of the truths of God. Desire to study. We took notes, bought books, took time to meditate and pray about what we learned. Close fellowship. We were divided into small groups to pray for, lean on and support each other. Joy. Maybe we just looked like another group of volleyball players at the park, but our smiles didn't end with our physical exertion. We served joyfully – taking plates after meals or helping Mat with his sprained ankle. We took joy in learning, in praising, in prayer, in fellowship and in sleep. More fellowship. We now worship together by posting verses on Facebook. We study by posting and responding to articles and listening to the wise voices of our new friends.  

In June I came back from New York with the choir exhausted, ready to sleep.

In September I came back from back from Colorado with Katie; Katie-bug; My Katie, exhausted and eager to fellowship.

That gridded wall hanging beckons me again. I smile.

Opportunity.

For Meaning. 

Thanksgiving

It’s Thanksgiving. Not Easter. Yes, I’m grateful for over-stuffed turkeys and aromatic pies, time with my family, laughs shared with friends, and another blessed year. Yes, I’m rejoicing that I live a life of plenty, that God has blessed us with a bounteous abode, abundant land, and canine adorers. My stereotypical little life is a thing I have great thanks for. But that which my heart sings the loudest for, that for which I can find no words but I must express, is my gratitude for the spiritual blessing that begat all spiritual blessings. I thank God for Christ.

I praise God for his peace in my confusion, his joy when I’m discouraged, and his love when I want to be angry; I praise God for his death for my life.

Lately I have been studying the book of Esther. I’ve read it before, and it’s a good story. Esther becomes queen in time to save her people from annihilation. But the question has been hounding me: why is this story in the Bible?  And in the few nights I prayed for revelation and truly studied, the Holy Spirit whispered. I could suddenly see the fantastic way this story pictures in a human romance God’s heart and mind.

Esther was not perfect, as a lamb must be. But she was submissive to her cousin-turned-father, and showed honor to the husband she was not allowed to choose. She invited Haman to feast with her, and endured the realness of evil without Mordecai’s protective presence. Xerxes in turn renounced his closest counselor and trusted friend for the love of his endangered bride. The Jews were empowered and overcame their assailants on that fateful day ever after entitled Purim, a day of salvation.

The parallels astounded me. Each element seemed to point to Christ’s perfect offering, with a human spin. Esther released her life without dying. Xerxes granted life to the nation he first sold into destruction, all with eyes for one woman and ears for whomever spoke.

The record of this small segment in time is a breath-taking panorama of heavenly design. It emphasized God’s zealous protection of his chosen in the past. Even Zeresh realized that “’If Mordecai, before whom you have begun to fall, is of the Jewish people, you will not overcome him but will surely fall before him.’” Medes and Persians understood God’s reputation. Yet this epic, like a glass of water, also magnified Christ’s coming story. Ever so clearly, this type of Christ fit together piece by piece and pictured salvation.

Esther was afraid to offer herself, and prayed for three days. Christ wept and endured agony at the thought of his suffering. Xerxes killed his advisor rather than lose his wife. God turned away from Christ to win us.

It is for all this I feel gratitude this Thanksgiving. “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing…even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him…to the praise of his glorious grace with which he has blessed us in the Beloved.” Ephesians 1:3,4 and 6.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

Praise him all creatures here below.

Praise him above ye heavenly hosts.

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

 

Amen.

Revitalizing Leadership: Live to change lives.

My generation needs to see believers living out Biblical faith. In Titus 2:7 it says “…in all respects be a model of good works, in your teaching show integrity, dignity and sound speech…” In today’s world many people say one thing and do another. They live a double standard. Transformational leadership starts with believers leading as a way of life. This necessitates involvement in scriptures, family, church, work and government.

Believers need to be rooted in the word. There is great poverty of biblical knowledge among believers today. We delve into commentaries and short studies about the Bible, grateful for man’s perspiration, but we are malnourished of God’s inspiration. For us to lead, we need to be in the word and know the word.

Our most important sphere of leadership needs to be our family. The Bible states in 1^st Timothy 3: 4-5 that if we can’t lead our own family we can’t lead in church. I believe familial leadership encompasses loving, valuing and respecting our spouse and modeling love and integrity to our kids.

Leadership at church is multifaceted. Plug into a small group, triad or other Bible study. Participating in a group in which we lead others and are led as we study scripture is necessary to our growth. Be held accountable. Be involved in service; find your area of excellence and be a leader. Lead AWANA games, a Bible study, worship etc.

Work; no matter how big or small the corporation, even the Christian intern can lead! Be the best employee that you can. Show up on time, work hard, be a person of integrity. This will give you a platform with which to bring up Christ.

Christians need to lead in government. One of the biggest ways is staying informed of what different candidates and elected officials believe. Take the time to vote and encourage others to vote. If you feel called to run for an office, pray about it, then jump in and be courageous.

My generation needs to be believers who are purposeful in living out their faith. Individuals don’t turn away from Christianity because they have tried it and it doesn’t work. They turn away because they see hypocrisy in people who claim to be believers but don’t live by the book.

The Meaning of Meaning

Because of course all my Summit friends aren't over-loaded with school, or brain-fried with lectures, or exhausted with their families. We opted to review...right?

"Alright, my topic is the Meaning of Meaning.
"We all know that Ideas have...?"

"Consequences," we replied in attempted unison.

"And bad ideas have bad consequences," Michael Bauman added, doubling our perception of the first idea.

A few kids began twirling their pens. Most of us sat and tried to wrap our heads around that in the two seconds before our lecturer used those statements as the foundation for his hour's argument.

He launched.
We gulped.

"This guy's terrible," the guy next to me warned in a whisper.
"Whaaa?" I raised an eyebrow.
"He'll throw out a question and then take the opposite position you take."
"Oh. Um, I don't like arguments like that." And that determined me to just sit this one out and glean what I could from others.

"My other point is that sloppy language makes sloppy thought possible. But back to the first point.
"When you read a book who determines what it means? Do you determine the meaning, or does the author?"

"Well you do."
I glanced at the kid. Not if I have anything to say about it! I thought.

Seriously? As a writer, that's quite defeating! I write my opinion on several things. And if each reader is free to take the words I write and turn them into anything they want to hear, it completely negates the purpose of writing in the first place!

I sat a little on edge, mentally daring somebody to agree with him. But at the same time, fear nibbled my mind. If words I write can mean anything, then they will never truly say what I want them to; not only would it completely cancel out the purpose of writing, but I could be accused of so many false ideas. Writers would be stripped of their influence over culture. Meanings could be twisted to support any position on anything.

And isn't this exactly where people covertly begin to destroy positive influence and ideas? By undermining meaning. People who take away meaning can convince you to question everything from their bias of meaninglessness. And to those who learn this teaching innocently, it even makes sense.

It can't be true though. If somebody is telling you that meaning is only interpretation, then you are quite free to interpret that to mean anything. Even that meaning only means the author's intent. People who teach this twisted view want to be the exception to this philosophy. And so it doesn't work.

"Ok. Secondly, sloppy thought makes sloppy language possible. Case in point. Let us consider hypothetically that Jill has a very clear idea about R. Jill decides to write a book about R. She chooses her words carefully, and is very specific with her language. Her book is published and Jack picks it up. He reads carefully, following the author's intent. And when Jack has finished reading the book, the ideas about R that Jill had are successfully and accurately communicated to Jack.
"However! Maybe Jill was a sloppy thinker. Perhaps she didn't bother to ponder R enough to get a clear picture of it. Moreover, when she wrote, she used a "hand grenade" style of writing (thank you for the quote, Michael Bauman) and chose words that roughly described her already-shaky R. Jack can read this two ways. If Jack is a sloppy reader, he may be so confused by Jill's disorganized thoughts in disorganized writing that he gets a shaky picture of S instead of R.

"Or perhaps, Jack is a good reader and he thinks what a stupid author."

"Our world was spoken into existence; language is at the core of our world. You have to get the words right."

The Last Lesson - Summit Ministries

I can't seem to get the hang of retreats.

Basic recipe: laugh, listen, pray, take notes, fellowship, talk to God.

I can do most of that, no problem. But in the midst of such strong fellowship, in the center of Biblical learning, surrounded by stories of God's grace and truth is where I lose sight of God.

It seems to happen every time.

At home, I can sit on my bed with my Bible on my lap and pray God's grace over my family, my friends, my tomorrow, my sins and never lose that sense of communication. But then when I'm surrounded by people who lovingly expect me to be so strong spiritually my faith gets lost in the shuffle. I know God's there. I know he hears me when we're singing our worship, when we're hiking on faith, or when we're serving with his love. I know God is listening when we're praying, that the Holy Spirit is interpreting when we're learning, that he's inspiring the teachers.
But my heart wonders, and feels empty.
And so my mind begins to wonder.

Colorado was great! We went hiking three mornings, and got to see the sunrise over the hills in the east from the top of Red Mountain. The puns they put on the kitchen walls every lunch were hilarious! We'd sit and laugh about them through our meal. Pikes peak united us in fascinated misery as we hiked 8 oxygen-deprived miles to the most breathtaking view in Colorado. We were encouraged to chat amongst ourselves before and after lectures, and by the end of two weeks, everybody had met everybody, I believe.

But I still felt alone. Until they brought David into the last Foundation session, the last morning.
"Does doubting mean you've lost faith?" Our speaker searched our faces, letting the question settle into us.
"Divide into your small groups and read Psalm 42."

In Psalm 42, David is in agony. He reveals his very soul as downcast, says his tears have been his food. And in the next breath he tells himself "Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God." (Psalm 42:5b)

He doubts, and he cries out. But he will praise still.
He questions, but he reminds himself that the One he questions is faithful.
He is downcast and disturbed, yet he will praise.

"Alright. Who wants to answer the question? What did you find as you studied this in your groups?"

"Um...What was the question?" Nolan asked quickly. His group chuckled, embarrassed, and gave him the answer quietly.

"Oh! Ok," Nolan recovered nonchalantly. "Well-"

But I've already tuned out. I realized I'm wasn't losing faith. I hadn't lost track of God through all the noise of the camp. Even through the pain of wondering where God has gone, we can worship and fellowship and trust, and praise.

And God is there.

Sunday.

We gathered.
We chatted.
We volleyed the ball.
We laughed hard.
We were breathless.
We lay on the grass and made shapes out of the clouds.
We played on the swings.
We tossed the football.
We roasted acorns.
We ultimated the frisbe.
We claimed we had it.
We dropped it.
We made good saves.
We chuckled.
We put our shoes on.
We panted and drank water.
We promised next week.
We decided every sunday, this must happen.
We left happy.

Love Story

I have a gift for you.

It was like gravel, dumped before her on an ebony backdrop. But diamonds made magnificent gravel.

Do you like it?

The largest gemstones caught her eyes first, crudely boasting in their irresistible purity. Each one swelled under her awestruck scrutiny, stretching out its glorious rays without letting an ounce of power escape from its diamond-hard core.

The smaller stones melded themselves into patterns and constellations, bending their iron-points of light to bring her eyes pleasure. Each pin-tip throbbed with white fire, lending life to the mental pictures that impressed themselves but momentarily over the living star-points. Then.

Look at this side too. On the edge.

Scattered in the folds and corners, the lesser star-gems made themselves brilliant, like glistening dew-drops on the points of a web, gloriously and humbly avoiding the center of the arrangement.

There’s still more.

Her eyes probed the center of the amassed diamonds again, searching for anything that might signal the end of these depths of stars. Only the beautified points of light stared back at her. Their thickness hazed the night-shades of their resting place in a deep and wide band across that velvet contrast and only the few stars resting on the backs of the others twinkled enticingly.

It’s all for you.

She strained her eyes, trying to capture all the beauty in the eroding permanence of memory.

I love you.

Me?

Yes.

I … love stars.

I know.

Do you love me?

I … yes.

The stars are yours. But there’s more.

There’s Me.

I am yours.

A Dangerous Journey

Dear friends:

Once upon a time, I posted the first chapter of a story I wrote.

This is the second chapter. Enjoy. Comment. Critique.



Normal is Write (part one)

            Maleya slammed the front door to vent and turned cheerfully down the sidewalk. The writers gathered weekly in a park only a short distance from where Maleya lived. Leaves both shaded and carpeted her walk. Emerald filtered light fell around her.

            "He-ey Leya! Whatcha got written?" Straight blond hair danced around the face of Maleya's friend.

            "He-ey Liss! What's your guess?"

            "Nope. You have to tell."

            "Fat luck." Maleya smiled up into the face of the taller writer.

            "Pout." Liss frowned at Maleya and bounced beside her on long legs.

            "Suck it up, cupcake." Maleya laughed at Liss's irked face.

            "You know I could take you any time. Then you'd have no choice. Cupcake." Liss bunched her fists.

            "Yeah, yeah. You think you're stronger than me."

            "Think?!" Liss was always easily riled. She attempted to control herself. "I can take you, Leya." Somehow the telling wasn't enough. Maleya found herself unceremoniously draped over Liss's lofty shoulder, watching the leafy cement receding.

            "I get your point, Liss."

            "Thought that might help." Liss dropped her friend on her feet and let her stumble a few steps.

            "You know something?" Maleya grasped the manuscript and pert-paper that had fallen. "Your story's gonna feel like that. Real soon."

            "Like what? I can't claim to know how that felt, honestly," Liss said savoring her victory.

            "Punched in the gut, dropped from a great height, and left in pain and awe to ponder."

            "Good to know you respect me," Liss swallowed the complement for it's worth.

            Maleya turned to an arch between two of the trees and let her feet plod as a hill ducked out from under her.  Sunlight had plopped itself in the broad lap of the lawn and Maleya's finger print on  her lens made the lenses of her glasses into shades. Fellow writers stood and sat everywhere – most talking, some writing, some glancing around snobbishly.

            At the bottom of the hill sat Hendlic Todd, the writer the whose expertise they had all been assigned to learn from. The hill sloped into a natural amphitheater around the man at the bottom. From the top there was a glorious view of forest covered hills and peaceful country villas fading into purpleness. Maleya sat at the bottom and closed her eyes. She felt – but did not see – Hendlic look up and narrow his eyes at her. It was a sweet moment.

            A sharp whistle stopped several writers short in their mixed conversations.

            "Shut up, Liss!" Hendlic's voice cut the whistle short and secured the attention of the proteges. Maleya looked up. Liss was standing behind Hendlic with her lips still pinched into an o. She let out another short blasting whistle and grinned. Hendlic backhanded her and glared at the writers. The author wasted no time.

            "Today's lesson is about beginnings," he said simply. He stood up and did not wait for Liss to take her seat, or writers to pull out their electric, note-taking pert-paper. Maleya turned up the volume on hers and watched a heading fade into view – "Today's lesson is on beginnings." Maleya scribbled out the first four words with her fingernail and capitalized the word beginnings. It would do for a title.

            "Do you know how people decide which story to read?" Hendlic dared anyone to answer incorrectly. The beautiful blue in his eyes had practiced this menacing glare for the extent of his career.

            "The first sentence," a newcomer bellowed from the top of the hill. Writers nodded and glanced apprehensively at their instructor.

            "Why?" Hendlic always had a question ready. There was a moment of silence.

            "Because the general public has a short attention span. They must become interested in the first sentence or two, or they will decide the story is not worth their while." Maleya answered without looking up from editing her notes.

            "Read me your first sentence."

            Maleya took a breath to start reading and paused suddenly. She had two stories prepared. One was normal. The other not. It was dangerous; the merging of areas of expertise always was. It would serve as a signal flare for Maleya. The future of her mixed writing and techy inventions depended on the reaction to her story. But it's about time, anyway. And the first sentence won't hurt me. Maleya tried to shrug away the knot in her mind and read her sentence aloud.

I haven't Got a Prayer

There were a few times this week when I came questioning before the throne of God.

Each time, I was kneeling after an enjoyable day. I had received blessings in the weather, in my company, through my family and friends, through my time and blessings in the form of opportunity;  I had nothing to pray for.

I didn't understand.

Every night I ask God for something. More of his character manifested in my life. A second chance to not yell at my brother. One day to be cooler than the rest. It is typical for me to find something that has gone wrong and pray God to put his blessing over it. I try to cover it with prayer at the end of the day for the next morning.

But those days, I came up empty. It seemed as if all those days had already been perfectly blessed. I had to wonder what I was supposed to improve upon. It was insanity to me that God would give me a day without poking my character in another direction (or again, in the same direction.)

So the first day I just thanked him.

The second day I started praising! I remembered David and turned hastily to Psalms, hoping his prescribed words would suit the helium-like joy that insisted on rising beyond me.

More perfect days followed. Sunburn, slivers, swallowing half the lake while skiing and sticking to inside of my sleeping bag ruined each evening, morning and afternoon. And I couldn't get anything out of myself but more Psalms!

Today I still can't think of anything to pray for. I am so grateful to God for the moments our church spent together worshipping and learning. I thank him for time this afternoon to work on projects and to blog. I am still excited by eating supper outside and throwing a hotdog bun over the edge of the porch to my dog. I look forward to the evening.

I see now that God is poking my character. Towards praise. Is that not a glorious thing? We were created to praise and worship! Shouldn't it be a repetitive part of our twenty-four hour lives?

And what a lovely and perfect repetition!

Psalm 21:1-5
"O Lord, in your strengh the kind rejoices,
and in your salvation how greatly he exults!
You have given him his heart's desire
and have not witheld the request of his lips.
For you met him with rich blessings;
you set a crown of fine gold upon his head.
He asked life of you; you gave it to him,
length of days forever and ever.
His glory is great through your salvation;
splendor and majesty you bestow on him.
For you make him most blessed forever,
you make him glad with the joy of your presence."

The Unsung Anthem

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.

O say, does that Star-spangled Banner still wave

O're the land of the free and the home of the brave?

We correctly remove our hats and place our right hands over our hearts. We look at our flag and remember the freedoms that those colors symbolize.

Then twenty-five percent of the way through this tribute, we place each cap back on its head and walk away.

How many have heard these words sung at sporting events, at a funeral, or in church?

On the shore dimly seen, thro' the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines in the stream;

'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner, Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

For the sake of each fallen soldier from 1776 until now, follow the story of the song. 

In 1814, Francis Scott Key boarded a British ship to negotiate the release of his friend, the Dr. William Beanes. He was forced to wait on the ship and watch the British attack Fort McHenry through the night. Through the first verse, Key has wondered, desperately, whether that flag still waves. Now his breath catches and he stiffens slightly - defiantly. There on the shore, scarcely discernable in the predawn gloom, crowded as it is with the smoky atmosphere of bloodshed, there were glimpses of red, white and blue.

But it wasn't morning yet.

And then innocent, beautiful light twisted the dark horizon into a rainbow. The flag stood.

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footstep's pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Key gives us the foundation suitably placed at the end. A country defended itself before his eyes. He lived and breathed the struggle of keeping America free. And he must forcibly remind us of the Help that aided each one in that struggle.

Oh, thus be it ever when free men shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserved us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, "In God is our trust"
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

God bless America.

Just New York City

I was going to blog about going to New York.

Now I don't know if I can. So much of it was just tourist attractions and travel! I enjoyed it without a doubt, but there was so little of substance that happened.

So I'll compromise. I'll post my pictures and give you a photo blog post (for once) and get this self-inflicted need to blog about NYC off my mind.

Then I can freely write about things that actually give me words.



This is my first picture of the skyline! If only the UPS truck hadn't changed lanes. Grrrr.

This is the Lincoln Tunnel. It goes under the Hudson River from Brooklyn, New Jersey to New York City, New York. This picture was supposed to show how wet the walls were from being right under the river.





This was the old graveyard at Trinity church. William Bradford is burried here! Also - think National Treasure.

The boys started feeding the pidgeons during breakfast.



And they gathered somewhat of a crowd before they realized it wasn't a very good idea.

This is the 9/11 memorial site. the water runs from a under a ledge down to the first level, and then it falls down into that square in the center.

Around the rim is a ledge on which is inscribed the name of every victim of 9/11 from the two towers, from the Pentagon, from the volunteer rescue workers, and from the victims of the terrorist attack in 1993.

These are some of the names inscribed on that ledge.

And this next picture is what brought all of this into focus for me.

Inna. The nickname of one of my dearest friends. I had to stand for a minute to take this in. It struck me then that people's friends died here. That their families, their sisters, their childhood playmates did not escape the tower before it fell. That the pain from this tragedy was still hurting my country.

The rest of the pictures I took at Ground Zero were much less from a tourist's point of view, and more from that of a touched countryman. It was a sad lesson, but I am grateful I learned it.

Thoughtfully,

Gianna.

(More pictures later. :)







Run(-)On Praise

When I sat down at my desk, I just wanted to see how long I could make a sentence. Like a challenge. This is where it led me.

It’s not a normal day but I treat it like any other and lie there and watch the effects of the sunrise on my eyelids and listen to my family doing morning things; they’re nice morning things, like getting ready for Easter and feeding our dogs and going in to church early to help the kitchen crew get ready for the fundraiser breakfast which is between the ambitious-bird service and the head-screwed-on-straight service, which are identical, and I take up the wish I wished the night before that our family would screw their heads on straight but no, enough of us are ambitious that my vote doesn’t count, and “besides, the family is coming for lunch, and they’ll be here before we’d get home from the late service,” and so my vote really doesn’t count, and I decide that I probably never had a vote to cast anyway, so I put my wishing aside and go back to telling myself to get up and telling myself I’ll get up in just a few minutes, but I’m so comfortable right now, I can’t and so it will be ok if I get up in a minute – it is, but those minutes must have counted against me, because now we have to “really hurry” to get the dressing ready for the family who are coming and I don’t have much time to do any make-up or anything, but then I do it anyway, as fast as I can because if I’m going to be late to church, I at least want to look good, and it makes very little difference in minutes because I move quickly; and there is my brother telling us all we’ll be late, and then that we are late, and then that he can’t wait to live on his own because we’re always late and he never would be except for us, and he doesn’t ever seem to stop, so for the longest time on the way to our Easter morning service, it is so hard to think of the peace and the joy that are just waiting to be taken up and taken advantage of, and then we walk in and I didn’t see any heads turn, and then my heart turns and everything stops, because nothing matters except what we are singing about, and the glorious way God has loved us and chosen us and suffered for us, and purchased us, and given us to Christ, that – unless my heart were deaf – I cannot avoid falling on my heart’s knees and raising my hands and shouting that my God is alive and he loves me, and he is reigning so everything will be ok! and I just want to look at his face and know, and then I do know, and I want to keep looking in his face; and after church each moment seems holy and beautiful, as if I can do no wrong, and we all file slowly and talking into a huge herd pretending to be in line and talk our way through heaven-sent sausage and French toast and sanctifying syrup gluing your silverware to your fingers and your fingers to each other, and your hair to your forehead, and for breakfast the pastor has included grace in his benediction so the only words spoken are conversations about what they did last night and how that worked out, and how much she got done, and what was he working on again? and did it turn out and is it worth trying for myself? and then I call Happy Easter and suddenly the sun and the wind and the blue sky and the green grass are infinitely more beautiful than they were  when I walked from my house to my car before church and I know the afternoon ahead is going to be wonderful, even though something inside me knows it’s not and I can’t really pretend it will be much longer, so when we come home I am less happy, and I do not try to cheer up but I do wish I could be the same person all of the time and how much nicer I would be if that were the case, because if I just got stuck being the right person of the many who are inside of me, I know I could be perfect – but the perfect one is Christ Jesus, and he is not the only one living in me, because I am like every other human on this planet in one way, and that is that I’m human, and it means that even though Christ has the victory over sin, my sin still fights to often, so even though I side with Christ as much as I … can? I lose so often and then I know I’ve failed and I go on failing because failing has made me moody and I think that winning is impossible, even though I’m failing with the very people who gathered to celebrate that Christ won, so there is no more failure, and I become meditative and unhappy in my meditation, so I write it so that I can understand it, and when I write it I find that I can’t understand it so I give up and make an excuse for writing, and say that I was just trying writing to see how much I can cram into one sentence, and it turns out that a lot fits, even if not a lot should, and I wonder where my writing has taken me, and I find that I’m happy again; writing has taken me to a place where I feel the joy of creation and the satisfaction of having achieved something I’ve never done before – perhaps even that I’ve done it well for it being a first time around – and I decide to contemplate, but this time I’m contemplating cheerily and it takes me back to praise; praise for that glorious morning when Christ stopped the people’s contemplating his death and did something about it…basically reverse it so that they’d have something new to contemplate – the indescribable glory of the God who raised him, and unfathomable love which inspired the planning of this action before the planning of the people that necessitated this action, and the inescapable beauty that surrounds this entire day and it’s glorious celebration.

 (I tried reading this out loud. Now each short sentence feels like a needed revival. Gives me time to breathe.)

Oh Happy Day!

It's amazing how theology happens to you sometimes.

I've been to rock concerts before. You buy a ticket, find your seat (sometimes - usually you don't) and spend the rest of the evening plugging your ears and jumping up and down. I've been to worship concerts too. You stand there feeling like you should raise your hands and look dedicated, but you think everyone's looking at you (they aren't) so you don’t.

This was a worship rock concert. I was confused. We bought tickets and found our seats. We performed the whole pre-concert crowd roar; people were leaning over railings, standing in their rows, running out to the bathroom and back, finding tee-shirts, or sitting in their seats – and everyone was talking to someone. We all knew the drill and played out the same scenario that’s happened at every concert I’ve been to. It was when the music started that I was confused.

All the worship I’ve been too has had a toned down beat and gentle lyrics. This worship concert was different. The drums and the lead guitar didn’t sound nice anymore, they sounded wild. Party wild. Kinda took my breath away. But after all, they’re the opening band. Guess that’s what you’d expect. I shrugged and smiled, moving a little to the beat. And then the lead band came out.

Music ripped through the air and battered our willing ear drums. Vibrations shoved themselves up through the cement floor and rattled my feet, like laughter. Lights flashed on their rotary stands, stabbing into my eyes for a millisecond before beaming at the next eager face.

Thoughts tumbled slowly and thickly through my mind.

The idea of worship left me and I began to just sing. There was no hope of hearing my own voice above the roar, but I opened my mouth and joined with hundreds of others to let the band know that we were singing too, however unnoticeably.

The pointlessness of trying to make noise turned my mind back to the words I was singing. “Sing, sing sing, and make music to the heavens! I will sing, sing, sing, Grateful that you hear us. As we shout your praise, lift high the name, Of Jesus!” I began to feel them. I stopped trying to sing well and sang to God. I lifted my face and closed my eyes. “Grateful that you hear us…” Almost without my consent, my arms lifted and I reached for the God I was singing to. I was no longer thinking about who was watching, because God was watching, and taking pleasure.

Finally the rumbling beneath my feet and the drum beat rattled me back to the auditorium. I began jumping with the rest of the crowd. And I wondered where the worship had gone. Here we are, having a celebration, I thought with something bordering on fear, but this is a worship concert! What were we doing wrong?

Nothing. We’re not doing anything wrong! We’re celebrating GOD! Call it a thunderbolt moment if you will, but I think that’s an understatement. I found myself unable to stop bouncing and singing and reaching up. I had so much praise inside, and it kept coming out in action and song.

Realizations demand thinking time, which there was not a lot of during a rock and worship concert. I simply discovered that God enjoys a celebration. And that it doesn’t take a degree in theology to discover something like that.

It was a second incident that completed my lesson. I took up my usual evening stance – sitting cross legged on the bed with my Bible and journal in my lap, enjoying the silence of my family asleep. Tomorrow was Bible Study with a few girls from youth group. My brain slapped me to point out that perhaps I should actually read the chapter we’ll be studying tomorrow.

John 2:2- “Jesus also was invited to the wedding with his disciples. When the wine ran out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what does this have to do with me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” …Jesus said to the servants, “Fill the jars with water… and take [some] to the master of the feast.” So they took it. When the master of the feast tasted the water now become wine…” (Bold mine)

And I stopped. Jesus’ statement caught me. “My hour has not yet come.” Before this night, my question always remained: If Jesus’ hour to do miracles had not come, why did he do a miracle? An answer dropped into my head. “To let the party continue.”

What?!  “Yes. To let the party continue.” I shook my head and read further, waiting for a testimony of somebody’s life changed, a soul given new life through this incident. There was none.

And gradually, the concept merged with my experience. God enjoys celebrating.

My first, fleeting thought was Could it be? And then I wondered, more accurately, Would I want it any other way?

It’s a bigger lesson in theology than I’ve had in a while. And I’m still celebrating it.

I tried.

You have to want something so you can try it.
You have to try it so you can make mistakes.
You have to make mistakes so you can figure you out what you did wrong.
Once you figure out what you did wrong, you can do it right.

I want to be a good writer. So I tried.

My Creative Writing class is interesting. It's very laid back. For the poetry section, we have to post an original poem of any form to the forum online and revise it over the next few weeks. I guess what really bothered me was that there weren't any requirements as to what kind of poem we had to write. In another class I took (from a different school) we were required to write three poems of three different styles.

Anyway, it was really tempting to sit there and post a poem from the other class, because I had already been told it was well written. But I challenged myself and wrote a new one. Then I posted both of them to the forum.

The first one I wrote for Intro to Lit last year. It's a Shakespearean sonnet - the rhyme scheme is ABBA ACCA DEDEDE {with a subtle break between the first and second groups of four lines, and between the first 8 and following 6}. The form overall is that during the first eight lines, a dilemma or situation is described and in the second six, it is resolved or changed.

Battle Worthy Spring

I fain would have a battle-worthy Spring

To spite cold Winter's crude and cruel designs.

Invoked by her, our tired and weary sighs,

Our dirges and our mournful carols ring.

And winter's vice!—her mortal arrows sing—

Snow; snow; in drifting, streaming lines

The rain and weeping, howling wind betimes

Encircle dwellings all, with icy wings.

But sunlight warms, inspires our tongues to dance

With soft, sly songs of coming season's cheer

And words of buds and blooming. Every chance

Of stolen sunshine gives us reason more to leer

As wounded Winter with her shattered lance

Admits a battle-worthy Spring for one more year.

{It's coming guys!}

Second poem: (no name yet - another Shakespearean Sonnet)
We hold our breaths one season of each year.
Fall, spring and summer bring us joy; surprise;
Winter freezes through – snow in shocked eyes,
And cold outlines the warmth within our cheer.
A stouter heart arises out of fear
Our motto: we will champion, not enjoy.
We suspect charming Winter’s beauty ploy.
We hide our weakness from those held most dear.
But restlessness drags us outside in guilt.
One moment, just to feel the wind, I swear.
We laugh, grasp living white as if a hilt—
For the innocent spectator to appear.
And soon the snow is unarranged and spilt –
It’s pattern spelling love of winter clear.




Um...let me know if you have a good name for the second poem!! Critique is welcome. That's what they're here for. Like I said, we have to try so we can make mistakes. 

The rest of the gulp.

Chapter 1: Of Dangerous Bifocals  Part 2
   Hunger was the only force that could pull Maleya out of her area when she didn't want to. She pressed her thumbprint into the handle of the fridge before opening it. When she did, blue light shone on her favorite foods. Maleya pulled out feta cheese curds. She turned and leaned against the counter. To her right the counter ran in a U shape, curving around in front of her again six feet away. Across this counter from her, tan-ish hair bobbed and twisted, disappearing momentarily sometimes before coming back into view. Maleya smiled and threw a cheese curd at it. The tan-ishness ducked behind the counter and Barley tossed her a thumbs-up before nimbly retrieving the fallen cheese curd.

            "Leya."

            "Mmm."

            "You have writers 'spert stuff in a while."

            "Mm-hmm. S'why I'm eating." Another cheese curd. She savored the spices and the crumbling tangy cheese against the roof of her mouth.

            "Kay. Leya, think I'll ever be an expert?" It was a ridiculous question, which may have been why Barley loved asking it so often.

            "You're not practiced in the art of failing, so my suppositions are that yes, one day you too will be a spert." Half of a face appeared above the counter, cut abruptly off at the bridge of a nose. Tan hair and blue eyes stared at deep brown hair and green eyes.

            "Good." Barley's eyes thanked Maleya seriously. "In what?"

            "What do you love?"

            "Knowing."

            "Barley!"

            The eyes widened. "Why not? Other people have made up new expertesses before."

            "Areas of expertise, Barley."

            "Expertesses. It's a new word."

            "Um...Barley? Words are not invented." Maleya looked serious. Barley rolled his eyes and propped his chin on the counter.

            "D'they really? You're such a parrot, Maleya. You say everything you hear in your writer's class thingy because you're so scared to be different, a cross-over, to be a writer-techy, because people don't like that. So what? What can anyone do to you?"

            "Lot's of things."

            "Leya, seriously."

            "People could take away everything I've been working on. Everything. You don't know what that means."

            "Ok, ok. But whadda you really think about words. Aren't they invented? Do they always gotta come from the right people?"

            Barley, you know too much. You figure out so much more than anyone else would. It's because you always have to know! Maleya didn't voice her exasperation. It was better to just answer Barley's question. "Ok, fine. I don't think words grow. But I don't think they're invented either," she cast a superior glance at Barley, "they are discovered. They wait, hovering on the fringe of consciousness, dancing out of reach of our thoughts when we reach for them, and then slipping in when we need them and forget to look for them. It's perfection."

            "That's why you're a writer," Barley stated. They stared at each other for a few minutes.

            "I want a drink," Maleya intoned, pushing her off the counter. A cupboard opened and the tap started running.

            "That's why you're a techy." Barley stood up all the way and leaned against the counter, watching Maleya drink her water.

            "Barley, you have no idea."

            "But I will." Barley grinned and held a slender black wire, barely visible even in the brightness of the kitchen.

            "Is that a microphone?"

            "Mm-hmm. I've got a bunch. Dad brought 'em home," Barley championed grinning. Maleya sighed. Her father was the only real techy, and it was dangerous for him to be bringing supplies home to his family. It was hard to say exactly why, though. All areas of expertise just kept to themselves, without sharing what they had or what they knew with other areas, unless there was a finished product that would benefit everybody. Maleya's dad had always been bringing things home because his literal area was in the house, where he preferred to work on things. Naturally Maleya and Barley had grown up with more than their share of tech knowledge.

            Knowing some things about tech wasn't so much a problem, because everyone was allowed to have some tech. But not too much. The Hominy's had too much. Even that wasn't such a problem, except that they used it, instead of just knowing. Of course using the knowledge made them more proficient in it, and soon Maleya's dad had begun telling the children not to flaunt their tech knowledge. They obeyed. But Maleya still used it.

            And then had come her idea to use it in conjunction with writing. There she had crossed a line. Nobody knew about it yet, not even Barley, to whom Maleya told everything. It was too dangerous. It was mixing two areas of expertise. It would change the way things were. It would blur lines and confuse both techies and writers. It was a fascinating secret, and Maleya was confident that it was worth the time she spent on it, and worth the difficulty and the isolation of hiding it, but it was getting more difficult.

            "Leya."

            "What?!" Maleya scowled, confused by her thoughts.

            "You really should go. The writers' expert meeting is in a few minutes." Barley only used full words when he was serious.

            "I know." Maleya tried to ignore what she was thinking and went to her room – her area – to gather her manuscript and pert-paper for notes. Confounded technology.

             
{Hey - same rule here as before. Comment. And thank you kindly for reading, friend.}

*GULP*

Eyes closed, fingers crossed, I'm handing it over. 

Taggitenreadit. Pretty pretty please?

I'm posting the first part of a story I'm working on. Before you proceed, you must promise to comment. I don't care if it's only one word - I just want to know what you honestly think. Except still be nice. But comment regardless. I command thee. (I will be sneaky and check my page views and compare them to comments to make sure you all did. Don't think you'll get away with it. -_-  )

Chapter 1: Of Dangerous Bifocals
{Part two of chapter one to follow in a later post.}

Wind snapped through the grass with angry speed.

            "Nope," Maleya muttered darkly. She slid her fingers across the screen and tapped a different tab. Another tap and a keyboard appeared below codes dictating grass texture and strength. With one fingertip, she highlighted a section of code, deleted it, and typed something to replace it. She grabbed a pair of bulky, thick-lensed bifocals and slipped them on over her own tiny glasses. Tapping the screen again, she changed the control from touch to voice.

            "Wind snapped through the grass with angry speed."

            The bifocals – screens in reality – glowed for a moment, then grass appeared in them, waving and bending under a heavy wind. Maleya watched five seconds of footage before the motions began to repeat themselves.

            "Um...." she searched desperately for a word or a sentence that would keep the story going. “The two field mice were...were...unperturbed by um...the fury above them." Images flickered belatedly across the lenses. Two something-or-other’s blobbed together sheltered by the waving grass. Maleya grabbed the microphone and pulled it as far from the touch-screen as the limited cord would allow.

            "The mice scurried!" she exclaimed trying to keep her tones natural. Frustration was taking over. The blobs in the vision of the bifocals shrank and became detailed images of the tiny rodents specified. With deft fingers she took control of the screen again, delicately dragging an iconic marker back to the first word, which had appeared on a digital paper with handwriting coded to her own.

            "And...open book." This time she paused the pantomime before the mice came into the story. Sky: blue. Grass: improvised mixes of green and tan. Soil: barely visible through the thick growth. Slowly Maleya nodded. Tap. Story deleted. Maleya removed the bifocals and slipped them into a soft velvet bag.

            "Now..." Maleya dug a sloppy sheaf of notebook paper out of a drawer in her desk and began to read it aloud to the screen.

            Maleya was a writer. Well, really she was a renegade. But she was supposed to be a writer. Writing was what she did. It was what she knew. It was her passion. Everyone knew Maleya was a writer. Even Maleya did. But that didn't change her mind about anything. It just scared her.

            Barley wasn't an anything yet. He would be, soon enough. Everyone knew that. He'd be an expert in something. He'd be the talk of the town. He'd learn from the best and improve on their methods, until he was the best. But he was still trying to figure out which pert to ex.

            Well, currently he wasn't figuring anything about exes or perts. Barley was rather viciously concerned with knowing. He seemed to always know what was going on with everybody in the family. It was his business, somehow. He'd pop up whenever anybody had an idea, or a new plan, or a change of plan, or a challenge. He was always the first to know. How he knew when to pop up was a mystery. Most likely he had programmed his intuition to sense that sort of thing – that time when someone is bursting with an idea or nervous about an appointment and just aching to tell someone. It wasn't an annoying thing. Barley was the family calendar. It was his quirk. Everyone had one of those too, just like they had an area of expertise. Things just were that way.

            There was really nothing wrong with the way things were. Everyone was an expert at something and their expertise usually became obvious when they were 10 or 11. Everyone had a quirk, and it always lasted at least a year or too after you became an expert (only cropping up occasionally thereafter.) Everyone was beautiful in some way. If you didn't have soulful eyes, you were bound to have beautiful lips. If you didn't have those, well your complexion was probably perfect. More people than not had several of these handy features. Most people only had a limited amount of techy stuff. It was typical. But the Hominy family had a bunch of tech knowledge and equipment. That part wasn't supposed to be that way. Only Maleya really took it too far though. But no one knew, so even though it wasn't supposed to be that way, it was, and it didn't matter.

***

       

Something Beautiful

I think I have an inverted hole in me somewhere. Probably in the region of my heart, seeing as those things are generally located in that area. It's a hole because I have a need - I need to make something beautiful. It's inverted because it's not something I need to receive but something I need to do. Inverted hole.

I tried to do that singing.

I think I'll leave the singing to someone else. It's not that I don't like singing. I love music, and I love choir. But when I perform, I blank out technique (while words - Italian though they be - remain rooted stubbornly in my mind.) I don't think I'm cut out to be a soloist. It's fun when I do it right, but it takes a lot of work. And then I'm focusing on technique, not beautiful.

I want make beautiful. So I have to go somewhere else, try some other voice. I think my fingers speak better than my vocal chords sometimes. Make that all the time. It must be why I've always liked loved writing. When I write, I put something together that's never been put together before. I can choose my words, my tools, and I can sit and play them until they sing to me.

A singing mosaic. That's the goal. Each word a piece of glass?! - and each synonym, however close in color, never quite the same shade. And when you want a subtle, alluring shadow, you have to take the darkly shimmering bit of clearness that is exactly that color. Too dark and it's menacing. Too light and you don't need to explore it because you can see through it from across the courtyard.

Words are like that. Each gathering of letters, syllables and emphases has it's own personality. The more alike one is to the next in the thesaurus, the more vital it is that you know which one you want. Which one will tint that shadow with perfect justice, perfectly despised rightness.

Not for the reader - for me.

I want a mosaic that will stun me. I want to look at the beauty, created by words - chosen, sprinkled, cast out, placed with care. I want something so beautiful, it chains my hands when it looks I look it in the eye.

When my fingers can procreate that beauty, then I will be a writer.

*Deep breath* You choose the title!

...is something I love to do. I had to write a paragraph using setting to insinuate mood. And not just any setting or mood...I had to choose from a list of settings and mood.

Settings: City in the Rain; Midnight on the Farm; 1890, in the Parlor; High Noon on the River; A Spring Morning; In the Bar, After Hours; The Dusty Road; Dawn in a Foreign Place.

Mood: sinister, sick with love, full of promise, suicidal, dangerous, suspense, happy-go-lucky, lonely.

Sooooo...here be the paragraph, and you see if you can determine which I chose from each list! Leave a comment with your guess before I tell you!

Droplets made music in puddles. Singing water filled damp air, thrusting out delight and receiving its delight thrust unceremoniously back, leaving ripples. There was work to do: high rises and business men with newspapers, Hyundai Sonatas honked angrily, afraid of spoiling their polish on the wet city freeway – uncheery, all. Rain’s embodiment, wearing mother-enforced galoshes and brown ringlets, mad the weary water smile by leaving vanishing footprints on the drowned sidewalks and kissing the raindrops with green eyes wide in wonder. Rain fell, surer of its task of joy, and bathed the world in sweet dancing sorrow.

D2

If you have changed a life, can your life stay the same?

I have to wonder how I've changed. I didn't see it happen. But I think it must have, somewhere.

I don't know when I first learned about disciple making. It probably happened to me before I really knew what it was. Mom lead a Bible study for me and my sisters. We attended. That was that. Then Dad led a Bible Study every Wednesday night for men at the church. Then both my parents told me I should lead one. I gulped. And I turned them down.

Two years later, I must have had a better idea of what Discipleship was. "Mom!? I think I could lead this Bible Study. Do you think so? Can we order the training kit?"

And two years after that, I actually got to learn about disciple making.

Left to Right - Me, Mariah, Tiffany. Tuesday Ladies, we call each other.  Should be more like girls, maybe. We're not old. We studied Discipleship as we practiced it. Mariah and I were discipled by Tiffany as we learned about discipleship. The three of us studied it. We learned that disciple making is a three-tiered work of faith. First we are discipled. We study scripture and strengthen our faith. It's easiest really. It's like going to school. True, you have to work for those moments of revelation, and there's homework, but at least you aren't the teacher.

And then suddenly, you are the teacher. D2. You're a disciple who makes disciples. Just like a graduate student who tutors, you realize the reason for homework. You've needed it all along. And the opportunity to teach usually comes just before you actually think you're ready for it. It must be healthy for us.

Last week marked D2 for me. I have been friends with Little Leah - as my mental faculties consistently label her - for over a year. I can't get her off my heart. I didn't think I loved her any more than any of the other little girls, but God pointed her out to me. When God points something out, you don't have much choice about whether you're gonna do it.

I met with her Wednesday. Tuesday, at 11 p.m. I wrote down a few questions for Leah. "Can you tell me what the Gospel means for you? What do you want to learn about and study in our times together? What do you think 1 Timothy 4:12 means?" I figured I had a pretty good grasp on an hours' worth of material, counting a few awkward pauses and some meditative time.

God: *Snort* Yeah, ok Gianna, if that's what tosses your confetti.

I did get to use one of my questions. "So Leah? Can you tell me exactly what the Gospel means in your own words?"

"Um...I don't think so. No, I'm not sure."

...

*Crickets*

...

"Well, ..." And I began with Romans 3:23. When I finished explaining the gospel, Leah just looked at me. I asked her if she wanted to accept Christ.

"Yes! I do!" So I prayed with her.

I don't think I really caught my breath until that evening. Wait, what?! I think I just...lead somebody to Christ! I couldn't believe what I'd done. I thought back and tried to realize it. Yes, she'd sat there and nodded her head. I'd prayed with her, holding her hands, listening to her talking to her new Savior.

I guess that's what listening feels like. God whispered, and I acted. I can't recall actually thinking about what I was doing. Chances are God was doing the thinking for me.

I want it to stay that way.