India, 2014

It’s funny that God only gave me a few hours to decide. It’s as if the opportunity was tailored to me.

I know you like to make decisions quickly, and then stick with them, Gianna. Have a go at this one.

Yes. Yes I’ll go.

And in about six hours, I’d committed half of my October to traveling to India and learning about human trafficking.

It should be quite exciting! Especially considering I’ve never been out of the country. And considering I’ve got a layover in Paris, and one in Amsterdam. Considering that I’ll be able to make necessary contacts in the event that I pursue an internship.

So many “considerings” are bouncing through my mind. There’s a bit of a rush as I fill out my passport application. I get a tingle when Donna tells me that I’ll need shots. Needles. Fabulous. There’s a quiet prayer when I see the schedule and training and travelling and begin to feel the weariness that will touch my bones and pull my eyes. And yet, it sounds amazing. I’m not alone. Everyone I tell grins and exclaims how exciting it will be. Yeah. Except, we must consider why.

Consider that women and girls are promised jobs – and then work long hours without pay, with abuse. Consider that some are lured romantically, and when they enter that most holy matrimony, they discover that they are not loved, but ripped open. Not nourished but drained. Not cherished but used. Used and trapped. Consider that some are desperate enough for food that they will sell their own sister/daughter. Consider that some aren’t desperate for food, and will still sell… Consider that an estimated 27 million of God’s loved ones are enslaved, and perhaps 14 million – FOURTEEN MILLION – are in India.

Considering –

My passion to help end trafficking has a very local focus. It started in my school-room, for one. I honestly 

didn’t know God would every use my dawdling on facebook, but that is where I initially learned about trafficking. Then my community. I and an amazing team hosted a 5k last year and this year to raise funds – funds we could disperse to American justice and anti-trafficking organizations.

I still want to focus on the U.S. with my abolitionist efforts. Why India, then? And yes, I asked this of myself too. There is much less poverty in U.S. Girls involved in human trafficking here are often abused at a young age, or live with someone who set an example of slavery and domination, or overrun, trampled upon prostitution. Many U.S. girls are kidnapped. Some are regularly stalked and lured. In India, selling or false promises of a job are much more likely. Impoverished girls live on the streets and see others making money there nightly, so they follow suit. So the situations vary a bit between the countries.

But a girl’s heart is the same. A rescued child feels the same shame. A woman taken from trafficking has the same lowly, downtrodden spirit. A girl who’s been abused, kidnapped, overworked or stalked still carries the pain and humiliation that should never have been placed on her shoulders.

That is why. Because I know girls that age – girls who would have been at risk in a larger city, or a poorer family, or even at the right place a moment earlier. Thus, anything I can learn about trafficking will only aide me in educating my own community again and again in how to protect and heal our daughters, sisters and friends.

That is why I am going. I want to learn. It will hurt, I know, but I want to learn everything I can about trafficking, the trafficked ones, and what strategies we can use in this combat. I want to teach. The things I learn cannot stop with me. I want to take them to our community, and take them to the 5k, and to the churches, and wherever else I can. People need to know what goes on before they can raise their hands to stop it. I want to pray. The better I understand what happens in the heart and mind of an abused child, the better I am able to agonize over them when I talk with God.

If, after learning what I’ve shared, you want to know what you can do – please pray. Pray for emotional and spiritual strength. We are learning about a very dark, very sinful practice, and it will not be easy. Pray also for physical stamina and health. And thank you, because prayer is the most important support we can receive.

If you would like to give financially, please message me on facebook or text me.

Thank you so much for reading, for caring, and for your prayers. 

Cedars and Fawns

Psalm 29:5

The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars; the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon.

Ahh trees. I love trees and thickets and windbreaks and woods and bottle-necks of woods.

Tall glorious growths that breathe our air backwards in benevolence and exhale that we might fill our lungs. Quietly sociable rustling creatures in the breeze, waving creaking monsters during storms, and pleasant, shady statues during the summer days.

Trust in a tree’s strength is true-placed. As a child, I never doubted a tree. Surely the branches that barked my shins and scratched my palms with their rough, delicate skin could withstand the light stand of a girl. Surely limbs that waved themselves only slightly in the wildest of winter winds could bear the weight of a wanderer.

Yet cedars. Cedars have thick boles and branches that shade each other and reach out under each other like people spreading their hands palm-up to reach the sun. The cedars slant and thicken around their middles and squat to stretch further.

I think of the boles of the redwoods, for the branches I scarcely saw. I recall thick trunks with knobby supports that dived underground to become roots. I remember backing up and staring in fascination at the lens of my camera because I could not see the edge of the tree in it. I remember looking up at the smooth, ancient grooves in their reddish bark and watching them stretch like lightning bolts up the sides of the trees to where the lower branches were – high above the rest of the forest. The tops of these trees? I never saw them.

The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars; the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon.

Cedars – redwoods – indisputable signs of strength, and yet the strength of a shout from heaven snaps them over.

These trees are majestic like natural pillars to the entrance of a king’s remote palace, perhaps the palace of heaven. But when the king cries Welcome! even the supporting pillars wilt.

These trees grow in beauty and glory season by season, and extend themselves in their assigned shapes with graceful stretch and silhouette. Yet when their maker’s beauty beacons from afar, even their full glory is disfigured next to this radiant embodiment of beauty unborn.

Yet some in this torrential rain of glory hear only terror. In pain and anguish they decipher not soft syllables but slavery. The powerful voice is the voice they have come to fear and revile, for the only powerful voice they know is a voice that beats them the while.

And over these, I pray the Psalm 29:9, for The Lord makes the deer give birth.

He is over the long-lived glory of the cedars, and the miraculous coming forth of the fawns. Just as his voice causes cedars to crumble, so his gentleness cradles new life. His glory triumphs over that of the earth, so his tenderness tends the weak.

And so our God is a God of glory and thunder and babies, a God of declaring beauty and a God of delicate birth.

A God of the strength of cedars, and a God of the fragility of fawns.

Freedom Challenge

I know I’ve organized a 5k, but I wonder what else I can do.

These girls need love.

I read an article about a girl named Danielle Douglas who was forced into trafficking in Boston. The article said that trafficked girls – prostitutes – are told that the pimp is the only person who will love them now. It is pounded like a nail into their minds.

Nobody loves you –

Bam.

Except me.

Bam.

You are worthless!

Bam.

The only thing you do for money is this,

Bam.

and do you think anyone could love you now?

Bam.

The only love you’ll get is from me.

Bam.

It’s as if each time they raise their hands to strike their girl, they’re holding a hammer. A hammer pounding lies. But even a crooked nail can get fiercely embedded in wood. And even pulling a nail out leaves a scar.

People need love to live. It’s a life-nectar straight from heaven – flowing thick and syrupy through all of scripture. Love is so prevalent in my life. My dad started my car this morning. My coworker grinned cheerily and exclaimed that she “gets to work with [me] Friday AND Saturday!” Love is why I hug Mom before I leave, and why I give Leah dancy-hugs and why I try to make Christa laugh, and why I pray that all my friends who leave will be abundantly, explosively happy in their far-away places even when I miss them.

And love is what these girls live without.

Even law enforcement – those we hope would protect these girls – doesn’t love them.

In a trafficking situation, there are three participants. A pimp controls the prostitutes, whose services are purchased by Johns. If the police happen upon the situation, the prostitute is arrested. WHY?! WHY would you arrest a helpless girl? Would you pull up a marijuana plant and chop it to pieces, and then apologize kindly to the grower/seller/purchaser?

NO!

Ooooh how I ache for this situation. They don’t just need our help: they need our love. I don’t know how this will look yet.

Yes, I’m organizing a 5k Freedom Run this year, and the funds will be used right here in Minnesota to erect a safe-house for girls brought out of trafficking. But how else can we love them?

I honestly don’t know the answer. I know part of it lies in awareness, and I know part of it lies in prayer, and so I have a challenge for you.

How much do you know about trafficking? I challenge you to find out more. Research trafficking in your state. Research the different kinds of trafficking. Research WHO is trafficked (be surprised and broken.) I challenge each reader to find out 5 facts about trafficking that you did not previously know.

I also challenge you to prayer. Take one new fact, or all of the facts you learned. Take a friend, or a group of friends. I want us to pray for 27 days, starting February 1^st, that God will use us to bring justice to our world, country and state. And city.

Finally, if you have an idea of how we can greater love God’s children trapped in slavery, please share it with me here on my blog, or my Facebook inbox.

Here’s a few resources to get you started:

Slavery stats: www.enditmovement.com

Where part of our donations are going this year: www.risinghopefoundation.org

Article about Danielle Douglas, and Superbowl trafficking article.

To find our 5K on Facebook, search "5K Freedom Run: Fighting darkness One Step at a Time.

The Snow Fort: An epic of three warriors

Perhaps school is turning my brain to mush, but I wrote an epic out of a snow fort fight...

Yep.

I know.

:-/

However! I cling to the idea that creativity is proof of some remaining brains. Besides, it was fun to write something in the style of the old, unrhymed-iambic-pentameter epics I'm studying in school.

The day dawned dark; the sky was lade with snow.

Sun showed just the gray bald back of his head

Left flurried, self-secure littles preparing

For white, stormy arms. Gray atmosphere seeped

Into the hearts of all. But yet remained

Three warriors. The one, a youth, declared

To two his purpose. His design meant ill

Towards all who loved him, raised him, did him good.

Some land of theirs he stole in secrecy

And sought snow castles thereupon to build

His purpose scofflaw fugitives to hold

In “freedom” but still bent to do his will.

By such he thought to earn a treas’ry vast.

By hard work first, he’d live a slothful life

And toil by breaking backs of other men

Thereby to win himself a vast estate.

To such end joined one of the twain fighters.

Together labored they to build their hall.

Betwixt they swore the fortune they would share

But to his heart, each swore to keep the whole.

That last wise warrior knew a better scheme

Which would reward the good and right a wrong.

He let them build the castle to their will,

Then he would seek to turn the profit good

To such an end he let them labor on

Thinking to make them slaves to their own work

And on their finish, conquering would serve

To punish them, and give their fruit to those

Who lovingly did raise them their whole lives

And gave own labor to raise these two traitors.

By such a scheme he waited through the seconds

And seconds turned to minutes, minutes hours.

Then was time ripe to satisfy their greed

And they began to seek out those in need

Of escape from a dire, and criminal life

By giving righteous “well paid” work of light.

Then did the third, our hero, gladly rise.

And went him forth among them as a spy.

He sought by hard work, constant, to earn trust.

And surely it did work. For such a man

Of character is surely never found,

But is compared to him, who lives in legend.

Thus was it that he came inside their lodge

And knew the secrets, strong and weak thereof.

Beyond this, knew him patience, for i’ faith

He waited hours more for them to part

And leave him master, caretaker and heir

Should aught befall them ‘fore they made return.

So sure their downfall, eminently near

The third of that bold party made his call.

He stood upon the parapet and declared

“I claim this fortress and this castle mine

For use as should be for our benefactors

That they which gave us home and health should be

Returnéd that same gift by warriors three.

If thou standest by me, come and welcome.

Our names be renowned for hospitality.

But if thou durst oppose, gird up thyself.

I will attack thee forthwith as you stand.”

With such, he waited their reply with calm.

But they knew not aught of humility

And threw themselves against the walls to fight.

The warrior threw them back and then rained down

A shower of stones and snow and ice unceased.

The two were so beset, one ran away

Deserting what he had not first begun.

The other stood and used with his strength

A shovel – left from work – became his shield.

Howe’er he stood, he could not win the wall

But stood away from reach of raining stone.

Until by chance he spied him such a tool

As might befit the conquering of a wall.

There lay a pickax where his warrior friend

Had thrown it down as he fled far away.

This he took up and quickly advanced close

And when he reached near enough for his arm

He raised, and threw the pickax on the wall.

It struck its target, and tumbled down inside

Lay the last warrior, slain for his good heart.

So thought the wicked one in triumph glad.

But lo! There stirs our hero living still.

He creeps, bleeding, weak, up to the gate.

There he grasps the handle of that ax

And pulls it from his body carefully.

He staggers, wounded, out, and finds his prey.

The warrior gaggles, frightened, runs away.

He thought him conqueror, and his opponent dead

But the man was living and pursuing.

Then came the wounded man so close in fight

He grasped the wayward warrior by his helm

And thrust him forth into a cloud of white,

He cried “Die now, thou villain! Be dispatched

Into this wild, white, devo’ring abyss.

I end thy black days here, in death of white.”

Remember This, Israel.

Isaiah 44:21-22

“Remember these things, O Jacob, and Israel, for you are my servant;

I formed you;

you are my servant;

O Israel, you will not be forgotten by me.

I have blotted out your transgressions like a cloud, and your sins like mist.

Return to me, for I have redeemed you.”

Do you see these things, child? I made you. Your form was made precious and beautiful by my hands, and because I love you. You are my servant. You are here to work in my vineyard, and to bring others home with you at the end of the day. O Israel, lovely, you will never be forgotten no matter how many people lose track of you. I will always remember you. Your life and faith are always on my mind. Your sins have been hidden as surely as a billowing white cloud hides the blue sky in summertime. When you feel blinded on a misty morning, remember that I am that blind to your sins. And when you get lost in that mist, return your soul to me, because I have purchased you from wandering and all that follows lostness.

It’s the simplest of lessons. I formed you. You are my servant. You will not be forgotten by me. I blotted out your transgressions. Return. I have redeemed you. The words are short and simple! It takes seconds to read through them and continue on to the next verses. The truths, though. Can such beautiful truth be so simple? It’s practically a complete compilation of answers to those questions life smears tauntingly in our faces

Where in this universe DID we come from?

I formed you.

Why does that matter?

You are my servant.

Who cares about that? Nobody pays attention to your servants.

I will never stop paying attention to you.

Well we messed it up. Sorry. No can do.

I am as blind to your forgiven sin as you are to the sun at night.

Oh…

Return! I have redeemed you. Come back.

And that return is the most glorious return of all.

“Sing, O heavens, for the LORD has done it;

Shout, O depths of the earth;

Break forth into singing, O mountains,

O forest, an every tree in it!

For the Lord has redeemed Jacob

and will be glorified in Israel.”

Dusk.

I tried something new here. Something new new. I invented my own poetic meter. The lines are vary in length and number of poetic "feet", but there in each is a break before the last four syllables. The rhyme scheme is a simple abcb one. Each line becoming a sentence in itself was not intentional.

Dusk

Blooms abused as weeds dance light-footed, on whispering breeze.

Birds share songs of night; ignore the moon.

A pure westward glow shrinks shyly upon itself – blinking at dusk.

Traffic sounds blur miles away: tonight they will not reach, in my cocoon.

Evening sighs a happy breath, its colors fade.

The silver maplett tousles, wrestling wind.

Pale colors transform white, dark becomes black.

My soul’s asleep, now, with nature’s twinned. 

Freedom Run: Fighting Darkness One Step at a Time.

Yet another day of school. I promised myself I'd study in five minutes. First, facebook. JUST five minutes.

M had posted something that had a big red X logo. I scanned it for anything interesting. "We're in to end it" the post said. End what? *Scroll* Ahh. Human trafficking. Good cause, I thought. Good cause indeed. *Scroll*

S had posted something that had a big red X logo. I did a double take. The same post! I'm  proud of you, S. I nodded silently to myself. Perhaps I should re-post this. It's a good cause. It'd be good to raise awareness about human trafficking.

I moved the mouse over to the "share" button.

NO.

What?

NO. This isn't what you were trained to do. This is not how your parents, your youth leader and your time at Summit Ministries trained you to think.

Oh, ok. What, then?

Check it out.

I shifted the mouse just in time and clicked on the link.

The website was mostly black and red, with the big X logo etched in flashy places. I scrolled through, taking it in. Statistics barreled at me. And estimated 27 million people are enslaved worldwide. Over 100,000 thousand people are enslaved in AMERICA alone. Two children are sold every minute. 

Every MINUTE? The bloody logo stared at me, daring me to believe these outrageous facts.

I can't just ignore this.

I looked at the top of the page and found the "Action" tab. There must be something I could do, some way I could support this movement besides re-posting it onto my social media network. A list of fundraiser ideas came up. Host a bake sale, have a car wash, do a dodge ball tournament, on and on. My hometown does dozens of these a year. They looked way to ordinary. HOST A MARATHON. I jumped. The words flashed at me. I laughed. I don't run! And I'm supposed to host a marathon? That's comical, really.

School tickled my brain and I closed the tab. Homework doesn't wait well.

But I couldn't get the idea out of my mind. I tried not to think about it as an obligation, but in the back of my brain I boiled down the marathon to a more workable portion: a 5k run. A day passed, then a few days, and a week. I couldn't forget about the horrible things I'd read about girls deceived into sex trafficking, and children who didn't recognize pimps until it was too late.

I presented the idea of a 5k to raise awareness about human trafficking - especially sex trafficking - to my college Bible study and my youth leader. They fanned the idea into a plan and volunteered to help see it carried out.

We are hosting a Freedom Run.

Together we have organized a 5k run/walk for June 22nd. Check in begins at 7 AM and the race begins at 8 AM. There is a kids run starting at 9 AM and a silent auction during the races. Strollers are welcome! No skateboards, bikes, wheely-shoes, etc.

Register early for the run to ensure a t-shirt! The deadline for early registration is June 8th. Registration info and the registration form can be found at www.stayclassy.org/1corinth926. Registration after the deadline costs $35. The kids run is only $5 but I still need a registration for each entrant.

There is even a place for people to volunteer NOT to run! We'll need some to point the way for the runners, some to keep track of timing to determine first place winners, some to manage check in, somebody to help with water tables, etc. There will be plenty of work for people who would love to help in a way that doesn't involve a lot of sweat.

If you have questions about donations, donating items for the silent auction, sponsoring our race, registration or volunteering, please contact me! My email is gianna.freedomrun@gmail.com.

Thank you so much for your support and prayers.

May God bless our humble event and use each dollar for precious people caught in trafficking and for his glory.

Amen.

Vessel

I do not understand the living water.

I cannot comprehend what lot I play.

I struggle, stagnant, sorry day by day,

And meekly pray my life might please my Father.

I know my soul’s seen ransom: I’m his daughter.

Yet my influence is but molded clay.

His light must sparkle, dance inside each day,

Instead it stales; and dies; this living water.

Live not upright, instead I must pour out!

The living water thrives when it is spilled.

His life, his light I’m giv’n to write about –

I write: my tarnish is restored to gild.

In silence naught but usefulness goes out.

In pouring – suddenly room to be filled.

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. :)