I have a thought which has been lying smoldering in my mind for at least a decade and which flares up now and again. This blaze sprung from the book of Malachi (and from the dark recesses of my sadly convoluted little mind). In summary, it is this: I do not want to be a lukewarm Christian.
Lately, I have begun to really realize the extent to which I am my greatest enemy. I always knew it, but it’s become more obvious these last couple of months. I feel kind of like I’ve got two opposing personalities (Gollum, anyone?). One part of me desires to desire to be passionate about God (no, that is not a typo). And the other part just doesn’t care. Or does care, but not enough. Actually, both sides don’t care enough. It’s very frustrating. One side of me wants to stand up to these sins that keep hindering me and blocking my path to God, and the other side is convinced that I will have more fun with my sins than with Christ. This side tends to think that serving Christ will be a burden—a thought which disconcerts my other side. One side is convinced I will never be brave enough, never be strong enough, never love God enough, never be the friend I want to be to Christ—and the other side is making an effort to disbelieve these convictions.
Here is what God, my Jesus has to say to me and to anyone else who may be struggling along these lines.
“Return to Me and I will return to you.” Malachi 3:7
“‘Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this’ says the Lord Almighty, ‘and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it.’” Malachi 3:10
If we give Him what is His due (what He deserves to receive whether we want to give it to Him or not) He has promised bless us with such awesome power and goodness. “Throw open the floodgates of heaven…pour out so much blessing that you will not have room for it.” I love it.
So, this is for all you who are going through this trying time of lukewarmness. Let’s work, strive, pray to be lifted up out of it. “[We] can do all things through Christ who strengthens us.” Philippians 4:13.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
A Soliloquy; Read and Be Amazed.
Can you spell mahogany?
Yes, but only with spell-check. Without spell-check, I would be nothing. I would be lost and doomed to stumble blindly about in a world of swirling mist. And if I stumbled about in a world of swirling mist I would be unable to see. Unable to find things. Which would tend to upset my delicate mental balance. I already can’t balance. It’s a shame, but it’s the truth. Maybe this is why I am afraid of heights? I also can’t open things—except for jars; I can open jars commendably using merely a combination of those sticky, grippy, jar-opening things and my God-given brawn. And perforated edges. I have a love-hate relationship with perforated edges. Who, I wonder, invented perforated edges? Who invented the word perforated? Noah Webster? Or is it Daniel Webster? One’s an orator and the other the dictionary-maker but I can’t for the life of me remember who’s who. Which is better, words or music? Words encompass everything, but music is so other-worldly. This question has been tormenting me for quite some time. This is the second biggest philosophical question of my life. I think it’s kind of neat how God has wired us to want to know. It shows how we’re made in His image. He knows. We yearn to know. There’s a parallel there. Parallels are pretty fabulous things. Like King Lear and Gloucester (pronounced gloss-ter, it has recently been determined. Actually, I’m not sure if it hasn’t been determined erroneously. Maybe it’s glouce, like louse. Hmm.). Being a director is tough. I feel bossy. When I was in elementary school, being bossy was like the worst possible sin you could commit. Where do these random memories come from? Why do certain smells trigger certain memories? My soap that I have now reminds me of the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. I couldn’t tell you why. Why does sugar taste good and algae taste bad? Algae has much less fat-potential. Why do my thoughts take so many strange digressions? Or is digression the correct word? Digression seems to have a negative connotation. The word connotation brings to mind Mr. Collins. Why have I not accomplished something with my day. Oh, dear, I forgot, my fish (Selkie) is in a temporary home waiting for the water to turn room temperature. He’s probably uncomfortable. I feel bad. I’ve got things to do, so I’ll stop now.
Yes, but only with spell-check. Without spell-check, I would be nothing. I would be lost and doomed to stumble blindly about in a world of swirling mist. And if I stumbled about in a world of swirling mist I would be unable to see. Unable to find things. Which would tend to upset my delicate mental balance. I already can’t balance. It’s a shame, but it’s the truth. Maybe this is why I am afraid of heights? I also can’t open things—except for jars; I can open jars commendably using merely a combination of those sticky, grippy, jar-opening things and my God-given brawn. And perforated edges. I have a love-hate relationship with perforated edges. Who, I wonder, invented perforated edges? Who invented the word perforated? Noah Webster? Or is it Daniel Webster? One’s an orator and the other the dictionary-maker but I can’t for the life of me remember who’s who. Which is better, words or music? Words encompass everything, but music is so other-worldly. This question has been tormenting me for quite some time. This is the second biggest philosophical question of my life. I think it’s kind of neat how God has wired us to want to know. It shows how we’re made in His image. He knows. We yearn to know. There’s a parallel there. Parallels are pretty fabulous things. Like King Lear and Gloucester (pronounced gloss-ter, it has recently been determined. Actually, I’m not sure if it hasn’t been determined erroneously. Maybe it’s glouce, like louse. Hmm.). Being a director is tough. I feel bossy. When I was in elementary school, being bossy was like the worst possible sin you could commit. Where do these random memories come from? Why do certain smells trigger certain memories? My soap that I have now reminds me of the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. I couldn’t tell you why. Why does sugar taste good and algae taste bad? Algae has much less fat-potential. Why do my thoughts take so many strange digressions? Or is digression the correct word? Digression seems to have a negative connotation. The word connotation brings to mind Mr. Collins. Why have I not accomplished something with my day. Oh, dear, I forgot, my fish (Selkie) is in a temporary home waiting for the water to turn room temperature. He’s probably uncomfortable. I feel bad. I’ve got things to do, so I’ll stop now.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Heart-Throbs of the Mortal and The Immortal
I have thirty-five minutes to write before I have to teach a piano lesson, so, here we go…
Okay, boys (if there are any boys reading this), just as a heads-up, the context of the following paragraph may be highly feminine. I have no idea how the male mind works and if it has the same sort of thought digressions as the female mind, but even if it doesn’t (and you end up without a clue as to what I'm talking about) there will something for you to get out of this post, so hang in there. Now that I’ve disconcerted you all, I’ll begin.
Well, last night—actually, we must go back before that—About two weeks ago I became re-obsessed with a movie that I love. While watching this movie (and it’s sequel and it’s sequel’s sequel) a certain someone stirred the sleeping butterflies in my stomach. Last night I was watching as many videos of this certain someone as I could find on youtube, and, sigh, I fell head-over-heels in love. (Does this sort of thing happen to males? Or is it just the unfortunate females that have to deal with these ridiculous crushes? I really want to know.)
It is very upsetting for me when I fall for someone who doesn’t know I exist, wouldn’t care if he did (know I existed), doesn’t share my same morals, and is full of himself. Why, you ask, am I giving this person the time of the day? Good question. But anyways, I was talking to God last night—
Let me insert something here. Over the past few months I completely forgot that I can talk to God. Sure I pray to Him often, but I haven’t been talking to Him, and our relationship has been suffering because of it. I don’t have to ask, or thank, or praise God every time I open my mouth to pray to Him, I can just tell Him how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, or wait for Him to talk back to me. I rediscovered this method of communication last night, and I am very excited. I’m now chewing His ear off. Anyways, back to the main point—
(I was talking to God last night) and I was telling Him about this love that I had and how it was making my heart hurt and how I felt idiotic for being in “love” (I realize now, in the revealing, confusion-clearing light of day, that it wasn’t love but idolization.). Goodness, but it really does hurt, doesn’t it? Weird. It sound's laughable now, but it wasn't during the time... So I was telling Him all this, and, instead of laughing at me, He talked back.
“Hayley,” He said, “I know how you feel. I love [--this certain someone--] in the same way you do. [--This certain someone--] doesn’t believe I exist. He doesn’t care I exist. His morals are in stark contrast to mine and his sins separate us. However, unlike you, Hayley, I created this young man. I died for this young man. I planned out each day of his illustrious life.
I love him far more than you love him.
But he does not love Me.
And My heart hurts as well.”
My movie-star isn’t the only one guilty of causing God this pain.
Augh.
Love God. Love movie-stars, but don’t love them in that way--love them with a Christ-like love.
(Hopefully I didn’t totally loose all you males. Sorry if I did.)
The end.
Okay, boys (if there are any boys reading this), just as a heads-up, the context of the following paragraph may be highly feminine. I have no idea how the male mind works and if it has the same sort of thought digressions as the female mind, but even if it doesn’t (and you end up without a clue as to what I'm talking about) there will something for you to get out of this post, so hang in there. Now that I’ve disconcerted you all, I’ll begin.
Well, last night—actually, we must go back before that—About two weeks ago I became re-obsessed with a movie that I love. While watching this movie (and it’s sequel and it’s sequel’s sequel) a certain someone stirred the sleeping butterflies in my stomach. Last night I was watching as many videos of this certain someone as I could find on youtube, and, sigh, I fell head-over-heels in love. (Does this sort of thing happen to males? Or is it just the unfortunate females that have to deal with these ridiculous crushes? I really want to know.)
It is very upsetting for me when I fall for someone who doesn’t know I exist, wouldn’t care if he did (know I existed), doesn’t share my same morals, and is full of himself. Why, you ask, am I giving this person the time of the day? Good question. But anyways, I was talking to God last night—
Let me insert something here. Over the past few months I completely forgot that I can talk to God. Sure I pray to Him often, but I haven’t been talking to Him, and our relationship has been suffering because of it. I don’t have to ask, or thank, or praise God every time I open my mouth to pray to Him, I can just tell Him how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, or wait for Him to talk back to me. I rediscovered this method of communication last night, and I am very excited. I’m now chewing His ear off. Anyways, back to the main point—
(I was talking to God last night) and I was telling Him about this love that I had and how it was making my heart hurt and how I felt idiotic for being in “love” (I realize now, in the revealing, confusion-clearing light of day, that it wasn’t love but idolization.). Goodness, but it really does hurt, doesn’t it? Weird. It sound's laughable now, but it wasn't during the time... So I was telling Him all this, and, instead of laughing at me, He talked back.
“Hayley,” He said, “I know how you feel. I love [--this certain someone--] in the same way you do. [--This certain someone--] doesn’t believe I exist. He doesn’t care I exist. His morals are in stark contrast to mine and his sins separate us. However, unlike you, Hayley, I created this young man. I died for this young man. I planned out each day of his illustrious life.
I love him far more than you love him.
But he does not love Me.
And My heart hurts as well.”
My movie-star isn’t the only one guilty of causing God this pain.
Augh.
Love God. Love movie-stars, but don’t love them in that way--love them with a Christ-like love.
(Hopefully I didn’t totally loose all you males. Sorry if I did.)
The end.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
To Die and Then To Live
What on earth will it be like to die? To go into God’s presence? I know that thought kind of flits through our minds regularly, but have any of us really contemplated what that moment will be like? I know I haven’t grasped it. To be me—the same me that’s sitting here now with or without my physical body (whether I have it at our meeting or not depends on whether I’m still alive when Christ comes back, but, in any case, I’ll have it eventually)—and to be standing before my God and King. I don’t really think about it being me that goes up to heaven. In my mind I can see someone that is supposed to be me up there singing, walking, praising, laughing, dancing, doing what we’ll do in heaven, but it’s hard to really imagine myself there. I just imagine myself as a shadow of me. But no way am I going to be a shadow. I’ll be more of myself than I’ve ever been before. I’ll have a physical body. (Wait--that sounded weird. What I meant to say was, I'll have a physical body in heaven just like I had one on earth--but it will be better. Coolio.)
“What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable…” 1 Corinthians 15:42.
Our souls were never perishable, so Paul must be speaking of our bodies. There are many other verses that confirm our bodies will rise (“Your dead shall live, their bodies shall rise.” Isaiah 26:19. We wait for “the redemption of our bodies…” Romans 8:23)
Why don’t we think about heaven more? About coming into God’s presence? That’s what life is ultimately all about. We are to live to glorify God so that when we enter His presence He will tell us “well done”. That is the climax of our earthly life. The peak, the pinnacle, the culmination of every moment we have lived. I am going to pray today that I might be given greater understanding of the life that this life is all about. We’re so focused about “now” that we forget how someday “now” will be swallowed up in heaven. I’m not saying that today and this life don’t matter, because obviously they do. I’m just saying that we need to “fix our eyes on what is ahead.”
That is all. I wish I knew some cool Latin phrase to say “that is all.” Ah, well.
“What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable…” 1 Corinthians 15:42.
Our souls were never perishable, so Paul must be speaking of our bodies. There are many other verses that confirm our bodies will rise (“Your dead shall live, their bodies shall rise.” Isaiah 26:19. We wait for “the redemption of our bodies…” Romans 8:23)
Why don’t we think about heaven more? About coming into God’s presence? That’s what life is ultimately all about. We are to live to glorify God so that when we enter His presence He will tell us “well done”. That is the climax of our earthly life. The peak, the pinnacle, the culmination of every moment we have lived. I am going to pray today that I might be given greater understanding of the life that this life is all about. We’re so focused about “now” that we forget how someday “now” will be swallowed up in heaven. I’m not saying that today and this life don’t matter, because obviously they do. I’m just saying that we need to “fix our eyes on what is ahead.”
That is all. I wish I knew some cool Latin phrase to say “that is all.” Ah, well.
Monday, November 10, 2008
A Zealous Flurry
Well, I had a thought and I wanted to get it out there before I became dispassionate. I was just at my girls Bible study, which lately has just been a lot of arguing (excuse me, “discussion”) about nitty gritty things (whether religious, political, or whatever). Today we argued—discussed—homosexuality and being a Christian. We went around and around and while it wasn’t all bad (I think I understand a few people more and know what I want to focus on now--this idea will eventually be the point of this blog, if I ever get around to it) there were some tears and bad feelings all around.
What I got out of the whole ordeal was this:
It doesn’t really matter what I think about another person—how I judge them in my heart—because ultimately, I’m human and therefore completely inadequate for that sort of thing. I need to leave that whole spectrum to God and take my attention away from others and what they do wrong and how I can fix them and I need to focus on myself.
I know it's cliché, but:
I can’t change anyone else. I can only change me. And, because this is my life, my job in this life is to change my life (I’m so articulately suave tonight). I can’t affect someone else’s life in a positive manner unless I have been changed by Christ.
So, I need to get off my high horse, stop being arrogant and stop looking for arguments (because I’m always the smartest one in the group, yes I am, you’d better believe it) and pray for humility and for the Holy Spirit to work in my life. I need to produce fruit so that people will see and glorify my King.
That’s all. I wrote this in a zealous flurry, so I hope that it makes sense. Sorry that I’ve been so off topic for my last couple of blogs. I’m going to try and remedy that.
Sheesh.
What I got out of the whole ordeal was this:
It doesn’t really matter what I think about another person—how I judge them in my heart—because ultimately, I’m human and therefore completely inadequate for that sort of thing. I need to leave that whole spectrum to God and take my attention away from others and what they do wrong and how I can fix them and I need to focus on myself.
I know it's cliché, but:
I can’t change anyone else. I can only change me. And, because this is my life, my job in this life is to change my life (I’m so articulately suave tonight). I can’t affect someone else’s life in a positive manner unless I have been changed by Christ.
So, I need to get off my high horse, stop being arrogant and stop looking for arguments (because I’m always the smartest one in the group, yes I am, you’d better believe it) and pray for humility and for the Holy Spirit to work in my life. I need to produce fruit so that people will see and glorify my King.
That’s all. I wrote this in a zealous flurry, so I hope that it makes sense. Sorry that I’ve been so off topic for my last couple of blogs. I’m going to try and remedy that.
Sheesh.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Marathons and Uncomplicated Points!
Well, don't I just feel like a little sticky wad on the bottom of a shoe for leaving you all without explanation for such a length of time. Let me express my sincerest apologies.
I am sorry.
Let me tell you a few good reasons why I have been so dreadfully absent (yay, points!)
1.) My computer has a virus and has been down for the past week or two.
2.) I'm stinkin' busy.
3.) I just haven't felt like writing.
4.) I've been obsessed with Lord of the Rings lately (this happens annually) and have been watching every bit of Lord of the Ring material I can get my hands on.
There you go. Now, let me catch you all up on the dreadfully exciting events of the most recent weeks of my life (more points!)
1.) I ran a marathon. My legs cramped up at mile 22 and I couldn't run--think charlie-horse, oh, dear--so I had to walk the last 4.2 miles. For some reason I got all emotional and when I got to an intersection in the road--this was a big road (Central for all you Albuquerque folk) and it was completely closed down--I had to ask the policeman which direction to go and he laughed at me. And I cried. Ho-hum. I wasn't even sad, I guess just exhaused. It was weird
2.) I am totally kicking a sin I have been struggle for a long time with in the butt. It's very exciting. God has been helping me immensely.
3.) I have been asked to star in an upcoming film alongside Elisha Wood and this very cute Scottish boy I saw in a movie once but never looked up his name... (No, honestly, I'd prefer the Scottish boy, I'm just a little Lord of the Rings-crazy right now. Anyways, Elisha is probably too short. Most boys are too short. Grow boys, grow! Ah, well.)
4.) I just lied and within a few moments my falsehood will be plastered on the internet for the world to see.
5.) I'm much too tired for such nonsense and must go to bed before I say any more stupid things.
I am sorry.
Let me tell you a few good reasons why I have been so dreadfully absent (yay, points!)
1.) My computer has a virus and has been down for the past week or two.
2.) I'm stinkin' busy.
3.) I just haven't felt like writing.
4.) I've been obsessed with Lord of the Rings lately (this happens annually) and have been watching every bit of Lord of the Ring material I can get my hands on.
There you go. Now, let me catch you all up on the dreadfully exciting events of the most recent weeks of my life (more points!)
1.) I ran a marathon. My legs cramped up at mile 22 and I couldn't run--think charlie-horse, oh, dear--so I had to walk the last 4.2 miles. For some reason I got all emotional and when I got to an intersection in the road--this was a big road (Central for all you Albuquerque folk) and it was completely closed down--I had to ask the policeman which direction to go and he laughed at me. And I cried. Ho-hum. I wasn't even sad, I guess just exhaused. It was weird
2.) I am totally kicking a sin I have been struggle for a long time with in the butt. It's very exciting. God has been helping me immensely.
3.) I have been asked to star in an upcoming film alongside Elisha Wood and this very cute Scottish boy I saw in a movie once but never looked up his name... (No, honestly, I'd prefer the Scottish boy, I'm just a little Lord of the Rings-crazy right now. Anyways, Elisha is probably too short. Most boys are too short. Grow boys, grow! Ah, well.)
4.) I just lied and within a few moments my falsehood will be plastered on the internet for the world to see.
5.) I'm much too tired for such nonsense and must go to bed before I say any more stupid things.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Munchkins and Insurrection
Well, it's been quite some time since I wrote last. I don't really have a good excuse, I've just been pretty busy. Right now I'm just feeling slightly down in the dumps. It's incredibly stormy outside, I'm aggravated with this worldy body I'm stuck in, and family member Malcom (--real name has been withheld--) is a grump. Malcom is sick, so I guess his/her grouchiness is justified to some extent. My dad and I are running out marathon in one week from tomorrow. My hips are hurting, but I've got nothing holding me back besides that. Next week three of the most adorable munchkins ever to grace the earth are coming to visit me. Here's a picture of them.
This priceless shot was taken in Creede, Colorado--one of my favorite places on earth. Isaac (climbing the grill) and Austin (on the roof) were outside playing by themselves while their parents (Erin and Kurt--my awesome godmother and her amazing husband) and I were inside our little cabin. I don't know how long the boys were at their game of climbing up and sliding down the front windshield before we noticed them. To be a little boy. Anyways, they are coming on Thursday along with their new little sister--my goddaughter--Elyse. And we get to go to the zoo. I love the zoo!
So, politics.
(Ooo, I can feel the hackles rising.)
Relax, relax, I won't be getting into any debates (I really don't know quite enough to make it through a political debate without looking moronic--but then, does anyone? People get so pigheaded and bigmouthed when politics come up. "...A fool is consumed by his own lips." Psalm 10:12) I just heard something earlier this week that helped me put all the nasty government bickering (and idiocy) in a new perspective.
Is it really plausible to change the views of someone with an opposite position by telling them that they are wrong (again and again and again)? Not usually.
To change someones perspective, you must first change their heart. And who is the Great Heart-Revisor?
If Christians spent more time concerned about people's souls than their political views, America might have a more promising future (Augh! Social Security taxes! An avalanche! A landslide! The teenagers will be suffocated—and poor, very poor. Insurrection and mob rule! Roll out the guillotine! Liberty, fraternity, and equality!). If certain cynical teenagers spent less time being dramatic and more time preforming what they preached, imagine what the world would be like.
Okay, that's it. Hope everyone is having a fantastic day.
Oh, one more thing. My kid sister, Hannah (the Amazon Queen), turned sixteen yesterday. Happy Birthday, Hannah!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Hilda Hegla Von Witzershinenen
Well, I’m shooting off college applications as fast as I can, and so far I’ve only gotten one back. The nice people in the admissions office at Messiah College decided that they liked me. So now at least I have somewhere to go next year. But Pennsylvania is so far away! I’m a little homebody and I love being with my family, what on earth will happen when I can’t come home for months at a time? Does God want me to go so far away from my family? ~Sigh~ I think my imagination is about to run away with me (I’d never thought about it before, but that’s kind of a neat expression. Where will it take me?).
The curtain opens and we find Hayley sitting on the lower bunk of a bunk-bed. The walls are a drab yellowish-brown-muck color, the carpet is balding, and the curtains resemble those you’d find in a pediatrics office (a loud primary color sprinkled with squiggles). There is a tissue box on the bed beside her and wadded tissues litter the floor. She has a binder open before her and a pile of text books teeters beside her.
Hayley: Sniff, sniff. (Takes a tissue and blows and then begins reading from book.) ‘What is the square root of 456,897,566,123 quatrillion zillion, multiplied by the sine of the angle of a pipe bent by a man with the strength proportional to that of a baby elephant that is stricken with the Purple Fungus Nile River Epilepsy, divided by the antilogarithm of a certain secret number known only to those who own trench coats? Graph your answer.’ (Dramatic pause, then wails) I don’t know! (Takes out another tissue and blows.) How I exceedingly wish that my dearest father were present to assist me with such woeful dilemmas! Or my loving mumsie who would weep with me in compassion! Or even my darling sister, who comprehends the dolefulness of trying scholastic quandaries.
Hayley’s roommate enters. Her height is about 6’ 7 and she weighs at least 400 pounds. Her neck is as thick as a tractor tire and her rather smallish head sports two braided pigtails. She wears a sleeveless ‘Lady Sausages’ wrestling t-shirt.
Hilda Helga Von Witzershinenen: (Her voice is deep.) I’m hungry. Go get me a sandwich. And when you get back you can do my homework.
I’m just messing around. Actually, I’m getting pretty excited for college. Anyways… I would encourage anyone who reads this to take a moment (five moments) and pray. Don’t talk. Just be with God. I’ve found that lots of times when I pray I just end up listening to myself speak. This way, I can avoid that problem. I feel like God enjoys it when I just sit with Him and leave the silence open for His words. I hope you all are having a fantastic night.
The curtain opens and we find Hayley sitting on the lower bunk of a bunk-bed. The walls are a drab yellowish-brown-muck color, the carpet is balding, and the curtains resemble those you’d find in a pediatrics office (a loud primary color sprinkled with squiggles). There is a tissue box on the bed beside her and wadded tissues litter the floor. She has a binder open before her and a pile of text books teeters beside her.
Hayley: Sniff, sniff. (Takes a tissue and blows and then begins reading from book.) ‘What is the square root of 456,897,566,123 quatrillion zillion, multiplied by the sine of the angle of a pipe bent by a man with the strength proportional to that of a baby elephant that is stricken with the Purple Fungus Nile River Epilepsy, divided by the antilogarithm of a certain secret number known only to those who own trench coats? Graph your answer.’ (Dramatic pause, then wails) I don’t know! (Takes out another tissue and blows.) How I exceedingly wish that my dearest father were present to assist me with such woeful dilemmas! Or my loving mumsie who would weep with me in compassion! Or even my darling sister, who comprehends the dolefulness of trying scholastic quandaries.
Hayley’s roommate enters. Her height is about 6’ 7 and she weighs at least 400 pounds. Her neck is as thick as a tractor tire and her rather smallish head sports two braided pigtails. She wears a sleeveless ‘Lady Sausages’ wrestling t-shirt.
Hilda Helga Von Witzershinenen: (Her voice is deep.) I’m hungry. Go get me a sandwich. And when you get back you can do my homework.
I’m just messing around. Actually, I’m getting pretty excited for college. Anyways… I would encourage anyone who reads this to take a moment (five moments) and pray. Don’t talk. Just be with God. I’ve found that lots of times when I pray I just end up listening to myself speak. This way, I can avoid that problem. I feel like God enjoys it when I just sit with Him and leave the silence open for His words. I hope you all are having a fantastic night.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Nonna Bambi
Wow. Two posts in as many days. I haven’t done this since I was an enthusiastic blogging newbie. I don’t really have much to say today (especially since my little sister wants me to hurry up—it’s yet to be seen whether or not I’ll comply with her wishes. Goodness, I sound so high and mighty. Anywho…)
I’m experimenting with my blogging backgrounds. It’s quite exciting. I’m not sure how long this green-ish background will last, though. Hmm. I really have very little to say this evening. So, I guess I’ll post something I wrote a few months ago. A short story. I don’t do short stories very often, but they’re really fun. Here it is.
“Nonna Bambi”
By Me
They walked down the Campo de Forno, side by side, the granddaughter laden with bags of groceries, the grandmother with age. Often they were forced to step around a tourist squinting at a camera held at arms length, complaining about the light, the angle, and the subject, oblivious to the Venetians they were encumbering.
“Giovanna,” her grandmother plowed through a gaggle of Americans clustered around a stand of trinkets, “tonight, after we make dinner, will you play your piano for me.” It was not a question. Her grandmother never asked questions because she knew everything. Neither was it a request. When you are as old as she, on the home stretch, you don’t make requests. Her plans were your plans, or if they weren’t, they very soon were going to be.
The granddaughter had figured out her grandmother long ago and she loved every wrinkle in the old woman’s personality. She didn’t answer her grandmother, because an answer was unneeded. Glancing over, Giovanna grinned at Nonna Bambi. “Nonna” meant grandmother, “bambi” meant child. Nonna Bambi often said that once, long ago, she had been a child, back when history had been the present. She had lived in a time of bare feet, black and white, and newfangled ideas. A time Giovanna thought of as very foggy and mystical, and yet, somehow more real than the time that they lived in now.
Leaving the Campo de Forno, they turned onto Strada Nova, and the Canal Grande came into view, taxi boats motoring across the water. Giovanna had seen a tourist fall in yesterday. She had told Nonna Bambi of how the man had been pulled from the water by two men, one strong and one weak. She had related how ridiculous the tourist had looked hanging lopsided from the pier when the weaker man was unable to lift him up far enough to scramble onto solid ground. He had been enormously embarrassed when, with the help of his tourist wife, he had finally been hauled from the water. Giovanna had told her grandmother how the tourist’s cell phone had sizzled and died, how he couldn’t speak a word of Italian, not even “ringraziarla”, “thank you”, how his shoes had squelched when he walked away.
It was her grandmother who had taught her to care about what was going on around her, to take in details, situations, and ideas and to find the humor in all of them. However, Nonna Bambi never taught with words. Words spoken aloud were useful for one thing: getting what you wanted. On the other hand, the ways you could utilize words written in ink were innumerable. If words were all there was to teaching, it could be argued that Nonna Bambi rarely taught. Nevertheless, Giovanna had learned much from her grandmother by watching.
The water was devoid of tourists today, although that is not to say that the Canal Grande was devoid of interest. On the opposite shore—on the west side—a group of men with an undersized crane were attempting to pull a huge strip of metal from the water. It was a slightly nonsensical effort, as the metal was somehow caught underneath a dock, and all the men were really accomplishing was knocking over one of the poles that held up the dock. Wondering whose wharf it was, Giovanna laughed as the giant strip of metal slipped from the crane’s grasp and fell back into the water. Her grandmother had been watching the action as well, and now her brown face was crinkled into the smile her granddaughter loved to see.
Nonna Bambi looked like a gypsy, or so Giovanna imagined; she had never seen a real gypsy. Bright black eyes straddled a sun-browned nose, which, if you looked closely, still boasted one or two freckles. Her hair was silver, not grey, and it was long and curly, though the curls were somewhat tired-looking. Nonna did not believe in short hair. “If God wanted us to have short hair, he would have made us boys,” she liked to say. Nonna did not appreciate boys with long hair. “If you marry a man whose hair goes past here,” she would declare sternly, her hand at her jaw, “I will disinherit you and give my money to your mother.”
It was just a joke, both knew that. Nonna Bambi would never disinherit Giovanna and never would she give her money to Giovanna’s mother. Nonna’s daughter was different from her mother and Giovanna. Costanzia did not look at life the way they did. Dressed in the fashions that came from France and America, Costanzia wore expensive makeup and worked away from Venice on the mainland. Giovanna’s mother’s hair was straight, silky, black, and short. Often, it was very difficult to communicate with her mother, who didn’t understand the power of actions and the weakness of words. Turning onto Calle Zotti, the pair walked until they crossed the bridge over the Rio di Santo Sofia. The canal was a boundary. Once they had crossed it, the throngs of tourists disappeared and the street unclogged and grew quiet.
“What will we make tonight?” Nonna Bambi took out her key and unlocked the door.
“Sfogliata. She’s eating out tonight.” Giovanna answered. Her mother had a date with a Russian. Costanzia disliked the stuffed bread which Nonna and Giovanna loved.
“Good.” They stepped into the narrow hallway, flipping on the light as they walked into the kitchen. Pulling out a chair, Nonna sat down and bent over to remove her shoes. She never wore shoes in the house. Giovanna set the two bags of groceries on the counter and began unpacking them. Standing up, the old woman padded over to the counter in her bare feet and, switching places with the young woman, began unloading the bags as Giovanna crossed the room to the refrigerator and took out the dough. There was always dough in Nonna’s house.
She liked to feel it, smell it, shape it. She loved it because it had potential. “This unassuming lump can become anything you want it to be. Pasta, pie, loaf, sweet, salty, coarse, smooth. This,” she had said holding up the pasty mass, “is the staple food of the world. On dough, we have built countries, empires, kingdoms. Be like dough, Giovanna. Be dependable, be needed, be the sweetness and salt the world looks for.”
“But I don’t want to be moldable.”
“No,” Nonna consented, “but you also don’t want to be stuck in one belief. I’m not telling you not to believe or disbelieve in certain things, because there are some things that are right and some things that are wrong and no amount of believing can change that; I just think that everyone should be more open and not so caught in their own ideas. You can’t be right every time.”
There was one thing Nonna believed Giovanna never got wrong. Music—Giovanna understood it. Music could never replace words, but that did not mean that its value was any less than spoken syllables. Both words and music could speak to the soul, but where words often crushed spirits, music—true music—was capable only of lifting them. More than sound, music could connect one heart to another, could join the past and the present, could link this world and the one that was to come. It was powerful, making the one who could produce it more powerful still.
Giovanna played for her grandmother on the old brown piano, its three legs planted solidly on the tile, its top always open. Schumann concertos, Beethoven sonatas, and Chopin etudes, were scattered across the bench and on the floor behind the instrument. The day passed and the night progressed. In the big blue chair by the open window, Nonna Bambi sat with her eyes closed, but Giovanna knew she was wide awake. Her eyes popped open at the sound of the key in the lock.
Giovanna stopped playing when the front door opened. The sound of Costanzia’s heels clicked across the tile, stopping at the coat rack, then continuing on, and a moment later she appeared in the doorway wearing a little black dress. “You’re up late.” She saw the music spread across the floor and sighed, bending over to scoop up a handful of scores, “You need to get out and do things with other people, Giovanna. Being alone so much isn’t good for you.” Crossing the room, Costanzia went to the open window and pulled it shut, tossing her handbag into the empty blue chair as she did so.
Then she leaned against the doorframe and stared at her daughter, “Why do you think so much? I’m starting to worry about you.” Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “Please go out and spend time with people tomorrow. I don’t want you sitting in here alone anymore.” She waited for Giovanna’s nod of consent, then frowned concernedly and clicked out of the doorway and up the stairs.
Giovanna gazed at the blue chair by the closed window. Tomorrow she would ask Nonna Bambi to define the word alone.
Oy. That was really long, even though it was a short story... I think I've set a new record for blog length, for me, anyways. Alright, Goodbye now.
I’m experimenting with my blogging backgrounds. It’s quite exciting. I’m not sure how long this green-ish background will last, though. Hmm. I really have very little to say this evening. So, I guess I’ll post something I wrote a few months ago. A short story. I don’t do short stories very often, but they’re really fun. Here it is.
“Nonna Bambi”
By Me
They walked down the Campo de Forno, side by side, the granddaughter laden with bags of groceries, the grandmother with age. Often they were forced to step around a tourist squinting at a camera held at arms length, complaining about the light, the angle, and the subject, oblivious to the Venetians they were encumbering.
“Giovanna,” her grandmother plowed through a gaggle of Americans clustered around a stand of trinkets, “tonight, after we make dinner, will you play your piano for me.” It was not a question. Her grandmother never asked questions because she knew everything. Neither was it a request. When you are as old as she, on the home stretch, you don’t make requests. Her plans were your plans, or if they weren’t, they very soon were going to be.
The granddaughter had figured out her grandmother long ago and she loved every wrinkle in the old woman’s personality. She didn’t answer her grandmother, because an answer was unneeded. Glancing over, Giovanna grinned at Nonna Bambi. “Nonna” meant grandmother, “bambi” meant child. Nonna Bambi often said that once, long ago, she had been a child, back when history had been the present. She had lived in a time of bare feet, black and white, and newfangled ideas. A time Giovanna thought of as very foggy and mystical, and yet, somehow more real than the time that they lived in now.
Leaving the Campo de Forno, they turned onto Strada Nova, and the Canal Grande came into view, taxi boats motoring across the water. Giovanna had seen a tourist fall in yesterday. She had told Nonna Bambi of how the man had been pulled from the water by two men, one strong and one weak. She had related how ridiculous the tourist had looked hanging lopsided from the pier when the weaker man was unable to lift him up far enough to scramble onto solid ground. He had been enormously embarrassed when, with the help of his tourist wife, he had finally been hauled from the water. Giovanna had told her grandmother how the tourist’s cell phone had sizzled and died, how he couldn’t speak a word of Italian, not even “ringraziarla”, “thank you”, how his shoes had squelched when he walked away.
It was her grandmother who had taught her to care about what was going on around her, to take in details, situations, and ideas and to find the humor in all of them. However, Nonna Bambi never taught with words. Words spoken aloud were useful for one thing: getting what you wanted. On the other hand, the ways you could utilize words written in ink were innumerable. If words were all there was to teaching, it could be argued that Nonna Bambi rarely taught. Nevertheless, Giovanna had learned much from her grandmother by watching.
The water was devoid of tourists today, although that is not to say that the Canal Grande was devoid of interest. On the opposite shore—on the west side—a group of men with an undersized crane were attempting to pull a huge strip of metal from the water. It was a slightly nonsensical effort, as the metal was somehow caught underneath a dock, and all the men were really accomplishing was knocking over one of the poles that held up the dock. Wondering whose wharf it was, Giovanna laughed as the giant strip of metal slipped from the crane’s grasp and fell back into the water. Her grandmother had been watching the action as well, and now her brown face was crinkled into the smile her granddaughter loved to see.
Nonna Bambi looked like a gypsy, or so Giovanna imagined; she had never seen a real gypsy. Bright black eyes straddled a sun-browned nose, which, if you looked closely, still boasted one or two freckles. Her hair was silver, not grey, and it was long and curly, though the curls were somewhat tired-looking. Nonna did not believe in short hair. “If God wanted us to have short hair, he would have made us boys,” she liked to say. Nonna did not appreciate boys with long hair. “If you marry a man whose hair goes past here,” she would declare sternly, her hand at her jaw, “I will disinherit you and give my money to your mother.”
It was just a joke, both knew that. Nonna Bambi would never disinherit Giovanna and never would she give her money to Giovanna’s mother. Nonna’s daughter was different from her mother and Giovanna. Costanzia did not look at life the way they did. Dressed in the fashions that came from France and America, Costanzia wore expensive makeup and worked away from Venice on the mainland. Giovanna’s mother’s hair was straight, silky, black, and short. Often, it was very difficult to communicate with her mother, who didn’t understand the power of actions and the weakness of words. Turning onto Calle Zotti, the pair walked until they crossed the bridge over the Rio di Santo Sofia. The canal was a boundary. Once they had crossed it, the throngs of tourists disappeared and the street unclogged and grew quiet.
“What will we make tonight?” Nonna Bambi took out her key and unlocked the door.
“Sfogliata. She’s eating out tonight.” Giovanna answered. Her mother had a date with a Russian. Costanzia disliked the stuffed bread which Nonna and Giovanna loved.
“Good.” They stepped into the narrow hallway, flipping on the light as they walked into the kitchen. Pulling out a chair, Nonna sat down and bent over to remove her shoes. She never wore shoes in the house. Giovanna set the two bags of groceries on the counter and began unpacking them. Standing up, the old woman padded over to the counter in her bare feet and, switching places with the young woman, began unloading the bags as Giovanna crossed the room to the refrigerator and took out the dough. There was always dough in Nonna’s house.
She liked to feel it, smell it, shape it. She loved it because it had potential. “This unassuming lump can become anything you want it to be. Pasta, pie, loaf, sweet, salty, coarse, smooth. This,” she had said holding up the pasty mass, “is the staple food of the world. On dough, we have built countries, empires, kingdoms. Be like dough, Giovanna. Be dependable, be needed, be the sweetness and salt the world looks for.”
“But I don’t want to be moldable.”
“No,” Nonna consented, “but you also don’t want to be stuck in one belief. I’m not telling you not to believe or disbelieve in certain things, because there are some things that are right and some things that are wrong and no amount of believing can change that; I just think that everyone should be more open and not so caught in their own ideas. You can’t be right every time.”
There was one thing Nonna believed Giovanna never got wrong. Music—Giovanna understood it. Music could never replace words, but that did not mean that its value was any less than spoken syllables. Both words and music could speak to the soul, but where words often crushed spirits, music—true music—was capable only of lifting them. More than sound, music could connect one heart to another, could join the past and the present, could link this world and the one that was to come. It was powerful, making the one who could produce it more powerful still.
Giovanna played for her grandmother on the old brown piano, its three legs planted solidly on the tile, its top always open. Schumann concertos, Beethoven sonatas, and Chopin etudes, were scattered across the bench and on the floor behind the instrument. The day passed and the night progressed. In the big blue chair by the open window, Nonna Bambi sat with her eyes closed, but Giovanna knew she was wide awake. Her eyes popped open at the sound of the key in the lock.
Giovanna stopped playing when the front door opened. The sound of Costanzia’s heels clicked across the tile, stopping at the coat rack, then continuing on, and a moment later she appeared in the doorway wearing a little black dress. “You’re up late.” She saw the music spread across the floor and sighed, bending over to scoop up a handful of scores, “You need to get out and do things with other people, Giovanna. Being alone so much isn’t good for you.” Crossing the room, Costanzia went to the open window and pulled it shut, tossing her handbag into the empty blue chair as she did so.
Then she leaned against the doorframe and stared at her daughter, “Why do you think so much? I’m starting to worry about you.” Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “Please go out and spend time with people tomorrow. I don’t want you sitting in here alone anymore.” She waited for Giovanna’s nod of consent, then frowned concernedly and clicked out of the doorway and up the stairs.
Giovanna gazed at the blue chair by the closed window. Tomorrow she would ask Nonna Bambi to define the word alone.
Oy. That was really long, even though it was a short story... I think I've set a new record for blog length, for me, anyways. Alright, Goodbye now.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Down With Griping--Be Happy Mon
Let me vent for a moment.
Silence, then a noise like a balloon deflating.
Oh, shoot. I was all fired up to go passionately on and on about this incredibly lame science project I have to do (evil, nasty, vicious things) when I had a thought.
There are people in Africa who don’t get water every day.
There are people who are slaves or captives or persecuted.
There are people who have been abandoned or orphaned or had loved ones die.
I can't justify my whining. So I won’t. Whine, that is. I was made in the image of God; His character, His attributes can be seen (to a certain degree) in me. Selfish complaining should have no place in my life. What’s more, when I turn my eyes away from myself to others (by ceasing to gripe shallowly), I feel the urge to do something about the terrible things I see. I have Christ in me (whoa). Christ has overcome the world. I can work to bring about change knowing that God has already triumphed. He is Victorious. This knowledge should keep us from despairing, from feeling hopeless and cheerless about the fate of others who are less fortunate. God wants us to care and to work, but he doesn’t want us to feel joyless. No.
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” Philippians 4:4
Sorry, this blog isn’t flowing in a very structured fashion (‘in a very structured fashion’? What has happened to my mad writing skills? Oh, look. It’s past nine. That would explain things. Explain things for me, at least. Maybe the rest of you are still in the dark… I’m just going to stop trying to clarify things now.)
Back to my point: God is totally and completely and in every possible way absolutely in control. He is Triumphant. He is All-Powerful. He is our Great and Mighty Warrior, our Loving and Compassionate Father Who cares for us. Someday all the pain that happened on earth will be forgotten in the joy of heaven. But all the work we do to help ease the pain of others through our love will be remembered for all eternity.
Be joyful. Pray continually. Trust God. Love others. Forget yourself. Hope.
Make God your closest friend.
I guess that’s all.
Silence, then a noise like a balloon deflating.
Oh, shoot. I was all fired up to go passionately on and on about this incredibly lame science project I have to do (evil, nasty, vicious things) when I had a thought.
There are people in Africa who don’t get water every day.
There are people who are slaves or captives or persecuted.
There are people who have been abandoned or orphaned or had loved ones die.
I can't justify my whining. So I won’t. Whine, that is. I was made in the image of God; His character, His attributes can be seen (to a certain degree) in me. Selfish complaining should have no place in my life. What’s more, when I turn my eyes away from myself to others (by ceasing to gripe shallowly), I feel the urge to do something about the terrible things I see. I have Christ in me (whoa). Christ has overcome the world. I can work to bring about change knowing that God has already triumphed. He is Victorious. This knowledge should keep us from despairing, from feeling hopeless and cheerless about the fate of others who are less fortunate. God wants us to care and to work, but he doesn’t want us to feel joyless. No.
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” Philippians 4:4
Sorry, this blog isn’t flowing in a very structured fashion (‘in a very structured fashion’? What has happened to my mad writing skills? Oh, look. It’s past nine. That would explain things. Explain things for me, at least. Maybe the rest of you are still in the dark… I’m just going to stop trying to clarify things now.)
Back to my point: God is totally and completely and in every possible way absolutely in control. He is Triumphant. He is All-Powerful. He is our Great and Mighty Warrior, our Loving and Compassionate Father Who cares for us. Someday all the pain that happened on earth will be forgotten in the joy of heaven. But all the work we do to help ease the pain of others through our love will be remembered for all eternity.
Be joyful. Pray continually. Trust God. Love others. Forget yourself. Hope.
Make God your closest friend.
I guess that’s all.
Friday, September 5, 2008
I'm a T.A.G.O.H.!
I am feeling very Peter Panish. I feel like writing about stardust or a band of street-urchins. Gangs of sewer-kids always get cool names. If I had a band of urchins all to myself to name what I wished, I’d call them Thrush, Quirks, Mendel, Sprig, and Sultan. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ll write a book about the five of them someday…
Anyways, today I was reading more Anglo-Saxon poems (I’m not quite nerdy enough to have thought of this pastime on my own—though I didn’t mid it much—again, this was another assignment from my English Lit teacher). One of these poems, called “The Dream of the Rood” (author unknown), was about the cross of Christ and the death of Jesus from its standpoint. The whole poem was pretty neat and the Anglo-Saxon twist on the character of Christ was interesting. They viewed him as a fearless warrior, making his way with zeal up to the cross. In a way, it was kind of exciting to view Jesus in this light, as “the young Hero”, but it also isn’t completely correct. Jesus told his disciples, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” (Matthew 26:38) Goodness, I think this may be the most heartbreaking verses in the Bible. The Creator of emotion allowed Himself to feel this way because He loved us. Jesus did not strut up to the cross.
One line in particular in “The Dream of the Rood” popped out at me. It says, “And they shall be afraid then, and think of little which they can say to Christ.”
I don’t spend much time thinking about that day when I will stand before Jesus, but maybe I should. Will the meeting be totally awkward for me? Or will I be like, “Hi, God—man, You always told me You were amazing, but you really didn’t do yourself justice!—remember that conversation we were having this morning, before you came bursting down from Heaven with your angels?—which, I should add, was absolutely astounding—Jesus and I have been chatting all the way up here, He’s totally thrilled for me to see my room…”
I just want God to be my best friend, so that He can say to me when I meet Him, “Well done, My good and faithful servant—[I love you, kiddo]”. But I’ve got to foster that relationship now.
Let’s be people after God’s own heart. What an amazing title: Hayley, Teenager After God’s Own Heart. I’m a T.A.G.O.H. (tah-go)! Neat. Someday I’ll be a W.A.G.O.H. (Woman After God’s Own Heart) and sometime after that—long long after that—I’ll be a S.C.A.G.O.H. (Senior Citizen After God’s Own Heart).
Okay, I’ve got to go, have a beautiful Friday!
Anyways, today I was reading more Anglo-Saxon poems (I’m not quite nerdy enough to have thought of this pastime on my own—though I didn’t mid it much—again, this was another assignment from my English Lit teacher). One of these poems, called “The Dream of the Rood” (author unknown), was about the cross of Christ and the death of Jesus from its standpoint. The whole poem was pretty neat and the Anglo-Saxon twist on the character of Christ was interesting. They viewed him as a fearless warrior, making his way with zeal up to the cross. In a way, it was kind of exciting to view Jesus in this light, as “the young Hero”, but it also isn’t completely correct. Jesus told his disciples, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” (Matthew 26:38) Goodness, I think this may be the most heartbreaking verses in the Bible. The Creator of emotion allowed Himself to feel this way because He loved us. Jesus did not strut up to the cross.
One line in particular in “The Dream of the Rood” popped out at me. It says, “And they shall be afraid then, and think of little which they can say to Christ.”
I don’t spend much time thinking about that day when I will stand before Jesus, but maybe I should. Will the meeting be totally awkward for me? Or will I be like, “Hi, God—man, You always told me You were amazing, but you really didn’t do yourself justice!—remember that conversation we were having this morning, before you came bursting down from Heaven with your angels?—which, I should add, was absolutely astounding—Jesus and I have been chatting all the way up here, He’s totally thrilled for me to see my room…”
I just want God to be my best friend, so that He can say to me when I meet Him, “Well done, My good and faithful servant—[I love you, kiddo]”. But I’ve got to foster that relationship now.
Let’s be people after God’s own heart. What an amazing title: Hayley, Teenager After God’s Own Heart. I’m a T.A.G.O.H. (tah-go)! Neat. Someday I’ll be a W.A.G.O.H. (Woman After God’s Own Heart) and sometime after that—long long after that—I’ll be a S.C.A.G.O.H. (Senior Citizen After God’s Own Heart).
Okay, I’ve got to go, have a beautiful Friday!
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The Excitement of Beowulf Condensed.
Well, I’m weary to my very bones—particularly my hip bones, knee bones, and shin bones. I ran too much this morning and now I am reaping the consequences. And get this: On the one day that I can—and should eat—more than usual, I have no appetite! That’s a first. Anyways, I hope everyone out there is doing well. I have to admit, that I’ve had better weeks. My sweet, sweet dog has cancer and it’s just kind of hanging over my head. It’s weird when someone has a time limit on the rest of their life.
We’re reading Beowulf in my World Lit class right now. This is my second time reading it, and I just love it. So, I decided (with some prodding from my English teacher, who threatened me with an F should I fail to attempt such an assignment) that I would write a one-page synopsis of the battle between Beowulf and Grendel using the Anglo-Saxon style (alliteration, kenning, litotes, metaphors, and other such joyous grammatical things). Since I wrote this as an Anglo-Saxon would, I’ve decided to take an Anglo-Saxon name and call myself by it.
“The Battle”
By Haylee Synnove Cantrella*
The darkness-creeper left wet, frothy footmarks as he traveled
from the writhing, marshy mere to the feast hall of Hrothgar.
Sounder he may have stayed had he swallowed his blood-lust that night.
The great door gave way to the might of Grendel;
it splintered under his strength as he tore it from its sockets—
an ominous omen this. Wyrd would be unkind to the death-dealer tonight.
Treading across the hall, Grendel came upon the first sleeping warrior
and him he devoured more brutally and bloodily than any brood-lion.
Reaching for the second, the soul-slayer found himself grasped,
clasped by a fierce hand—the tongs of death—for Beowulf had stirred,
and release his formidable clutch the great Geat could not
until his oath was accomplished and Grendel’s blood-wite fulfilled.
The oath of Beowulf was thus: to scorn sword and shield
and give bare-armed, empty-handed Grendel fair game,
leaving the outcome of the battle in the hands of the Just God.
Now the demon had but one thought remaining—
it surged through his mind, it settled in the pit of his stomach,
up from which rose a great billowing bile and an unearthly groan—
to escape the stern sentence of the Lord Almighty,
which was to be dealt by the deathly hands of bold Beowulf.
Gore-ridden fingers were crushed in the hard-wearing handclasp.
A skirmish commenced. Neither angels in heaven
nor demons in hell could shut out the din of the brawl—
likewise, from outside the hall, mighty Danes heard the rumpus
and a dark, cold fear filled up their marrow. The woken warriors
unsheathed their swords, but open the sordid skin
and trickle the vile life-blood of the blood-letter they could not;
the enchantments of Grendel warded off weapons of war.
It was the heart-desire of Beowulf that the hell-demon—
bloated with fair flesh of warriors and glutted with guilt of slaughter—
should not leave Heorot alive. Hatred and horror
encompassed the putrid soul of the fen-fiend and flight was his wish.
In this war of wills one option was offered to Grendel.
The sound of sinews snapping and of bones breaking was a noise
most difficult to discern under the torturous shriek of the broken beast. His right wrist lay even now in the palm of the princely Geat,
but his left accompanied his death-ready soul through the door of Heorot.
Thus with his gruesome scepter of shoulder, arm and hand,
Beowulf established himself as a master among men.
*Haylee: from the hay medow; Synnove: gift of the sun; Cantrella: starlight princess
I hope some of you have read Beowulf. Alright, well, I’ve got to go. Here’s my parting shot:
Jesus said in Luke 12:32 “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
I just like it. Hello to the rest of the “little flock”. I hope you have a splendid day!
We’re reading Beowulf in my World Lit class right now. This is my second time reading it, and I just love it. So, I decided (with some prodding from my English teacher, who threatened me with an F should I fail to attempt such an assignment) that I would write a one-page synopsis of the battle between Beowulf and Grendel using the Anglo-Saxon style (alliteration, kenning, litotes, metaphors, and other such joyous grammatical things). Since I wrote this as an Anglo-Saxon would, I’ve decided to take an Anglo-Saxon name and call myself by it.
“The Battle”
By Haylee Synnove Cantrella*
The darkness-creeper left wet, frothy footmarks as he traveled
from the writhing, marshy mere to the feast hall of Hrothgar.
Sounder he may have stayed had he swallowed his blood-lust that night.
The great door gave way to the might of Grendel;
it splintered under his strength as he tore it from its sockets—
an ominous omen this. Wyrd would be unkind to the death-dealer tonight.
Treading across the hall, Grendel came upon the first sleeping warrior
and him he devoured more brutally and bloodily than any brood-lion.
Reaching for the second, the soul-slayer found himself grasped,
clasped by a fierce hand—the tongs of death—for Beowulf had stirred,
and release his formidable clutch the great Geat could not
until his oath was accomplished and Grendel’s blood-wite fulfilled.
The oath of Beowulf was thus: to scorn sword and shield
and give bare-armed, empty-handed Grendel fair game,
leaving the outcome of the battle in the hands of the Just God.
Now the demon had but one thought remaining—
it surged through his mind, it settled in the pit of his stomach,
up from which rose a great billowing bile and an unearthly groan—
to escape the stern sentence of the Lord Almighty,
which was to be dealt by the deathly hands of bold Beowulf.
Gore-ridden fingers were crushed in the hard-wearing handclasp.
A skirmish commenced. Neither angels in heaven
nor demons in hell could shut out the din of the brawl—
likewise, from outside the hall, mighty Danes heard the rumpus
and a dark, cold fear filled up their marrow. The woken warriors
unsheathed their swords, but open the sordid skin
and trickle the vile life-blood of the blood-letter they could not;
the enchantments of Grendel warded off weapons of war.
It was the heart-desire of Beowulf that the hell-demon—
bloated with fair flesh of warriors and glutted with guilt of slaughter—
should not leave Heorot alive. Hatred and horror
encompassed the putrid soul of the fen-fiend and flight was his wish.
In this war of wills one option was offered to Grendel.
The sound of sinews snapping and of bones breaking was a noise
most difficult to discern under the torturous shriek of the broken beast. His right wrist lay even now in the palm of the princely Geat,
but his left accompanied his death-ready soul through the door of Heorot.
Thus with his gruesome scepter of shoulder, arm and hand,
Beowulf established himself as a master among men.
*Haylee: from the hay medow; Synnove: gift of the sun; Cantrella: starlight princess
I hope some of you have read Beowulf. Alright, well, I’ve got to go. Here’s my parting shot:
Jesus said in Luke 12:32 “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
I just like it. Hello to the rest of the “little flock”. I hope you have a splendid day!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Infinitesimally: This Is A Good Word
Let me begin by saying,
I itch.
Fiercely. Fully. Ubiquitously. It’s really kind of stupid and I’m getting annoyed. I don’t know why I itch, but I do, so there you go.
Now, on the brighter and more significant side, God showed me something today through the enthralling and exhaustive (do you know how heavy a hard cover 1,290 page book is?) work Systematic Theology by Wayne Grudem which I am reading for school this year. How big is God? We’ll never know, especially while we’re still on the earth because while we’re here the nature of God can only be explained to us through things we know or “human terms”. (The term that explains all this is anthropomorphic for all you scholastic type.) I thought that was incredibly neat. Here I am thinking that there are no more “terms” except human ones. It’s kind of exciting to think that there are things we can’t even begin to understand because our minds can’t handle it. “For My thoughts are higher than your thoughts as the heavens are higher than the earth.” Isaiah 55:9.
This makes me feel very stupid. Sometimes when I’m having a conversation with someone that person will comment on something they know absolutely nothing about (and conversely—sorry for these SAT words today—something that I do know something about.) and when this happens I, being an imperfect human, will stare at them with the deepest loathing because I find them so intolerably idiotic. Goodness, how many chances have I given God to stare at me with disgust? (Like, every moment of every day.) And yet, I don’t think He does because He’s bigger than that and “His ways are not our ways.” (Again, I’ve forgotten where this verse lives…but it’s in there, I promise you that.). I’m just little, fumbling, dull-witted Hayley and God loves me. Happy day.
I still itch. But there have been worse things...sigh.
Well. TTFN.
I itch.
Fiercely. Fully. Ubiquitously. It’s really kind of stupid and I’m getting annoyed. I don’t know why I itch, but I do, so there you go.
Now, on the brighter and more significant side, God showed me something today through the enthralling and exhaustive (do you know how heavy a hard cover 1,290 page book is?) work Systematic Theology by Wayne Grudem which I am reading for school this year. How big is God? We’ll never know, especially while we’re still on the earth because while we’re here the nature of God can only be explained to us through things we know or “human terms”. (The term that explains all this is anthropomorphic for all you scholastic type.) I thought that was incredibly neat. Here I am thinking that there are no more “terms” except human ones. It’s kind of exciting to think that there are things we can’t even begin to understand because our minds can’t handle it. “For My thoughts are higher than your thoughts as the heavens are higher than the earth.” Isaiah 55:9.
This makes me feel very stupid. Sometimes when I’m having a conversation with someone that person will comment on something they know absolutely nothing about (and conversely—sorry for these SAT words today—something that I do know something about.) and when this happens I, being an imperfect human, will stare at them with the deepest loathing because I find them so intolerably idiotic. Goodness, how many chances have I given God to stare at me with disgust? (Like, every moment of every day.) And yet, I don’t think He does because He’s bigger than that and “His ways are not our ways.” (Again, I’ve forgotten where this verse lives…but it’s in there, I promise you that.). I’m just little, fumbling, dull-witted Hayley and God loves me. Happy day.
I still itch. But there have been worse things...sigh.
Well. TTFN.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Jimmy. Sniff sniff.
Well, hello.
How is everyone? I’m rather tired. I want to go to the library. Let me take a moment to thank everyone who has ever responded to one of my blogs. It really makes me happy to sit down and see that somebody “commented” on my blog. Am I supposed to comment back? This I don’t know.
Once there was a tiny caterpillar. He was about a quarter of an inch long with a black head and a green body. His feet were so darn teensy you could barely see them. They were about as thick as a hair. Never before had Hayley seen such magnificence in an insect. She liked it when he lifted his little head and looked around. His name was Jimmy. This is his story.
In a manner of speaking, Jimmy was born. The wind blew Jimmy from his perch on the butterfly bush and he floated through the screen. Jimmy landed on Hayley’s list of ‘things to do’ and when Hayley leaned over to see how little she had gotten done, her gaze locked on the diminutive creature. Hayley fell in love, but knew that Jimmy was a wild animal and that wild animals need to be free. But Jimmy didn’t seem to understand, because when Hayley carried him outside on her ‘to do’ list, he wouldn’t let go of the paper. This predicament tempted Hayley. If the little creature didn’t want to be set free, couldn’t she keep it without moral controversy? But lest it be said that Hayley didn’t know where wild animals belong, and risk being reproached by animal activists everywhere, she shook the book and Jimmy lost his grip. Then she couldn’t find Jimmy anywhere. She may have stepped on Jimmy. It was all very sad.
Hmm… this story will win me fame and fortune someday. Or I’ll just put in my autobiography. Well, now that I’ve wasted more time on Jimmy (I doubt there was ever a caterpillar that was so documented) I think I’ll go to the library.
I dare you all to wake up early tomorrow (earlier than usual) or sometime this week and take a walk and while you walk memorize Bible verses. Early morning is the best part of the day. I hope time in heaven is stuck on early morning. Anyways… Farewell.
How is everyone? I’m rather tired. I want to go to the library. Let me take a moment to thank everyone who has ever responded to one of my blogs. It really makes me happy to sit down and see that somebody “commented” on my blog. Am I supposed to comment back? This I don’t know.
Once there was a tiny caterpillar. He was about a quarter of an inch long with a black head and a green body. His feet were so darn teensy you could barely see them. They were about as thick as a hair. Never before had Hayley seen such magnificence in an insect. She liked it when he lifted his little head and looked around. His name was Jimmy. This is his story.
In a manner of speaking, Jimmy was born. The wind blew Jimmy from his perch on the butterfly bush and he floated through the screen. Jimmy landed on Hayley’s list of ‘things to do’ and when Hayley leaned over to see how little she had gotten done, her gaze locked on the diminutive creature. Hayley fell in love, but knew that Jimmy was a wild animal and that wild animals need to be free. But Jimmy didn’t seem to understand, because when Hayley carried him outside on her ‘to do’ list, he wouldn’t let go of the paper. This predicament tempted Hayley. If the little creature didn’t want to be set free, couldn’t she keep it without moral controversy? But lest it be said that Hayley didn’t know where wild animals belong, and risk being reproached by animal activists everywhere, she shook the book and Jimmy lost his grip. Then she couldn’t find Jimmy anywhere. She may have stepped on Jimmy. It was all very sad.
Hmm… this story will win me fame and fortune someday. Or I’ll just put in my autobiography. Well, now that I’ve wasted more time on Jimmy (I doubt there was ever a caterpillar that was so documented) I think I’ll go to the library.
I dare you all to wake up early tomorrow (earlier than usual) or sometime this week and take a walk and while you walk memorize Bible verses. Early morning is the best part of the day. I hope time in heaven is stuck on early morning. Anyways… Farewell.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Dum Dum De Dum Da De Dum
Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire!
I have nothing to follow this exclamation, I just felt like exclaiming. So, this morning I ran 16 miles (stupid, I know) and now I know how an elderly woman must feel. Not only that, but I can barely form sentences in my head and getting them coherently out of my mouth is a fruitless endeavor. I told my poor piano student today: “Okay so this means that you do that when it’s before this, yeah, and that’s all the explanation you’re going to get, so I hope you get it.” Seriously, that’s as far as my brain is going today. I saw a snail this morning! And fog. And when I ran through the bushes they got me sopping wet. It was a very exciting day.
Alright, now I have something more serious to discuss with you all. Hebrews 10:26-31 says,
“If we deliberately keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left, but only a fearful expectation of judgment and of raging fire that will consume the enemies of God. Anyone who rejected the law of Moses died without mercy on the testimony of two or three witnesses, How much more severely do you think a man deserves to be punished who has trampled the Son of God under foot, who has treated as an unholy this the blood of the covenant that sanctified him, and who has insulted the Spirit of grace? For we know him who said, ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ and again, ‘The Lord will judge his people.’ It is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”
Let me tell you something truthfully.
I wish these verses weren’t in the Bible.
Goodness, gracious, they’re just a wee bit forceful, aren’t they? And convicting. Very very convicting. I think these might be rated as a few of the hardest verses in the entire Bible. There’s not much more to be said about them except that we cannot and should not keep on sinning. We have no right to, and we’re not going to get off the hook as easily as we’ve all been expecting. God is Love (and He's always faithful to forgive us of our sins--70 times 7--and He'll never stop loving us--just thought I needed to insert this), but He’s no pushover. So I guess I need to pray that I can obey this verse. And pray that I won’t be anxious about not being able to obey this verse (I was sweating bullets when I read it this morning). “Don’t be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present you requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard you hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7
I have nothing to follow this exclamation, I just felt like exclaiming. So, this morning I ran 16 miles (stupid, I know) and now I know how an elderly woman must feel. Not only that, but I can barely form sentences in my head and getting them coherently out of my mouth is a fruitless endeavor. I told my poor piano student today: “Okay so this means that you do that when it’s before this, yeah, and that’s all the explanation you’re going to get, so I hope you get it.” Seriously, that’s as far as my brain is going today. I saw a snail this morning! And fog. And when I ran through the bushes they got me sopping wet. It was a very exciting day.
Alright, now I have something more serious to discuss with you all. Hebrews 10:26-31 says,
“If we deliberately keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left, but only a fearful expectation of judgment and of raging fire that will consume the enemies of God. Anyone who rejected the law of Moses died without mercy on the testimony of two or three witnesses, How much more severely do you think a man deserves to be punished who has trampled the Son of God under foot, who has treated as an unholy this the blood of the covenant that sanctified him, and who has insulted the Spirit of grace? For we know him who said, ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ and again, ‘The Lord will judge his people.’ It is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”
Let me tell you something truthfully.
I wish these verses weren’t in the Bible.
Goodness, gracious, they’re just a wee bit forceful, aren’t they? And convicting. Very very convicting. I think these might be rated as a few of the hardest verses in the entire Bible. There’s not much more to be said about them except that we cannot and should not keep on sinning. We have no right to, and we’re not going to get off the hook as easily as we’ve all been expecting. God is Love (and He's always faithful to forgive us of our sins--70 times 7--and He'll never stop loving us--just thought I needed to insert this), but He’s no pushover. So I guess I need to pray that I can obey this verse. And pray that I won’t be anxious about not being able to obey this verse (I was sweating bullets when I read it this morning). “Don’t be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present you requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard you hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Geeses and Plans
Please excuse me for my inexcusably long absence. I don’t know what I’ve been doing lately, but it definitely hasn’t been blogging. Hopefully I haven’t lost the little number of readers I had (Mom! Come back! I’m blogging again.). School has started (fun fun). That’s about all on that front.
This morning I was lying out on the hammock and the sun hadn’t quite got to where I was sitting yet, when a hummingbird landed on the branch right above my head. It was love at first sight. I was slightly smitten with the little thing. Now, the pack (herd, school, gaggle—aha!) of geese that flew over the tennis court (the tennis court I was trapped within, just to clarify) were not cute. They nearly splattered me with “stuff”. Me and goose poop, we go way back. Long ago, when I used to play soccer and my dad was coach, he would get the whole team to kneel down in a circle around him on the grass. Then, because we were a rec team and didn’t have a bunch of fancy white boards and the like, he would pick sixteen pieces of goose droppings (I was the tall, skinny one), and run them around the little square field and have them do plays and drills that he wanted us to learn. I crumbled into bits more than once waiting for Rosie to cross pass me the ball.
Anyways, (I love reminiscing) I had a little discussion with my uncle, my dad, my sister, my grandma, (okay, it was kind of a big discussion), my step-grandpa, and my mom last night about God’s will. Thankfully, there were no fireworks. My uncle was saying that although God has a plan for each of our lives we don’t need to wander the earth fretting that we’ll “mess up” and somehow do something that was not part of God’s plan for us—at least, I think this is what he was saying. My uncle can be slightly more confusing than my dad at times—. My uncle didn’t think it was possible to do this (step out of God’s will), and didn’t think it was something we needed to worry about (I told him I wasn’t worrying about it, and he said he knew, but that someday I might worry about it and he wanted me to remember what he was telling me so that I would never worry about it. My uncle is an air force chaplain; sometimes he can’t help giving sermons—which is fine, because I’m all for them.) I agreed with my uncle.
Then my grandma said something that made me sad. She said that although God might have a plan for me or someone else, she didn’t think He had a plan for her, because she had never done anything special and didn’t think she would. Listen carefully, Grandy.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Job 29:11 (read the rest of the verse if you don’t know it. It’s amazing.)
“The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me.” (Darn it, I’ve forgotten where this one comes from.)
“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all of my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O lord. You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain…Your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (Part of) Psalm 139
It just makes me so excited to understand how utterly and completely God is involved in my life. He knows more about me than I do and none of the pages in His little book of “Hayley’s Life” are blank. He’s got notes and details on each one of them, just like He’s got plans on each page of my grandma’s.
Neat stuff.
This morning I was lying out on the hammock and the sun hadn’t quite got to where I was sitting yet, when a hummingbird landed on the branch right above my head. It was love at first sight. I was slightly smitten with the little thing. Now, the pack (herd, school, gaggle—aha!) of geese that flew over the tennis court (the tennis court I was trapped within, just to clarify) were not cute. They nearly splattered me with “stuff”. Me and goose poop, we go way back. Long ago, when I used to play soccer and my dad was coach, he would get the whole team to kneel down in a circle around him on the grass. Then, because we were a rec team and didn’t have a bunch of fancy white boards and the like, he would pick sixteen pieces of goose droppings (I was the tall, skinny one), and run them around the little square field and have them do plays and drills that he wanted us to learn. I crumbled into bits more than once waiting for Rosie to cross pass me the ball.
Anyways, (I love reminiscing) I had a little discussion with my uncle, my dad, my sister, my grandma, (okay, it was kind of a big discussion), my step-grandpa, and my mom last night about God’s will. Thankfully, there were no fireworks. My uncle was saying that although God has a plan for each of our lives we don’t need to wander the earth fretting that we’ll “mess up” and somehow do something that was not part of God’s plan for us—at least, I think this is what he was saying. My uncle can be slightly more confusing than my dad at times—. My uncle didn’t think it was possible to do this (step out of God’s will), and didn’t think it was something we needed to worry about (I told him I wasn’t worrying about it, and he said he knew, but that someday I might worry about it and he wanted me to remember what he was telling me so that I would never worry about it. My uncle is an air force chaplain; sometimes he can’t help giving sermons—which is fine, because I’m all for them.) I agreed with my uncle.
Then my grandma said something that made me sad. She said that although God might have a plan for me or someone else, she didn’t think He had a plan for her, because she had never done anything special and didn’t think she would. Listen carefully, Grandy.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Job 29:11 (read the rest of the verse if you don’t know it. It’s amazing.)
“The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me.” (Darn it, I’ve forgotten where this one comes from.)
“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all of my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O lord. You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain…Your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (Part of) Psalm 139
It just makes me so excited to understand how utterly and completely God is involved in my life. He knows more about me than I do and none of the pages in His little book of “Hayley’s Life” are blank. He’s got notes and details on each one of them, just like He’s got plans on each page of my grandma’s.
Neat stuff.
Friday, August 8, 2008
My Kid Sister and Disgustingness
I woke up at 3:55 this morning and stayed up (our plane departed at 5:30, crazy huh?), so please forgive me if my sentences are incoherent or if I nod off… Well, I’m finally back from our vacation (a.k.a. road trip) through Washington and Oregon. Now I have the weekend to pull my life back together until school starts on Monday—yikes! Today I feel like sharing with you all a little bit about my kid sister Hannah. Let us make a chart.
Hannah
Hair: Brown and curly (which turns golden in the sun.)
Skin: Brown (why on earth does she get the ‘bronzed Amazon queen’ look when I am as white as a goose—a white goose, obviously—?)
Eyes: Brown (wouldn’t that be something if she had gotten hazel or blue eyes? But Hannah got the nice skin and hair, I got the green eyes. Anyways…)
Species: Packrat (I mean that in the best possible sense, Hannah… and you really have been doing better lately.)
Interests: No running, no writing, no reading, no drawing. In other words, nothing I’m interested in. Actually, Hannah likes to cook and would enjoy being in the Coast Guard.
Skills: She’s, like, a handyman or something. She can build anything and is a computer whiz. I can barely figure out how to turn on a computer… Déjà vu.
Good for: Making me laugh (hysterically, uncontrollably, anaerobically, at times—yes I know anaerobically is not a word.) Encouraging me to step out a bit. A good old argument. Hugs. Nice, long, heartfelt hugs.
Alright, now that you know a little more about Hannah than you did before, let me give you just a quick peek into her life. (I hope she won’t kill me for telling you all this…)
This occurred in a little village in Austria. Hannah was attempting to ride her bicycle through the center of town. She was having difficulty maneuvering around the light posts. I was riding in front of her, so this is what I heard.
Some grunting and other noises of exertion.
“Oh, almost hit that one.”
A moment of concentration.
“Whoops.”
Another minute of silence.
The distinct sound of metal on metal. Then,
“I hit that one.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Alright, well, I guess I’m just feeling all mushy from our family trip and everything (which is weird, I’ve been sharing hotel rooms with these people for the past eight days), so here is a verse to go along with my thoughts,
“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.” Ecclesiastes 4:12
Or, in the New Living translation:
“A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer.”
I’ve been trying to go at my troubles and temptations pretty much alone lately. I know God is always there to help me through (and He’s the one who will truly help me succeed), but the periods of spiritual dryness and testing are the times we should draw our friends closer, not push them away. A good friend will not despise you even when you are ashamed of yourself. I’m always amazed at this. When I tell someone I love one of my darkest deepest sins I fully expect them to shrink back, disgusted at the sight of squirming, worm-like me. However, I have found that this is not the case. Instead they love me, pity me, pray for me (my mom is a champion at this sort of thing—thanks Mom.). How amazing is it then, that the God of the universe, who feels more and sees deeper than any friend, does the same thing. We come to Him covered in refuse, completely revolting, and somehow He still loves us! Even after we come to Him again, and again, and again, and again, and again with the same sin, He forgives us and loves us.
This is another topic I’ve been learning about recently. I found this verse again recently, in the exact moment that I needed to hear it more than anything else. I love how that works.
“He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him.” Psalm 103:10-11.
Okay, it’s about time for dinner, so I’ll sign off now! Hope you’re all having a fantabulous Friday.
Hannah
Hair: Brown and curly (which turns golden in the sun.)
Skin: Brown (why on earth does she get the ‘bronzed Amazon queen’ look when I am as white as a goose—a white goose, obviously—?)
Eyes: Brown (wouldn’t that be something if she had gotten hazel or blue eyes? But Hannah got the nice skin and hair, I got the green eyes. Anyways…)
Species: Packrat (I mean that in the best possible sense, Hannah… and you really have been doing better lately.)
Interests: No running, no writing, no reading, no drawing. In other words, nothing I’m interested in. Actually, Hannah likes to cook and would enjoy being in the Coast Guard.
Skills: She’s, like, a handyman or something. She can build anything and is a computer whiz. I can barely figure out how to turn on a computer… Déjà vu.
Good for: Making me laugh (hysterically, uncontrollably, anaerobically, at times—yes I know anaerobically is not a word.) Encouraging me to step out a bit. A good old argument. Hugs. Nice, long, heartfelt hugs.
Alright, now that you know a little more about Hannah than you did before, let me give you just a quick peek into her life. (I hope she won’t kill me for telling you all this…)
This occurred in a little village in Austria. Hannah was attempting to ride her bicycle through the center of town. She was having difficulty maneuvering around the light posts. I was riding in front of her, so this is what I heard.
Some grunting and other noises of exertion.
“Oh, almost hit that one.”
A moment of concentration.
“Whoops.”
Another minute of silence.
The distinct sound of metal on metal. Then,
“I hit that one.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Alright, well, I guess I’m just feeling all mushy from our family trip and everything (which is weird, I’ve been sharing hotel rooms with these people for the past eight days), so here is a verse to go along with my thoughts,
“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.” Ecclesiastes 4:12
Or, in the New Living translation:
“A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer.”
I’ve been trying to go at my troubles and temptations pretty much alone lately. I know God is always there to help me through (and He’s the one who will truly help me succeed), but the periods of spiritual dryness and testing are the times we should draw our friends closer, not push them away. A good friend will not despise you even when you are ashamed of yourself. I’m always amazed at this. When I tell someone I love one of my darkest deepest sins I fully expect them to shrink back, disgusted at the sight of squirming, worm-like me. However, I have found that this is not the case. Instead they love me, pity me, pray for me (my mom is a champion at this sort of thing—thanks Mom.). How amazing is it then, that the God of the universe, who feels more and sees deeper than any friend, does the same thing. We come to Him covered in refuse, completely revolting, and somehow He still loves us! Even after we come to Him again, and again, and again, and again, and again with the same sin, He forgives us and loves us.
This is another topic I’ve been learning about recently. I found this verse again recently, in the exact moment that I needed to hear it more than anything else. I love how that works.
“He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him.” Psalm 103:10-11.
Okay, it’s about time for dinner, so I’ll sign off now! Hope you’re all having a fantabulous Friday.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Fleas and Japanese Game Shows
Hello Folks!
Well, these last few days have been interesting to say the least. I've been touring the Pacific Northwest from the slightly squashed back seat (except for those moments of car sickness when my dearest darling Dad gave up the passenger seat to humor his ailing daughter) of a firetruck-red PT Cruiser. So far I've stayed in a mountain lodge resort on Mount Hood, the Embassy Suites in the Historic Waterfront District of Portland, and Crest Trail Lodge in Packwood, Washington. I cannot for the life of me remember the name Packwood. I must have asked my Mom "Where are we, darn it?" eight times tonight. "Parkland, Sackwood?" Today we pulled off the highway at the foot of Mount St. Helens and took a little walk down the "wildlife-watching" trail. It was beautiful, we were enchanted. Then, suddenly, without warning, we were attacked by vicious plants. I broke out in hives. The only wildlife we encountered other than a dead mouse were insects and arachnids. I broke out in hives (did I mention that?).
My skin is still tingling.
My dad is now 'scraping the dried on spiderwebs off [his] face'.
I think I have a tick in my scalp.
Now we are in Parkwood--darn it, Packwood.
Oh dear. Never in all my days could I have imagined myself in this place. Can you spell 'Hick town'? 'Podunkville'? Sure it's interesting to visit, but my heart aches for the poor people who live here. It makes me appreciate Albuquerque a bit more. Alright, well, Ninja Warrior is calling my name (see what a devastating affect Packwood is having on my poor family?) I hope none of you know the Japanese game show I'm referring to. Goodnight for now.
Well, these last few days have been interesting to say the least. I've been touring the Pacific Northwest from the slightly squashed back seat (except for those moments of car sickness when my dearest darling Dad gave up the passenger seat to humor his ailing daughter) of a firetruck-red PT Cruiser. So far I've stayed in a mountain lodge resort on Mount Hood, the Embassy Suites in the Historic Waterfront District of Portland, and Crest Trail Lodge in Packwood, Washington. I cannot for the life of me remember the name Packwood. I must have asked my Mom "Where are we, darn it?" eight times tonight. "Parkland, Sackwood?" Today we pulled off the highway at the foot of Mount St. Helens and took a little walk down the "wildlife-watching" trail. It was beautiful, we were enchanted. Then, suddenly, without warning, we were attacked by vicious plants. I broke out in hives. The only wildlife we encountered other than a dead mouse were insects and arachnids. I broke out in hives (did I mention that?).
My skin is still tingling.
My dad is now 'scraping the dried on spiderwebs off [his] face'.
I think I have a tick in my scalp.
Now we are in Parkwood--darn it, Packwood.
Oh dear. Never in all my days could I have imagined myself in this place. Can you spell 'Hick town'? 'Podunkville'? Sure it's interesting to visit, but my heart aches for the poor people who live here. It makes me appreciate Albuquerque a bit more. Alright, well, Ninja Warrior is calling my name (see what a devastating affect Packwood is having on my poor family?) I hope none of you know the Japanese game show I'm referring to. Goodnight for now.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
White Jeans and Airports
Well, good news and bad news.
Bad news first: My Bible is packed, so no verses for us today.
Good news second: I will have access to a computer while on vacation. However, I'm not quite sure how much time I'll have to blog with little cousins (and big cousins) to attend to. Last time I went to a wedding--nope, change that--last last time I went to a wedding I was mortally wounded. My pride, you see, was trampled to a pulp. Let me tell you a little story.
"Once there was a beautiful girl who journeyed far to be present at her cousin's wedding. The grand rehersal dinner ball was held outside in the garden of her cousin's betrothed. As the fetching girl carried her plate of chicken and noodles she stepped into a seemingly nonexistant hole and fell, smashing her plate on a nearby railroad-tie (sp?), and causing the poultry and wiggly grains to become airborne. The plate was in quite a state, as was the unfortunate girl's hand. For deep within her palm a shard of porcelain plate was lodged. There was blood and there was an awful lot of mudd and most of it got on the poor girl's white jeans (theses were new jeans, never before worn). Once the blood was washed away and the shard removed--with much agony and many tears (haha, actually not, she was too embarrassed to cry)-- her hand was bandaged by the friendly witch-doctor. Alas, nothing could be done about her jeans. Therefore, for the rest of the evening, everyone at the great ball knew of her unseemly disaster and stared at her pityingly."
THE END
There is a moral to this story.
Don't wear white jeans. It just isn't worth it.
Alright, well, I'm off to board the plane. I love airports--except the NM airport. Hmm. They have a sense of adventure and the unknown--the sents are good too. Frozen yogurt and au bon pain--which is French for all you Frenchly-challenged folks. I hope you hall have a fantastic evening!
Bad news first: My Bible is packed, so no verses for us today.
Good news second: I will have access to a computer while on vacation. However, I'm not quite sure how much time I'll have to blog with little cousins (and big cousins) to attend to. Last time I went to a wedding--nope, change that--last last time I went to a wedding I was mortally wounded. My pride, you see, was trampled to a pulp. Let me tell you a little story.
"Once there was a beautiful girl who journeyed far to be present at her cousin's wedding. The grand rehersal dinner ball was held outside in the garden of her cousin's betrothed. As the fetching girl carried her plate of chicken and noodles she stepped into a seemingly nonexistant hole and fell, smashing her plate on a nearby railroad-tie (sp?), and causing the poultry and wiggly grains to become airborne. The plate was in quite a state, as was the unfortunate girl's hand. For deep within her palm a shard of porcelain plate was lodged. There was blood and there was an awful lot of mudd and most of it got on the poor girl's white jeans (theses were new jeans, never before worn). Once the blood was washed away and the shard removed--with much agony and many tears (haha, actually not, she was too embarrassed to cry)-- her hand was bandaged by the friendly witch-doctor. Alas, nothing could be done about her jeans. Therefore, for the rest of the evening, everyone at the great ball knew of her unseemly disaster and stared at her pityingly."
THE END
There is a moral to this story.
Don't wear white jeans. It just isn't worth it.
Alright, well, I'm off to board the plane. I love airports--except the NM airport. Hmm. They have a sense of adventure and the unknown--the sents are good too. Frozen yogurt and au bon pain--which is French for all you Frenchly-challenged folks. I hope you hall have a fantastic evening!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Vikings and A Lack of Regret
Hello, friends! Didn't Mr. Rodgers used to say that? No (duh). Mr. Rodgers from 'Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood' used to say 'hello, neighbor.' Goodness it's been a long time since childhood. I feel positively ancient. Did any of you know that Mr. Rodgers used to be a sniper? He always wore long-sleeved shirts to cover his tattoos? And you used to think the sweaters were quaint. Anyways. Here's a little story I found.
The Viking’s Hat
By Fervent Writer
"As I sat in front of my hut fixing a falcon’s feather onto the band of a soft green hat, an oared boat slid noisily onto the beach, its serpent-shaped prow crunching on the gravel. Looking up, I watched as a giant of a man jumped from the beached boat, his long blond braids bouncing off his leather armor. He did not look like the usual customer. After marching purposefully towards me, he stopped, folded his muscled arms and said, 'I need a hat.'
I stood up and wiped my hands on my apron, craning my neck back to see his face, 'Well you’ve come to the right place, sir. I’ve got small hats, big hats, hats with wide brims, hats with big feathers.' I held up the falcon’s feather to prove my point.
The man shook his head, causing his sandy mustache to sway back and forth on either side of his mouth. 'Not just any hat,' he growled. 'I want a hat that people will take notice of. I want a hat that will instill fear into the hearts of men. I want a hat that will preserve the memory of the prowess of the Vikings!' His face was flushed with enthusiasm. This guy had vision.
'It will be a pleasure to serve you, sir,' I told him. And it would be too. This new hat sounded like a challenging project. I enjoyed challenging projects. The Viking stared me down, his eyes popping slightly as he contemplated if I was up to the test. 'I’ll make you a hat that will cause knees to tremble and hearts to quail. A hat that will be the symbol of the blight of nations,' I assured him.
He held my gaze for a moment longer before barking, 'I’ll hold you to it.'
After the Viking left, I quickly decided that this fearsome hat needed some sort of formidable adornment, something attention-getting, something exotic. So, I left my hut and wandered into the forest in search of redoubtable embellishment. I was having very little luck finding anything.
Bunny ears? Insects? Mushrooms?
I needed something new, something bold, something striking.
That is when I got hit by the sheep.
Actually, it was a ram. I noticed this just before I was nearly impaled by one of its curved horns as it came flying, head down, out of the trees. I lay back on the dirt, squashed under the animal. Groaning, I rolled it off of me. Like a dying beetle, its hooves waggled in the air for a moment before it righted itself. Then it stood shakily, its funny-shaped eyes darting back and forth. I have never been attacked by a sheep before. Goats yes, sheep no. Maybe his unusual attitude sprung from those giant horns he wore so pompously.
“Who do you think you are?” I asked him angrily, brushing the leaves off my shirt. “You could have killed me.” He snorted unapologetically. “Look,” I jabbed a finger at him, “I’m not liking your attitude. Why don’t you go away and come back when you’ve had time to think about your actions.” Bleating mockingly, he turned and trotted off in the direction from which he came.
I was lifting my pack off the ground when he came charging back. This time I was ready. When those wicked-looking horns were a foot away, I jumped to the side and out of the fanatical sheep’s reach. He skidded to a stop and looked at me reproachfully. I put my hands on my hips and ordered, “Leave. March. Shoo.” I stomped my foot. “You’ll regret it if you play that trick again.” He smacked his lips and wiggled his stub of a tail before prancing off once more. I listened carefully until his footsteps faded away. There was a moment of silence before I could hear him crashing back through the bracket. This sheep had some sort of a problem. I stood on my toes, ready for anything.
There he was, barreling towards me, his funny-shaped eyes filled with a malicious joy. He was running at me…He was running at me…He was running past me…Blam! He was slamming into a tree. I heard an ominous crack and watched as the ram’s neck slumped to the side and his body crumpled to the ground. The sheep had it coming.
I observed the ram for a moment, but there was no sign of life. I poked his stomach and grimaced as his tongue flopped out of his mouth. Cheeky even in death. My eyes moved from his tongue to his horns; they were menacing looking things. I felt their tips and then moved my fingers down the glassy surface. They were also very stylish.
Suddenly my designer’s eyes were opened. What would the Viking think about a hat made with horns? Horns were a symbol of power, a symbol of goring and fighting. He would love it. He had to love it. Besides, they would go great with his hair. I imagined the hat in my mind: a leather skull cap, with a bridge over the nose, studded iron around the brim, and these two magnificent horns protruding from the sides. My eyes flashed open. These things would be all the rage. There would be more orders. I would be in business for years. What was I doing still standing here? There were things to do, hats to make, Vikings to please. The only unfortunate thing was, the Viking would go down in history for his headpiece, but who would remember me?"
"As I sat in front of my hut fixing a falcon’s feather onto the band of a soft green hat, an oared boat slid noisily onto the beach, its serpent-shaped prow crunching on the gravel. Looking up, I watched as a giant of a man jumped from the beached boat, his long blond braids bouncing off his leather armor. He did not look like the usual customer. After marching purposefully towards me, he stopped, folded his muscled arms and said, 'I need a hat.'
I stood up and wiped my hands on my apron, craning my neck back to see his face, 'Well you’ve come to the right place, sir. I’ve got small hats, big hats, hats with wide brims, hats with big feathers.' I held up the falcon’s feather to prove my point.
The man shook his head, causing his sandy mustache to sway back and forth on either side of his mouth. 'Not just any hat,' he growled. 'I want a hat that people will take notice of. I want a hat that will instill fear into the hearts of men. I want a hat that will preserve the memory of the prowess of the Vikings!' His face was flushed with enthusiasm. This guy had vision.
'It will be a pleasure to serve you, sir,' I told him. And it would be too. This new hat sounded like a challenging project. I enjoyed challenging projects. The Viking stared me down, his eyes popping slightly as he contemplated if I was up to the test. 'I’ll make you a hat that will cause knees to tremble and hearts to quail. A hat that will be the symbol of the blight of nations,' I assured him.
He held my gaze for a moment longer before barking, 'I’ll hold you to it.'
After the Viking left, I quickly decided that this fearsome hat needed some sort of formidable adornment, something attention-getting, something exotic. So, I left my hut and wandered into the forest in search of redoubtable embellishment. I was having very little luck finding anything.
Bunny ears? Insects? Mushrooms?
I needed something new, something bold, something striking.
That is when I got hit by the sheep.
Actually, it was a ram. I noticed this just before I was nearly impaled by one of its curved horns as it came flying, head down, out of the trees. I lay back on the dirt, squashed under the animal. Groaning, I rolled it off of me. Like a dying beetle, its hooves waggled in the air for a moment before it righted itself. Then it stood shakily, its funny-shaped eyes darting back and forth. I have never been attacked by a sheep before. Goats yes, sheep no. Maybe his unusual attitude sprung from those giant horns he wore so pompously.
“Who do you think you are?” I asked him angrily, brushing the leaves off my shirt. “You could have killed me.” He snorted unapologetically. “Look,” I jabbed a finger at him, “I’m not liking your attitude. Why don’t you go away and come back when you’ve had time to think about your actions.” Bleating mockingly, he turned and trotted off in the direction from which he came.
I was lifting my pack off the ground when he came charging back. This time I was ready. When those wicked-looking horns were a foot away, I jumped to the side and out of the fanatical sheep’s reach. He skidded to a stop and looked at me reproachfully. I put my hands on my hips and ordered, “Leave. March. Shoo.” I stomped my foot. “You’ll regret it if you play that trick again.” He smacked his lips and wiggled his stub of a tail before prancing off once more. I listened carefully until his footsteps faded away. There was a moment of silence before I could hear him crashing back through the bracket. This sheep had some sort of a problem. I stood on my toes, ready for anything.
There he was, barreling towards me, his funny-shaped eyes filled with a malicious joy. He was running at me…He was running at me…He was running past me…Blam! He was slamming into a tree. I heard an ominous crack and watched as the ram’s neck slumped to the side and his body crumpled to the ground. The sheep had it coming.
I observed the ram for a moment, but there was no sign of life. I poked his stomach and grimaced as his tongue flopped out of his mouth. Cheeky even in death. My eyes moved from his tongue to his horns; they were menacing looking things. I felt their tips and then moved my fingers down the glassy surface. They were also very stylish.
Suddenly my designer’s eyes were opened. What would the Viking think about a hat made with horns? Horns were a symbol of power, a symbol of goring and fighting. He would love it. He had to love it. Besides, they would go great with his hair. I imagined the hat in my mind: a leather skull cap, with a bridge over the nose, studded iron around the brim, and these two magnificent horns protruding from the sides. My eyes flashed open. These things would be all the rage. There would be more orders. I would be in business for years. What was I doing still standing here? There were things to do, hats to make, Vikings to please. The only unfortunate thing was, the Viking would go down in history for his headpiece, but who would remember me?"
Ha, I think it's cute.
Well, on the argument front, I'm not doing super good, but I'm not doing totally bad, either. The hard part is remembering not to get in a fight. It just comes so easily. What if doing nice things came just as easily? Isn't it odd (sickeningly odd) how easily it is to forget the things of God when God is really all that matters? We can forget Him, but we can't escape Him. Anyone who isn't trying (with all their pathetic human might) to convince themselves otherwise, can plainly see that God is part of everything.
Take a look at your foot. Go ahead.
Do you need any more proof to believe in God?
(If you do there's plenty to be found. Let your eyes travel up your foot to your leg. Read ancient writings. Study archeology. Listen to the story of anyone who has ever lived.)
God is real. God is here. Live like God is here. Every moment of every day. I don't want to have regrets about my life when I stand before the Lord. That's my prayer today.
Alright, I'm done now. Wow, this is my longest blog ever!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Augh! I Almost Forgot A Title!
I've got a challenge for you all. (Whoopee!) So I was reading in 2 Timothy today and Paul was getting very fatherly sprewing out good advice left and right. One theme kept surfacing. Take a look.
"Warn them before God against quarreling about words; it is of no value, and only ruins those who listen." 2:14
"Avoid godless chatter, because those who indulge in it will become more and more ungodly." 2:16
" Dont have anything to do with foolish and stupid arguments, because you know they produce quarrels. And the Lord's servant must not quarrel." 2:23-24.
Now, I was thinking that we all might try to keep our shirts on and keep our underwear from knotting and try not to have cows for the next couple of days and see how things go. Paul seems to think this would be a good idea and Paul's assumptions are usually correct (I don't know why, maybe because his words are divinely inspired or something.). I am going to try to keep track of all the arguments I get in in the next couple of days and I'll record them here. I dearly hope that the numbers get shorter each day. It's pretty late in the afternoon, but I think I will begin counting today. If anyone else wants to attempt this with me--great! Winner gets the satisfaction of knowing that they're a winner (oh boy, oh boy) and that they're better, more pleasing servants of God. Let's fight that little gremlin of discord. Stick him with whatever you find. Such as:
The dagger of 'swallow your pride'.
The shovel (which are often used as last-minute weapons in movies) of 'grin and bear it'.
The baseball bat of 'turn the other cheek'.
The big stick of 'maybe there's a possibility I'm not right every single time'.
The sharp object of 'your sister's annoying habit really isn't that annoying (really)'.
Anyways... My last fifteen minutes or so have been argument-free. I'm doing well. Hannah was even in here for a minute and we didn't but heads once.
Well, just as a heads up, I'll be going out of town on Thursday and won't have acess to a computer (I don't think) for a little over a week. I just wanted to give you all time to mentally prepare yourselves for the day when no new posts will appear and you feel your very soul will wither and die. How very sad. I'll miss blogging.
Have a fantastic evening everyone!
"Warn them before God against quarreling about words; it is of no value, and only ruins those who listen." 2:14
"Avoid godless chatter, because those who indulge in it will become more and more ungodly." 2:16
" Dont have anything to do with foolish and stupid arguments, because you know they produce quarrels. And the Lord's servant must not quarrel." 2:23-24.
Now, I was thinking that we all might try to keep our shirts on and keep our underwear from knotting and try not to have cows for the next couple of days and see how things go. Paul seems to think this would be a good idea and Paul's assumptions are usually correct (I don't know why, maybe because his words are divinely inspired or something.). I am going to try to keep track of all the arguments I get in in the next couple of days and I'll record them here. I dearly hope that the numbers get shorter each day. It's pretty late in the afternoon, but I think I will begin counting today. If anyone else wants to attempt this with me--great! Winner gets the satisfaction of knowing that they're a winner (oh boy, oh boy) and that they're better, more pleasing servants of God. Let's fight that little gremlin of discord. Stick him with whatever you find. Such as:
The dagger of 'swallow your pride'.
The shovel (which are often used as last-minute weapons in movies) of 'grin and bear it'.
The baseball bat of 'turn the other cheek'.
The big stick of 'maybe there's a possibility I'm not right every single time'.
The sharp object of 'your sister's annoying habit really isn't that annoying (really)'.
Anyways... My last fifteen minutes or so have been argument-free. I'm doing well. Hannah was even in here for a minute and we didn't but heads once.
Well, just as a heads up, I'll be going out of town on Thursday and won't have acess to a computer (I don't think) for a little over a week. I just wanted to give you all time to mentally prepare yourselves for the day when no new posts will appear and you feel your very soul will wither and die. How very sad. I'll miss blogging.
Have a fantastic evening everyone!
Monday, July 28, 2008
A Shot Glass and Some Chances
Hullo! Top o' the mornin' to ya.
Take a look at the article I found in this morning's paper.
Take a look at the article I found in this morning's paper.
"Undersized Drinking"
BY ELYYAH BEUHR
of the Irish Times
'0THURLES, IRELAND—Mary O’Higgins, part time manager of Mac’s Pub and Grille, was the single witness to an unusual situation last Friday. Arriving at work by ten, O’Higgins unlocked the pub and began her usual preparations for the lunch crowd. As she was wiping off the tap, O’Higgins caught a glimpse of something in the back corner of the pub. “There was a little shimmer, like light reflecting,” the manager related, “so I went over to see what it was.” Leaving the security of the bar, O’Higgins made her way to the back booth. But before she was ten feet away, this stable, hearty woman dropped unconsciously to the floor. This was where twenty-two year old Mandy Cork, the day waitress, found her after arriving at the pub at ten forty-five.
“She was sprawled out on the floor, face down…she came awake when I put the bottle of horseradish under her nose,” Cork said. After awakening her boss, the young server led O’Higgins to a bar stool and brought her a drink. O’Higgins needed only a moment before she began to relate what she had seen. “There were fifteen, no, twenty silvery, little people on the table,” O’Higgins claimed later, “They were sitting in a circle around a bowl of peanuts and a shot glass full of Guinness.” Apparently O’Higgins stumbled upon a batch of merrymaking faeries. Cork saw neither wing nor petal of these tiny pub-goers, but she asserts that the shot glass and peanut shells were on the table.
Before opening the pub at eleven, Cork and O’Higgins called the Thurles police, who took the shot glass away for study. As of now the police have no evidence either confirming or denying the existence of O’Higgins faeries.'
“She was sprawled out on the floor, face down…she came awake when I put the bottle of horseradish under her nose,” Cork said. After awakening her boss, the young server led O’Higgins to a bar stool and brought her a drink. O’Higgins needed only a moment before she began to relate what she had seen. “There were fifteen, no, twenty silvery, little people on the table,” O’Higgins claimed later, “They were sitting in a circle around a bowl of peanuts and a shot glass full of Guinness.” Apparently O’Higgins stumbled upon a batch of merrymaking faeries. Cork saw neither wing nor petal of these tiny pub-goers, but she asserts that the shot glass and peanut shells were on the table.
Before opening the pub at eleven, Cork and O’Higgins called the Thurles police, who took the shot glass away for study. As of now the police have no evidence either confirming or denying the existence of O’Higgins faeries.'
Crazy, huh? Don't quite know if I believe it... Whoever wrote this knows the sort of news I'm interested in. I'd like to meet that oddly-named reporter someday. She obviously understands the value of a good meaty peice of news totally void of gore and politics. Anyways, I found an interesting verse in Acts the other day. Let me share with you all.
"From one man he made every nation of men that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us." Acts 17:26-27
I know God is completely in control of my life, but I just like the wording of this verse. Each one of us has been situated in a time and location where God can reveal Himself to us. I live in New Mexico in the 21st century because God wanted it to be this way (it's not just the terrible fluke I've always assumed it to be. I wanted to live in Scotland in the 19th century...) This is true for everyone in the world who lives and who has lived and who will live. No one can be excused on judgement day because everything was set up perfectly for us and it's our fault if we miss our chance. This verse would be a good argument to tell those who don't believe a merciful God would send people to Hell. God has given everyone a chance (usually much more than one). His desire is that we would reach out for Him. It's our fault if we don't. I just love how God has the whole world so orchestrated. It's not as chaotic as most people think. Does anyone else have anything to comment on this?
Man alive, I must have some of the longest posts on the web. I'll leave you good people in peace now.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Gigantic Thighs and Repentance
Hello my avid readers (I'm giving myself too much credit--this I realize),
Well, as I have just run 11.57 miles (yes, yes, again I'm puffing myself up. I'll pop myself in a minute.) I just feel like sitting here and not moving for maybe, I don't know, a couple months or so. What this means for you, my dear friends, is that this post may be exceedingly long. You're welcome to get up and walk away any time you feel like it. Back to me--oh, I didn't mean that--not what I meant to say, harrumph--back to my running. This is the first time in my young life that I have ever gone so far, and even though I may be permenantly damaged I feel good. I feel like a Greek athlete or someone from way back when who traveled thirty miles a day on foot for some amazing cause (like saving their realm from invaders or something). While I was running, some guy--some serious runner guy, some serious attractive runner guy--sped past me and made me feel kind of slow and pathetic and nerdy (I run with my glasses on.) His thighs were as big as, I don't know, something big. Now I have purposed in my heart to become an amazing runner and get gigantic thighs, so that he will never speed past me again. Maybe next time we're out running at the same time, he'll see me and say,
"Hey, you're a fast runner."
And I'll say, "Hey, thanks, so are you. I have big thighs now. Now I can run fast like you."
And he'll say, "Yeah, well, so long."
Anyways... I told you this would be a long post. A long pointless post. I've got diherea of the mouth today. Gross. Let me talk about something worthwhile. Something that has anything to do with the point of my blog. Namely God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, Christians... Something along those lines. Let me tell you what I have been learning recently...
I have been learning about sin.
Yes, I've been messing around in things I shouldn't (nothing illegal or totally depraved--I heard the gasps and thought I'd better clear things up.). I've been totally selfish. My sin (which shall remain nameless for the time being) separated me from God for the past couple of weeks. There is just such an obvious connection between doing what I shouldn't and then suddenly feeling far away from God. Embarrassed to talk to him, I put Him off because it is the easiest thing to do. This is why God hates sin and why He warns against it. He loves to be with His children, but our sins manage to shove themselves right up between God and us (we, ourselves?), separating us. I've been feeling alone lately but I know I can't blame this on God. This is totally my fault.
So what can I do? Well, in the words of Paul,
"Yet now I am happy, not because you were made sorry, but because your sorrow led you to repentance. For you became sorrowful as God intended. . . Godly sorrow bring repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret." 2 Corinthians 7:9-10
I must repent. Saying I'm sorry won't cut it. I've got to feel sorry (terrible, guilty, dirty, worthless) and turn from my sin. This feeling of repentence doesn't always come when we want it. It's a gift. Weird, but true. So I (and anyone else who finds themselves in the same boat--which would be just about everybody) must pray for the gift of repentance which is something God obviously desires to give us.
Well, I pray that my little revelation helped somebody. Gosh, I hope I didn't sound preachy. I don't ever want to sound 'better than thou'. Somebody warn me if that happens. I just like letting people know what God has been attempting to pound into my thick little cranium.
Goodness, blogging takes up too much time. I've got things to do today. Farewell, all (all three of you.). Until next time.
Well, as I have just run 11.57 miles (yes, yes, again I'm puffing myself up. I'll pop myself in a minute.) I just feel like sitting here and not moving for maybe, I don't know, a couple months or so. What this means for you, my dear friends, is that this post may be exceedingly long. You're welcome to get up and walk away any time you feel like it. Back to me--oh, I didn't mean that--not what I meant to say, harrumph--back to my running. This is the first time in my young life that I have ever gone so far, and even though I may be permenantly damaged I feel good. I feel like a Greek athlete or someone from way back when who traveled thirty miles a day on foot for some amazing cause (like saving their realm from invaders or something). While I was running, some guy--some serious runner guy, some serious attractive runner guy--sped past me and made me feel kind of slow and pathetic and nerdy (I run with my glasses on.) His thighs were as big as, I don't know, something big. Now I have purposed in my heart to become an amazing runner and get gigantic thighs, so that he will never speed past me again. Maybe next time we're out running at the same time, he'll see me and say,
"Hey, you're a fast runner."
And I'll say, "Hey, thanks, so are you. I have big thighs now. Now I can run fast like you."
And he'll say, "Yeah, well, so long."
Anyways... I told you this would be a long post. A long pointless post. I've got diherea of the mouth today. Gross. Let me talk about something worthwhile. Something that has anything to do with the point of my blog. Namely God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, Christians... Something along those lines. Let me tell you what I have been learning recently...
I have been learning about sin.
Yes, I've been messing around in things I shouldn't (nothing illegal or totally depraved--I heard the gasps and thought I'd better clear things up.). I've been totally selfish. My sin (which shall remain nameless for the time being) separated me from God for the past couple of weeks. There is just such an obvious connection between doing what I shouldn't and then suddenly feeling far away from God. Embarrassed to talk to him, I put Him off because it is the easiest thing to do. This is why God hates sin and why He warns against it. He loves to be with His children, but our sins manage to shove themselves right up between God and us (we, ourselves?), separating us. I've been feeling alone lately but I know I can't blame this on God. This is totally my fault.
So what can I do? Well, in the words of Paul,
"Yet now I am happy, not because you were made sorry, but because your sorrow led you to repentance. For you became sorrowful as God intended. . . Godly sorrow bring repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret." 2 Corinthians 7:9-10
I must repent. Saying I'm sorry won't cut it. I've got to feel sorry (terrible, guilty, dirty, worthless) and turn from my sin. This feeling of repentence doesn't always come when we want it. It's a gift. Weird, but true. So I (and anyone else who finds themselves in the same boat--which would be just about everybody) must pray for the gift of repentance which is something God obviously desires to give us.
Well, I pray that my little revelation helped somebody. Gosh, I hope I didn't sound preachy. I don't ever want to sound 'better than thou'. Somebody warn me if that happens. I just like letting people know what God has been attempting to pound into my thick little cranium.
Goodness, blogging takes up too much time. I've got things to do today. Farewell, all (all three of you.). Until next time.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
My First Official Blog
Boy, oh boy, golly-wally, gee-whiz, hot diggety-dog (bang the cymbols, blow the trumpets!) I, Hayley Bop (not real last name) have finally joined the masses of technelogical people and started my very own blog. What should I tell the world first? What wisdom can I impart? What sagely advice can I post for posterity?
Okay, now that I've introduced myself (and ran out of things to say--setting up the blog took it all out me. I'm not cut out for this tech stuff.) I will explain the title of my blog. I will use points. I like points. They simplify things for everybody. When I use points I don't have to write a beautifully organized, cohesive paragraph. Here we go.
Why I Titled My Blog What I Titled My Blog
Okay, now that I've introduced myself (and ran out of things to say--setting up the blog took it all out me. I'm not cut out for this tech stuff.) I will explain the title of my blog. I will use points. I like points. They simplify things for everybody. When I use points I don't have to write a beautifully organized, cohesive paragraph. Here we go.
Why I Titled My Blog What I Titled My Blog
- I am a Christian. However, I am not the sort of Christian who claims to be a Christian and leaves it at that. I really want to know God. I desire to love Jesus with all my heart, strength, and mind. However, I realize that following Christ is the hardest thing a person can do (and yet, it's the easiet thing as well. More on this later.). Every day is a battle.
"For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers,
against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the
spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms."
Ephesians 6:12 I don't fight this battle alone. I have Jesus, the armor of God, and fellow Christians to fight with me. This blog is meant to be a rallying cry from one Christian to another. From one soldier to another. I pray that God may use this site to connect his children. I pray that we will use it to encourage and support one another.
I thought the name was cool. It's tough, kind of haunting, maybe? Is this a misconception of mine?
It came to me pretty quickly, and as it was better than the other titles I was coming up with (such as: Little Tiny Mushrooms and Can't Think of A Name for My Blog) I chose it instead.
Well, I dearly hope that I have covered all ground and not left a single one of you confused on the subject of my title. I'm really kind of excited to push the Publish Post button and see it pop up on my very own, not-so-private, blog. So, without any further ado, I bid you farewell and good afternoon.
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