Brickfish Social Media: Dinosaurs Are Extinct. Dells Aren't.
This video is by my darling friend Katie Johnson from school. She's rather odd, and sort of weird, but it makes me love her so much more, and also compels me to call her... Pookie:) Vote for her video, so she doesn't beat me up when I go back to school and live next door to her. Awesome.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
.....but I wanted roses...
This morning in church, Pastor John taught on Galations chapter 6, verses 7-10....
(7)Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. (8)The one who sows to please his sinful nature, from that nature will reap destruction; the one who sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life. (9)Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (10)Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers.
He mentioned how seeds are very particular little specimens... if you plant a pumpkin seed, it will surly not sprout up a hedgehog. Whatever seeds you plant, are what you get. Makes sense so far, right? Then he went on and honestly, I'm not sure if I just started my thinking wheels or if he said this himself in his message... but planting is not the only thing that goes on before the reaping.
I just read a book called, "Leota's Garden," by Francine Rivers. Love that woman's words... she's so good. Anyway, the book mentioned a good deal of the care that this little old crippled lady spent on her garden. Agonizing hours. Her fingers blistered. Her back ached. Her nose was constantly whipped by the heat of the sun. Her knees were blackened by the relentless embraces of the dirt.
Ok, so let's back track. We reap what we sow. Got it. Bam. Understood.
Ok, so we put a seed in the ground, and it will grow. Ok, class that's all today, you can all go home, see you tomorrow. False. That's not where it ends. If our fingers aren't getting blistered, if our backs don't ache, if our noses aren't sunburnt, and if our knees don't resemble my feet after a few days at Creation, we didn't finish the job.
If we were to simply decide what seeds to plant, and then walk away, it's like saying we forgive someone, and then continuing to living in bitterness. It just doesn't meet up.
We won't get roses, even if we planted the right seeds if we didn't carry through the work. If we didn't work to keep the seeds in the ground, if we didn't weed the crap that tries to wrestle with the growing harvest, if we didn't clip what needed to be clipped, and water what needed to be watered.... nobody's gonna have any flowers to pick.
(7)Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. (8)The one who sows to please his sinful nature, from that nature will reap destruction; the one who sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life. (9)Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (10)Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers.
He mentioned how seeds are very particular little specimens... if you plant a pumpkin seed, it will surly not sprout up a hedgehog. Whatever seeds you plant, are what you get. Makes sense so far, right? Then he went on and honestly, I'm not sure if I just started my thinking wheels or if he said this himself in his message... but planting is not the only thing that goes on before the reaping.
I just read a book called, "Leota's Garden," by Francine Rivers. Love that woman's words... she's so good. Anyway, the book mentioned a good deal of the care that this little old crippled lady spent on her garden. Agonizing hours. Her fingers blistered. Her back ached. Her nose was constantly whipped by the heat of the sun. Her knees were blackened by the relentless embraces of the dirt.
Ok, so let's back track. We reap what we sow. Got it. Bam. Understood.
Ok, so we put a seed in the ground, and it will grow. Ok, class that's all today, you can all go home, see you tomorrow. False. That's not where it ends. If our fingers aren't getting blistered, if our backs don't ache, if our noses aren't sunburnt, and if our knees don't resemble my feet after a few days at Creation, we didn't finish the job.
If we were to simply decide what seeds to plant, and then walk away, it's like saying we forgive someone, and then continuing to living in bitterness. It just doesn't meet up.
We won't get roses, even if we planted the right seeds if we didn't carry through the work. If we didn't work to keep the seeds in the ground, if we didn't weed the crap that tries to wrestle with the growing harvest, if we didn't clip what needed to be clipped, and water what needed to be watered.... nobody's gonna have any flowers to pick.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
It is so good.
I'm in my sunroom. It's the best room in the house, even aside from the fact that my piano is in here.
Outside, the earth is having a fit, and I absolutely love it. It cannot get better. Freer. I wish I could stand out in the middle of the road and let it flow furious around me. But getting all wet before I teach a music lesson in 30 minutes might prove to be a bad idea.
Instead, I stood outside the front door, under the overhead, and just watched. I pulled my hand out in front of me, in attempt to catch a rain drop. What is it about those two words that make it seem like magic? A rain drop. It's like catching fairy dust. I waited. My wrist was slashed. My elbow caught a splash. I brought my hand back to my side, and watched the ground. The stone stairs began to speckle. Beneath the umbrella of the oak tree a few steps away, only a few spots revealed moisture settling. I waited.
The fantastic fragrance of a summer storm could not be captured and enslaved in a bottle to be showered back onto my skin for a fancy evening. It is of unkept beauty. Wild, and mysterious as the sounds that come from the conflicts in the sky as I type. Thunder. No matter what, it always sounds like unspeakable excellence. I don't remember a time in my life when I was scared of the sound. It's almost soothing. In fact, I think it is just that.
I lent my hand back out before me, and made myself available for introductions with the rain. I waited for it to shake my hand. I presented myself unafraid of the unexpected fall of depth in the shades of the daylight. In fact, I don't think the storm could have been intimidated by me... I was quite happy to greet it, even though it did rattle my beach plans for the night.
I brought my hand back to my side. I crossed my arms. But it wasn't in a disapproving way. I slowed my vision to a leaf bouncing like a diving board just abandoned. The wet spread across the green. It looked fresh. It looked good. Like cool breath to a wound. The healing spread across the leaves around the one. My toes painted pink shifted beneath me, and caught a drop, and then another. The wind skid across the air with messengers of water, like a towel being flipped on the beach bringing a rush of sand. I watched the change take place, and again placed my hand out in front of me, willing to catch whatever should fall into it. Soon, a pool swam in my palm, splashing and running off my fingers. Each drop raced another. The wind stirred and slapped the trees around me. The rain changed directions, and I felt it on my knees, my arms, my face.
And now I'm just sitting in my sunroom, no lights. Just the accompaniment of the sounds my fingers make across the keyboard, and the sound lull of the wringing hands in the sky. I have a sliding glass door opened slightly. Enough to let the sounds of the storm patter louder into this room.
Can anything else sound like rain? If only I could sing like it. If only I could play like it. It's music with no instrument. It's music that just is, and requires nothing but ears to receive it.
With such unpredictability comes a snapping of thunder. It sounds like anger. But it sounds relieving.
And the at times, barely visible blinking of lightening.... like the calming, and diminishing sobs of a child coming to peace with his cry.
So refreshed.
And I've just realized I've hardly spoken for a time now. I've been quieted, hushed.
So much response outside.
It is good. It is so good. Let it be.
Outside, the earth is having a fit, and I absolutely love it. It cannot get better. Freer. I wish I could stand out in the middle of the road and let it flow furious around me. But getting all wet before I teach a music lesson in 30 minutes might prove to be a bad idea.
Instead, I stood outside the front door, under the overhead, and just watched. I pulled my hand out in front of me, in attempt to catch a rain drop. What is it about those two words that make it seem like magic? A rain drop. It's like catching fairy dust. I waited. My wrist was slashed. My elbow caught a splash. I brought my hand back to my side, and watched the ground. The stone stairs began to speckle. Beneath the umbrella of the oak tree a few steps away, only a few spots revealed moisture settling. I waited.
The fantastic fragrance of a summer storm could not be captured and enslaved in a bottle to be showered back onto my skin for a fancy evening. It is of unkept beauty. Wild, and mysterious as the sounds that come from the conflicts in the sky as I type. Thunder. No matter what, it always sounds like unspeakable excellence. I don't remember a time in my life when I was scared of the sound. It's almost soothing. In fact, I think it is just that.
I lent my hand back out before me, and made myself available for introductions with the rain. I waited for it to shake my hand. I presented myself unafraid of the unexpected fall of depth in the shades of the daylight. In fact, I don't think the storm could have been intimidated by me... I was quite happy to greet it, even though it did rattle my beach plans for the night.
I brought my hand back to my side. I crossed my arms. But it wasn't in a disapproving way. I slowed my vision to a leaf bouncing like a diving board just abandoned. The wet spread across the green. It looked fresh. It looked good. Like cool breath to a wound. The healing spread across the leaves around the one. My toes painted pink shifted beneath me, and caught a drop, and then another. The wind skid across the air with messengers of water, like a towel being flipped on the beach bringing a rush of sand. I watched the change take place, and again placed my hand out in front of me, willing to catch whatever should fall into it. Soon, a pool swam in my palm, splashing and running off my fingers. Each drop raced another. The wind stirred and slapped the trees around me. The rain changed directions, and I felt it on my knees, my arms, my face.
And now I'm just sitting in my sunroom, no lights. Just the accompaniment of the sounds my fingers make across the keyboard, and the sound lull of the wringing hands in the sky. I have a sliding glass door opened slightly. Enough to let the sounds of the storm patter louder into this room.
Can anything else sound like rain? If only I could sing like it. If only I could play like it. It's music with no instrument. It's music that just is, and requires nothing but ears to receive it.
With such unpredictability comes a snapping of thunder. It sounds like anger. But it sounds relieving.
And the at times, barely visible blinking of lightening.... like the calming, and diminishing sobs of a child coming to peace with his cry.
So refreshed.
And I've just realized I've hardly spoken for a time now. I've been quieted, hushed.
So much response outside.
It is good. It is so good. Let it be.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
City of just love
Alright. So last Friday, Katie and I went to South Street. One of our favorite places to be. We LOVE the city, and have always talked about living in Philly together should we become old crows, single and undesirable. We'd still desire each other's presence and we'd live in our favorite city.
So artsy, so creative and flowing with good stuff. Like Whole Foods, where we had lunch:) And Phileo, a place a of magic. And Sweet Freedom, where everything is gluten free so I can eat and not die. And sometimes, we even get lucky enough to be the only ones left for the street evangelist to yap our ears off when we're already Christians... actually, I abandoned Katie... i'm so sorry...
Katie and I were taking this picture (above) and laughing about how we love how adorable it is to have a garden, and lights on a little porch, which I am adamant about always calling a balcony which is so much more beautiful a word. We would definitely have a place as adorable as that place. We laughed and probably looked like little girls who should have worn our hair in pig tails. Then a rather tall guy with glasses and an overgrown t-shirt to cover his failing pair of pants he held up with one hand said to us, "You guys are SO cute!" We reacted with straight faces, and maybe a little confusion. He walked passed us at that point and said, "No! No it's good! It's a happy thing! Be happy cute!" And we laughed, and he laughed, and we continued on our way in opposite directions. What a city. Happy cute. What a good idea.
And ahhhh... when the evenings prove dull, and void of enough activity, we would go to the theatre. And ohhh. It would be lovely, just lovely. I miss acting:( Sad day.
We had a jolly old time.
And now, this picture... notice the bag in front. It's full of apples. Ok, so we walked through center city, and all down Broad St. and Walnut, and just wherever we felt like... there were so many homeless people. I usually had apples or oranges with me in my purse or something if I went into the city in Chicago or St. Louis while I was at school... better than giving money you probably have an idea of where it'd be spent... and Kath and I are health nuts... so we bought some apples from a random store, and paid all together too much for them.
Our conclusion was sad. We probably won't do that again... next time we at the very least need a guy with us... I always had a guy with me in the past, and it's always gone way better than it went for Katie and me.
Basically, someone asked us for money, and we said we had none, but we offered him an apple...
"No, I don't want an apple... but are you gonna be around later tonight...?" As he started walking toward us... we started walking away rather quickly, and did not look back.
We were peeved, and I was regretting paying for the stinking apples.
So then as we passed other people, we were more freaked, and not really quick to think to offer anything. We decided we wouldn't offer unless they asked us for something. And not only that, but we'd be ready to just hand the fruit over. No turning a head to reach into a bag...
So the only other time someone asked us for money was on a curb, surrounded by people, and alongside a street performer. As he approached us, and we handed him an apple. He held it, and said, "I don't want an apple. I don't want it!" And tried to give it back.
Ok, number one, I was mad. I was frustrated. If a guy were with us, we wouldn't have had to take another four apples home with us that night. And no one would have made any comments to us that were gross. It was actually hilarious though as we said a chorus of statements like, "No keep it," and "it's ok!" and "It's good for you!" We are SUCH health nuts.
Then we realized after we walked away pretty fast that he didn't have many teeth. So... our heroic deed for the day turned out to be a sinking ship.
And I still have a few apples in my fridge. Nice.
The other funny event had to occur as well.... We were at the very end of South, and we were just chilling out. It was getting dark, and we were still waiting for Zach and Caleigh to get there. We were tired from walking around all of Philly for already around 5 hours. And there was a guy supposed to be "dead" on the ground, covered with a sheet. We thought maybe the guy was doing some magic tricks or something. There was a pretty large group surrounding another guy on the pedestal, speaking into a microphone. We decided to see what the fuss was about.
As as we stood by, the group dissolved and left Katie and I alone in front of the guy. He might as well have been standing on a toy beach bucket... and he preached to Katie and I... I started walking away... it was one of those things that does more damage than good. More about condemnation than the saving grace of God. And Katie tried to tell him she was a Christian, and he basically said she probably wasn't. And more people gathered around to watch the spectacle.
It was no use trying to tell him that she and I agreed with what he was saying... it was quite an experience.
Anyway, it was a wonderful day that left us with aching, sore, and cramping feet. We later watched Shutter Island, and were rather freaked. And it was such a good movie. We enjoyed it. Good day:)
So artsy, so creative and flowing with good stuff. Like Whole Foods, where we had lunch:) And Phileo, a place a of magic. And Sweet Freedom, where everything is gluten free so I can eat and not die. And sometimes, we even get lucky enough to be the only ones left for the street evangelist to yap our ears off when we're already Christians... actually, I abandoned Katie... i'm so sorry...
Katie and I were taking this picture (above) and laughing about how we love how adorable it is to have a garden, and lights on a little porch, which I am adamant about always calling a balcony which is so much more beautiful a word. We would definitely have a place as adorable as that place. We laughed and probably looked like little girls who should have worn our hair in pig tails. Then a rather tall guy with glasses and an overgrown t-shirt to cover his failing pair of pants he held up with one hand said to us, "You guys are SO cute!" We reacted with straight faces, and maybe a little confusion. He walked passed us at that point and said, "No! No it's good! It's a happy thing! Be happy cute!" And we laughed, and he laughed, and we continued on our way in opposite directions. What a city. Happy cute. What a good idea.
And ahhhh... when the evenings prove dull, and void of enough activity, we would go to the theatre. And ohhh. It would be lovely, just lovely. I miss acting:( Sad day.
We had a jolly old time.
And now, this picture... notice the bag in front. It's full of apples. Ok, so we walked through center city, and all down Broad St. and Walnut, and just wherever we felt like... there were so many homeless people. I usually had apples or oranges with me in my purse or something if I went into the city in Chicago or St. Louis while I was at school... better than giving money you probably have an idea of where it'd be spent... and Kath and I are health nuts... so we bought some apples from a random store, and paid all together too much for them.
Our conclusion was sad. We probably won't do that again... next time we at the very least need a guy with us... I always had a guy with me in the past, and it's always gone way better than it went for Katie and me.
Basically, someone asked us for money, and we said we had none, but we offered him an apple...
"No, I don't want an apple... but are you gonna be around later tonight...?" As he started walking toward us... we started walking away rather quickly, and did not look back.
We were peeved, and I was regretting paying for the stinking apples.
So then as we passed other people, we were more freaked, and not really quick to think to offer anything. We decided we wouldn't offer unless they asked us for something. And not only that, but we'd be ready to just hand the fruit over. No turning a head to reach into a bag...
So the only other time someone asked us for money was on a curb, surrounded by people, and alongside a street performer. As he approached us, and we handed him an apple. He held it, and said, "I don't want an apple. I don't want it!" And tried to give it back.
Ok, number one, I was mad. I was frustrated. If a guy were with us, we wouldn't have had to take another four apples home with us that night. And no one would have made any comments to us that were gross. It was actually hilarious though as we said a chorus of statements like, "No keep it," and "it's ok!" and "It's good for you!" We are SUCH health nuts.
Then we realized after we walked away pretty fast that he didn't have many teeth. So... our heroic deed for the day turned out to be a sinking ship.
And I still have a few apples in my fridge. Nice.
The other funny event had to occur as well.... We were at the very end of South, and we were just chilling out. It was getting dark, and we were still waiting for Zach and Caleigh to get there. We were tired from walking around all of Philly for already around 5 hours. And there was a guy supposed to be "dead" on the ground, covered with a sheet. We thought maybe the guy was doing some magic tricks or something. There was a pretty large group surrounding another guy on the pedestal, speaking into a microphone. We decided to see what the fuss was about.
As as we stood by, the group dissolved and left Katie and I alone in front of the guy. He might as well have been standing on a toy beach bucket... and he preached to Katie and I... I started walking away... it was one of those things that does more damage than good. More about condemnation than the saving grace of God. And Katie tried to tell him she was a Christian, and he basically said she probably wasn't. And more people gathered around to watch the spectacle.
It was no use trying to tell him that she and I agreed with what he was saying... it was quite an experience.
Anyway, it was a wonderful day that left us with aching, sore, and cramping feet. We later watched Shutter Island, and were rather freaked. And it was such a good movie. We enjoyed it. Good day:)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Duderonomy
Today is Father's Day. My siblings and I used to call our dad Duderonomy. We decided long ago that calling him, "Dude," was far better and more appropriate than "Dad." So we slowly grew the name, and eventually started calling him Duderonomy. Like, "Deuteronomy". But better.
Goodness... I don't even know where to start about my dad. He's my music cheerleader. He did the music thing himself around when he got married. He's the guy who taught me how to harmonize at the brutal age of probably 9 or something. He taught Zach Caleigh and I how to sing three parts for church special music. Making him proud was the best thing on earth. He'd be at the back of the church, always bringing us the extra nod to let us know we were doing ok... and he was always first to remind us if it wasn't for God, we shouldn't be doing it, and it was not worth it.
My dad is the absolute best example of a Christian man I've ever known. He's a living testimony of what it looks like to live in the power of the Holy Spirit every minute. He's a miracle... he almost died a year ago at work. That was the most insane wake up call to me... realizing my dad basically should not have lived through his work accident. What if I had no one to walk me down the aisle, no one for my own kids to call grandpa from my side of the family... even though we already decided we'd use the name "Gramps" rather than "grandpa" for my dad... half in jest ;)
My dad loves my mom. We all know it. No one could ever doubt it. They've been married for 24 years. Eight kids. And he is everything a dad should be. He surpasses what is "required" of a dad to be.
One approving nod from my dad after I perform somewhere is like gold. Yes! It must have been alright then. Or better yet, when he come over and whispers in my ear, "Phenomenal." Hah, he's my music guru... if I don't please him when he was basically my vocal coach till college, what's the point!?
My dad's love is so much like God's love. They both can make me cry. They both can stop me in my tracks. They both can fire me up enough to do things I feel I can't. They both are sweet calm in times of heartache. I'll never forget coming home from school for a few days... I needed to come home and recharge a bit. Some rough stuff had been going on, and we had off a few days, so I came home. Without getting into detail, my heart was just aching. I wasn't on the verge of tears when my dad picked me up from the airport. I felt fine. He knew what had happened over the previous weeks to that visit. And I knew he knew. But I didn't talk about it. Until I got home. I saw my mom in the kitchen, and she hugged me. My sisters came over and hugged me. And my dad came over. He gently touched my hair, and put his arms around me, and said, "This is what I wanted to do a few weeks ago." And he held me for a long time. I felt myself tense up... I didn't want to cry. But it was hopeless.... his love weakens me. I relaxed, and let myself rest. I was safe. In my dad's arms. Tears welled up a bit. But it wasn't just the reality of the previous weeks that brought them. It was my dad.
I'll never forget reading the first entry in a journal my dad wrote... we used to write to each other in a journal. When we'd write back, we'd put it under each other's pillows. My mom and I did it too. But when my dad wrote to me the first time, I must have been around 12 or 13 or so. I remember sitting on my bed, and reading it slowly, and stopping half way. I couldn't finish immediately for the water in my eyes. He had written how beautiful I was. He had called me "Princess," which was his nick name for me when I was little. "You know you're a Princess, right?" He had written. I couldn't believe how precious his words were to me. I felt silly, too. A lot of my friends were getting into the "boy crazy" thing, and hey... boys were getting to be increasingly interesting to me as well. As I sat on my bed, I took out my journal, and copied what he wrote to me, and then said, "My dad's love fills the places in my heart that I feel when I think of boys." I was so young, and it's kind of funny looking back that I had written those words. But even then, my dad's love for me kept me from looking for it somewhere else that might have hurt me.
I respect my Dad. It's the worst pain to think I've disappointed him in some area. I try to make him proud. I want to honor him all the time. He's raised my family to be a bundle of 10 crazy people who all love music, and each other, and above all the Lord. I love him so much.
His love reminds me of God's love. He himself reminds me of my Heavenly Father. He's a man after God's heart. A man I know God smiles on and rejoices over. A man I am so glad and blessed to call my father.
Goodness... I don't even know where to start about my dad. He's my music cheerleader. He did the music thing himself around when he got married. He's the guy who taught me how to harmonize at the brutal age of probably 9 or something. He taught Zach Caleigh and I how to sing three parts for church special music. Making him proud was the best thing on earth. He'd be at the back of the church, always bringing us the extra nod to let us know we were doing ok... and he was always first to remind us if it wasn't for God, we shouldn't be doing it, and it was not worth it.
My dad is the absolute best example of a Christian man I've ever known. He's a living testimony of what it looks like to live in the power of the Holy Spirit every minute. He's a miracle... he almost died a year ago at work. That was the most insane wake up call to me... realizing my dad basically should not have lived through his work accident. What if I had no one to walk me down the aisle, no one for my own kids to call grandpa from my side of the family... even though we already decided we'd use the name "Gramps" rather than "grandpa" for my dad... half in jest ;)
My dad loves my mom. We all know it. No one could ever doubt it. They've been married for 24 years. Eight kids. And he is everything a dad should be. He surpasses what is "required" of a dad to be.
One approving nod from my dad after I perform somewhere is like gold. Yes! It must have been alright then. Or better yet, when he come over and whispers in my ear, "Phenomenal." Hah, he's my music guru... if I don't please him when he was basically my vocal coach till college, what's the point!?
My dad's love is so much like God's love. They both can make me cry. They both can stop me in my tracks. They both can fire me up enough to do things I feel I can't. They both are sweet calm in times of heartache. I'll never forget coming home from school for a few days... I needed to come home and recharge a bit. Some rough stuff had been going on, and we had off a few days, so I came home. Without getting into detail, my heart was just aching. I wasn't on the verge of tears when my dad picked me up from the airport. I felt fine. He knew what had happened over the previous weeks to that visit. And I knew he knew. But I didn't talk about it. Until I got home. I saw my mom in the kitchen, and she hugged me. My sisters came over and hugged me. And my dad came over. He gently touched my hair, and put his arms around me, and said, "This is what I wanted to do a few weeks ago." And he held me for a long time. I felt myself tense up... I didn't want to cry. But it was hopeless.... his love weakens me. I relaxed, and let myself rest. I was safe. In my dad's arms. Tears welled up a bit. But it wasn't just the reality of the previous weeks that brought them. It was my dad.
I'll never forget reading the first entry in a journal my dad wrote... we used to write to each other in a journal. When we'd write back, we'd put it under each other's pillows. My mom and I did it too. But when my dad wrote to me the first time, I must have been around 12 or 13 or so. I remember sitting on my bed, and reading it slowly, and stopping half way. I couldn't finish immediately for the water in my eyes. He had written how beautiful I was. He had called me "Princess," which was his nick name for me when I was little. "You know you're a Princess, right?" He had written. I couldn't believe how precious his words were to me. I felt silly, too. A lot of my friends were getting into the "boy crazy" thing, and hey... boys were getting to be increasingly interesting to me as well. As I sat on my bed, I took out my journal, and copied what he wrote to me, and then said, "My dad's love fills the places in my heart that I feel when I think of boys." I was so young, and it's kind of funny looking back that I had written those words. But even then, my dad's love for me kept me from looking for it somewhere else that might have hurt me.
I respect my Dad. It's the worst pain to think I've disappointed him in some area. I try to make him proud. I want to honor him all the time. He's raised my family to be a bundle of 10 crazy people who all love music, and each other, and above all the Lord. I love him so much.
His love reminds me of God's love. He himself reminds me of my Heavenly Father. He's a man after God's heart. A man I know God smiles on and rejoices over. A man I am so glad and blessed to call my father.
Friday, June 18, 2010
To hear your messages, press one
I was asleep. I was in a spinning space between complete unconsciousness and reality when my phone buzzed above me on the top of the headboard behind me. With a single-eyed view of blurry vision, I reached up and located my phone with fumbling fingers.
One new voice message. To hear your messages, press "call." I did.
I didn't know who called... so I waited as I exercised my eyelids like they were doing pull ups. The weight of slumber still only beginning to surrender. To hear your messages, press "one". I did. All these directions... have mercy.
Finally, the message began. I pressed my ear closer. Fuzz... Dangit. All this work, and I couldn't even hear anything.
But then I did. I could faintly make out a voice. There was music playing, adding to the frustrations between distinguishable sounds. The bass was like adding cotton to the sides of my eyes, but translated into imaginary fluff around my ears. I strained to make out who it was. Maybe the person just had a bad connection, or had the phone on speaker.
Then I recognized the voice. It was a good friend of mine. It had only been hours since we had last spoken. Then I realized, she probably had no idea she had called me. Her phone must have been nestled into her purse or something. It all made sense. So then, why did I hear only her voice?
"Lord, give her strength to serve you. Love on her, God..." She was praying! I couldn't help it... I kept listening. The message kept going, revealing her prayers for her daughter, and her sons. I couldn't make it all out, but I understood the names of her children, and a few heartfelt petitions. She continued to pray for strength for the day, as she was heading to work. A pause would follow a string of words. Then she'd lift her voice again, "God, thank you for the opportunity to do this today...." I quieted my breathing, believing the lesser the sound of it, the lesser the cotton in my ears would interrogate the word struggling to hold understood meaning.
At around three minutes, the message cut off. I pushed the "end" button, and stared off. My pillow waited for my head to fall back on it, but it didn't right away. I swallowed, and let my breath contribute to the air in the room. The fan kept flying around in circles, and the sunshine outside crept through my blinds making faces to the darkened space around me.
I stretched my arm out to give my phone to my headboard, and mused at what I'd just experienced. I heard a few moments of this woman's time with God on her way to work. I was a criminal in a sense... but I didn't care. I knew there was something to be grasped by this somewhat silly and accidental situation.
It was sacred. This woman's time with God in her car, as music played around the closed quarters of her car. She engaged in intercession over her children. She praised God for her job, and asked for strength and peace for the day.
It made me think about what I do when I'm driving. I usually have either Q102 playing or some other station I trusted to give me the songs I liked to sing to on the road. It's true I miss having a Hillsong CD constantly playing... I don't usually drive a car that I can leave my own stuff in.... let alone a car that can play my ipod. I resort to the radio. I love the radio. But I don't usually like listening to the Christian stations... I get annoyed by them sometimes. But basically... my time spent in the car is much. And I don't use it like this friend of mine did, and accidentally shared with me.
It made me consider what I give up to have time with God. And in truth, I don't give up much. Not enough. His hands are constantly opened, offering me more. And I don't usually take hold of both of His hands. I take hold of worship, and going to church a few times a week... I take hold of devotions and what not...
I was moved. And it's challenged me. And I did saved the message. Maybe someday I'll tell this woman how this affected me. Someday I will.
One new voice message. To hear your messages, press "call." I did.
I didn't know who called... so I waited as I exercised my eyelids like they were doing pull ups. The weight of slumber still only beginning to surrender. To hear your messages, press "one". I did. All these directions... have mercy.
Finally, the message began. I pressed my ear closer. Fuzz... Dangit. All this work, and I couldn't even hear anything.
But then I did. I could faintly make out a voice. There was music playing, adding to the frustrations between distinguishable sounds. The bass was like adding cotton to the sides of my eyes, but translated into imaginary fluff around my ears. I strained to make out who it was. Maybe the person just had a bad connection, or had the phone on speaker.
Then I recognized the voice. It was a good friend of mine. It had only been hours since we had last spoken. Then I realized, she probably had no idea she had called me. Her phone must have been nestled into her purse or something. It all made sense. So then, why did I hear only her voice?
"Lord, give her strength to serve you. Love on her, God..." She was praying! I couldn't help it... I kept listening. The message kept going, revealing her prayers for her daughter, and her sons. I couldn't make it all out, but I understood the names of her children, and a few heartfelt petitions. She continued to pray for strength for the day, as she was heading to work. A pause would follow a string of words. Then she'd lift her voice again, "God, thank you for the opportunity to do this today...." I quieted my breathing, believing the lesser the sound of it, the lesser the cotton in my ears would interrogate the word struggling to hold understood meaning.
At around three minutes, the message cut off. I pushed the "end" button, and stared off. My pillow waited for my head to fall back on it, but it didn't right away. I swallowed, and let my breath contribute to the air in the room. The fan kept flying around in circles, and the sunshine outside crept through my blinds making faces to the darkened space around me.
I stretched my arm out to give my phone to my headboard, and mused at what I'd just experienced. I heard a few moments of this woman's time with God on her way to work. I was a criminal in a sense... but I didn't care. I knew there was something to be grasped by this somewhat silly and accidental situation.
It was sacred. This woman's time with God in her car, as music played around the closed quarters of her car. She engaged in intercession over her children. She praised God for her job, and asked for strength and peace for the day.
It made me think about what I do when I'm driving. I usually have either Q102 playing or some other station I trusted to give me the songs I liked to sing to on the road. It's true I miss having a Hillsong CD constantly playing... I don't usually drive a car that I can leave my own stuff in.... let alone a car that can play my ipod. I resort to the radio. I love the radio. But I don't usually like listening to the Christian stations... I get annoyed by them sometimes. But basically... my time spent in the car is much. And I don't use it like this friend of mine did, and accidentally shared with me.
It made me consider what I give up to have time with God. And in truth, I don't give up much. Not enough. His hands are constantly opened, offering me more. And I don't usually take hold of both of His hands. I take hold of worship, and going to church a few times a week... I take hold of devotions and what not...
I was moved. And it's challenged me. And I did saved the message. Maybe someday I'll tell this woman how this affected me. Someday I will.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Two different pairs of arms
Tonight after playing for worship for the youth group at my church, I went upstairs and sat in my mom's Bible study. She's going through questions that moms should ask their daughters, and conversations moms should have with their daughters. Every week my mom discusses with me and Zach and Caleigh the things her group talks about. It's always pretty interesting, but this week especially really got me thinking. In fact, a few nights ago, my mom talked to Bi and I about this most recent chapter a good deal, and it got her and I talking a bit about some things too.
The chapter was about how it's ok to desire marriage and a family as a young girl, and as a woman. People give mixed messages about this subject. Some people don't even care, because they're not the type to even really dream about walking down an aisle, or carrying around a baby. I, on the other hand, have always been like that. Relationships have always intrigued me. Marriage is always a thought that crosses my mind. It's a terrible aching when I see a mother with a newborn. I feel as though for some reason, that infant should be in my arms regardless of who birthed him. I crave holding babies. I can't wait to be a mom. I can't wait to be a wife. I can't wait for all of that stuff. It's just the kind of person I am.
Or is it? Could it be that it is a desire and dream that God placed in my heart? Something He penned into His formula for Shaina Joy? I think it is. I think God knew what He was doing in me when He began to move in me the desire to be a wife and a mother. I've recently started to just allow myself the peace that God is only understanding me perfectly about this aching desire in me.... let me explain.
I get really frustrated with myself that I am wired the way I am. Culture says finish college, start your life-long occupation, save up, and then maybe start looking for a spouse. Society breathes down our necks to get our lives completely in tact before we even begin thinking about any committed relationship. I noticed through my own written prayers in my journals, that I started buying into what culture has defined as a standard... basically, I felt guilty before God bringing Him my heart. I felt ashamed at times. I would so often feel the need to ask God to change my heart.
It's all good and well to ask God for strength and peace and all of that good stuff... but why have I allowed myself to basically apologize for possessing the dreams He placed in me Himself?
Let me clarify a little bit. I am by no means saying it is ok to obsess about this kind of stuff. I'm one of those people who has grown up with lessons on guarding my heart above everything, and wearing purity as a headband and heartband at all times. So as I continue, keep that in mind. Interpret my words if you can, with this as a foundation.
I keep learning over and over not to come before the Lord apologizing for pieces of who I am. I'm learning not to feel bad about personality traits, hopes, thoughts and desires. Instead, I keep feeling Him say to me over and over that I am understood. In His presence I am understood far more than I ever have been by any other person. He has crafted me. He has authored the workings of His creations. What does it take for me to realize this?! I don't need to try to explain... I don't need to beat around the bush when I'm bringing something to Him. Goodness, I wish I could stand before myself and slap my face, yank my hair, and look into my own eyes and say, "Just go as you are!!"
So basically, this chapter my mom was going through with her group was on how culture has reshaped what is acceptable for us as young people to desire. I am such a people pleaser. When someone says, "Shai, relax! Enjoy yourself! Slow down, and just relax." I feel energized and encouraged to do just that. And culture says the same things to me everyday about many dreams I have in my heart. And really... that's ridiculous that I should let my dreams shift because they're not always the norm for a lot of people.
Anyway, my conclusion is that I've come to the point that i'm not going to come to God apologetically about the things He cares deeply for me about. Instead, these hopes and desires are things I can bring to Him knowing I'm fully understood. Things I can lay before Him with a light heart, and not a heavy one.
I think this kind of goes for anything we desire... no matter what it is. I think as Christians we often have the tendency to feel like we shouldn't be happy. For example, if our desires are being fulfilled, we almost question if it's "right." Why, oh why do we do this? Couldn't it be that sometimes we are showered in blessings from our Father? Of course there are times we struggle and wrestle with our own humanity and human hearts.... but there are overwhelming blessings we are showered with everyday.
My point is this: God has written His name upon our hearts. He has authored so many things in us that He rejoices in Himself. And He rejoices when we rejoice in thankfulness. How much of a difference would there be in our relationships with God if we constantly enter into His presence knowing we are understood? I think a lot of things would change.
God has very different arms than culture. His are constantly open. Culture's arms are usually crossed, spectating every motion we make. We're so used to having to explain ourselves to the Crossed Arms, that when we come to the Open Arms, we stand before them explaining ourselves instead of running into them. Blah!
The chapter was about how it's ok to desire marriage and a family as a young girl, and as a woman. People give mixed messages about this subject. Some people don't even care, because they're not the type to even really dream about walking down an aisle, or carrying around a baby. I, on the other hand, have always been like that. Relationships have always intrigued me. Marriage is always a thought that crosses my mind. It's a terrible aching when I see a mother with a newborn. I feel as though for some reason, that infant should be in my arms regardless of who birthed him. I crave holding babies. I can't wait to be a mom. I can't wait to be a wife. I can't wait for all of that stuff. It's just the kind of person I am.
Or is it? Could it be that it is a desire and dream that God placed in my heart? Something He penned into His formula for Shaina Joy? I think it is. I think God knew what He was doing in me when He began to move in me the desire to be a wife and a mother. I've recently started to just allow myself the peace that God is only understanding me perfectly about this aching desire in me.... let me explain.
I get really frustrated with myself that I am wired the way I am. Culture says finish college, start your life-long occupation, save up, and then maybe start looking for a spouse. Society breathes down our necks to get our lives completely in tact before we even begin thinking about any committed relationship. I noticed through my own written prayers in my journals, that I started buying into what culture has defined as a standard... basically, I felt guilty before God bringing Him my heart. I felt ashamed at times. I would so often feel the need to ask God to change my heart.
It's all good and well to ask God for strength and peace and all of that good stuff... but why have I allowed myself to basically apologize for possessing the dreams He placed in me Himself?
Let me clarify a little bit. I am by no means saying it is ok to obsess about this kind of stuff. I'm one of those people who has grown up with lessons on guarding my heart above everything, and wearing purity as a headband and heartband at all times. So as I continue, keep that in mind. Interpret my words if you can, with this as a foundation.
I keep learning over and over not to come before the Lord apologizing for pieces of who I am. I'm learning not to feel bad about personality traits, hopes, thoughts and desires. Instead, I keep feeling Him say to me over and over that I am understood. In His presence I am understood far more than I ever have been by any other person. He has crafted me. He has authored the workings of His creations. What does it take for me to realize this?! I don't need to try to explain... I don't need to beat around the bush when I'm bringing something to Him. Goodness, I wish I could stand before myself and slap my face, yank my hair, and look into my own eyes and say, "Just go as you are!!"
So basically, this chapter my mom was going through with her group was on how culture has reshaped what is acceptable for us as young people to desire. I am such a people pleaser. When someone says, "Shai, relax! Enjoy yourself! Slow down, and just relax." I feel energized and encouraged to do just that. And culture says the same things to me everyday about many dreams I have in my heart. And really... that's ridiculous that I should let my dreams shift because they're not always the norm for a lot of people.
Anyway, my conclusion is that I've come to the point that i'm not going to come to God apologetically about the things He cares deeply for me about. Instead, these hopes and desires are things I can bring to Him knowing I'm fully understood. Things I can lay before Him with a light heart, and not a heavy one.
I think this kind of goes for anything we desire... no matter what it is. I think as Christians we often have the tendency to feel like we shouldn't be happy. For example, if our desires are being fulfilled, we almost question if it's "right." Why, oh why do we do this? Couldn't it be that sometimes we are showered in blessings from our Father? Of course there are times we struggle and wrestle with our own humanity and human hearts.... but there are overwhelming blessings we are showered with everyday.
My point is this: God has written His name upon our hearts. He has authored so many things in us that He rejoices in Himself. And He rejoices when we rejoice in thankfulness. How much of a difference would there be in our relationships with God if we constantly enter into His presence knowing we are understood? I think a lot of things would change.
God has very different arms than culture. His are constantly open. Culture's arms are usually crossed, spectating every motion we make. We're so used to having to explain ourselves to the Crossed Arms, that when we come to the Open Arms, we stand before them explaining ourselves instead of running into them. Blah!
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