I Shift Paradigms on Tuesday (Turtles Are Not Shy)

I heard an expression recently that I take GREAT exception to.

"Look who's coming out of her shell," Anonymous Expresser said, gloating in his-or-her imaginary knowledge of all things shell.

It's a common misconception, so I'm here to state the facts. I want you to realize that turtles are not shy. NOT AT ALL. As an ordinary, non-turtled human, you naturally don't understand how un-shy they are. But turtles are malicious. They're revengeful. Their little turtle hearts are grimy with hate.

They crouch sulkily in their pebbled tanks as millions of strangers pass by, gazing in.

"Oh, look, how quiet and sweet. What a perfect analogy for a shy person," they say. "We're going to start telling people to come out of their shells," they say. "It's a perfect expression... perfect," they say.

Man looketh on the outward appearance. But there are things in a turtle's mind that would AUTOMATICALLY make a movie PG-13 for violence and smoking images.

When I come home from work, I walk up the steps to my apartment. I press my ear against the cold windowpane of my living room. The curtains droop placidly against the glass. The stillness could convince a person of perfect peace and tranquility within. But I know better now. I know that I am within four feet of a clandestine meeting of the Violent Un-shy.

This is a true story. I had just moved in, arranged and re-arranged all my furniture. I made blueprints in a notebook and moved it and moved it until I finally liked it. I was exhausted. My turtles sulked in their tanks, heads withdrawn. I didn't have a single roommate yelling profanities at her video games. I didn't have a single Justin Bieber howling on the radio. It was like a beautiful dream.

I lay down on my survivor mattress that had cascaded from the top of my van, twice,  as I drove it, tied only with a jump rope, in the dead of night so that no one would see. It was like flopping down upon a pile of downy pillows in a royal boudoir. I must have fallen asleep because I wandered into that place where strange things happen.

Suddenly, I heard a terrible noise. I can only describe it as 20% chain saw, 80% coyote.

My new neighbors must be having car issues, I thought, innocently. 

My eyelids were dragging when I heard it again- much, MUCH louder. Unmistakably in my house. 

Adrenaline coursed through me where exhaustion had been. I snatched my phone and dialed 9-1-1 with a shaking finger. My thumb hovering over the send button, I cautiously peered through the doorway to my living room. There I gazed upon a horrible sight.

My turtles were banging against the sides of their tanks. Their little mouths were wide open, emitting the 20% chainsaw 80% coyote sounds. Their chubby, scaly legs flailed wildly. A wave of water exploded over the side of Yertle's tank. It was as though somebody had kidnapped my peaceful pets and replaced them with ferocious sea creatures.

"What do you want? What do you want?" I yelled, scrambling around my living room with a can of turtle food in one hand, a stack of treats in the other.

I held the can out over Mack's tank, ready to pour, when he leaped up from the foaming water and swallowed the entire thing- lid and all. Seconds later, he continued that fearful din.

"I'll make you into soup!" I threatened, weakly. "I'll use your shells as Frisbees!" The sides of Yertle's tank gave way with a crash. I grabbed a roll of duck tape which luckily I had used to less than an hour before, so I knew exactly where to find it. I frantically patched the tank as a second wave plummeted to my landlord's carpet.

It was a TWO HOUR turtle revolt. TWO HOURS. I hovered nearby the entire time, hoping against hope that they'd be unsuccessful in their mad attempts to devour each other, all the food in my kitchen, or me.

This has happened every day since then. EVERY DAY. I use up all my spare time and more energy that I ever imagined I had, yet I barely keep them contained.

Oh yes. You're just like a turtle when you hide inside your shell. You must be plotting acts of murderous rage. So sweet. So quiet. So shy.

Dangerous DIY

I get this crazy idea at least once a day- I can handle this on my own. Then I have to give myself a lecture, something like this: Bonnie, don't you know BY NOW that you can't DIY. You can't D (anything) Y. (My attempt to be grammatically correct just ruined a perfectly good acronym. There- you see what grammar can do to you.)

I'm realizing that I need to bring everything to God... everything. He is a true friend who will always be with me- and I can't really count on anyone else.

I used to think it was somewhat invasive that God knows all my thoughts. If you are one of my Former Facebook Friends, you may know that I say most of what I think anyway. It's not a good trait. My older sister also told me one time that my face is like an open book. I want to be transparent and honest but not to impulsively say all the negative things. Even when I do, though, nobody knows everything I think. It sometimes seems strange and not exactly comfortable that God knows everything, literally EVERYTHING in my mind. (You don't always think about that either- admit it. If you did, you wouldn't be thinking MOST of the things that you are thinking.)

It's not invasive, though, because He created my mind. If you built a machine, wouldn't you be watching to see what it was doing? Yeah, I know, we're not machines. But the Bible compares us to clay pots. It's an analogy and you're going to have to be okay with my analogies because this is my blog and I can say whatever I want to on it. I could say something really, really crazy right now and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.

(God, please help me to say something encouraging right now, instead of something crazy).

Now, you see how I modeled that for you? I had an impulse to say something really deplorable and I took it to God and He helped me not to, now follow my example, dearly beloved.

Seriously, though, I am going to start praying about this blog, just like I'm going to start praying about the things I say to the kids I take to Bible club, and to the ladies at Piedmont Women's Center where I started volunteering, and to people I work with (including Drama King- the guy who trained me and really, really gets on my nerves). Because I can be encouraging to people, but only when I put myself aside, and pray about it. I've prayed about some things, and I've not prayed about other things, and things I pray about always turn out so much better, as I'm depending on God. ALWAYS!!

Sometimes I'm a like a machine who thinks she can fix herself, and just falls apart, with gears and screws all over the floor and Part A where Part C should be and Part B between the toolbox and the wall. And there's my creator, just standing there patiently, knowing all about it and waiting to fix it, and I'm ignoring Him in my DIY arrogance. I could save a lot of trouble and hurt by going straight to Him.

Here's a poem I wrote a while ago about this. I've been wanting to write a new poem but haven't had time, so I'll have to do Throwback Tuesday for this one.

My index fingers find their way
To the ridge on F and J
I know just how to take control
I've spent my whole life in this role.
The blackness clacks beneath my hands
But words don't flow out as I planned
For spell check bolds the faults I'd hide
And caps lock blares my silly pride.

At least this story's all my own
I write the way I will be known
I can escape at any time
Insert, page down, delete this line.
The backspace key is so perverse
Just when things can't get any worse-

I feel His presence next to me
The author of eternity.
His nail scarred hands are reaching out
He says, "Give me the keyboard now."
I say, "Wait, wait, I'm almost done
Must write myself while I'm still young!"
Enter, page break, then assess
Ashamed to let him see my mess

He gently pulls and I let go
My story's such a flop, I know.
And yet it's mine- and I feel fear
He'll edit all that I hold dear..
I watch Him closely as He reads
The sorrow for the things He sees
The errors underscored in red
I can't take back the things I said.
The Editor of time and space
Reads every word, still holds out grace
Forgives, deletes my past, and then
Empties the recycle bin.

I'm thankful that it's His to write
Brand new lines across this white
I love this sentence that He planned
But then I see the ampersand.

I try to tab ahead of Him
He gently takes control again
This paragraph is taking shape
Can't deal with it, I press Escape.
"Look, I'm fine, I'll type the rest
I've learned my lesson, I know best
But when you took control from me
You could've fixed the backspace key."

My story falls apart once more
I throw the keyboard on the floor
I say He doesn't even care
He waits until I kneel in prayer.

Oh, God, this story's not my own
So type it for yourself alone.

Dreaming

I'm dreaming about my future, but I'm not dreaming about strolling between two rows of pews as crowds of people stare at me. My dreams don't have a white dress or a rental car or a House Beautiful magazine. They're not populated by some love-of-my-life and love-of-my-life-junior.

I'm dreaming about an orphanage in Haiti. It's run by two old ladies who are staring death in the face. They've given all of their time to their work, and they've nearly starved many times. They've built a high wall to keep predators away from the kids. They're worn out, and they need my help.

My dream is full of joy. My kids-of-the-future are happy, because they've never been to a Walmart toy aisle. They've never watched T.V. commercials, or taken fried food out of a drive-thru window two minutes after ordering it. Their lives are hot, dirty, and poor, but they've never experienced anything else.

I'm going to ship all my books to Haiti. I have shelves and shelves of kids' books- I'll collect more, too. I'll sit down with my squirmy kids and teach them to read in French and English so that if they want to go to America, or any other country when they get older, they can. I'll read all the stories my mom read to me- about Ramona and Anne Shirley, Bilbo Baggins, Harvey Cheyne. I'll do all the voices, and the little ones will sit on my lap, hanging onto every word, and the older ones will pretend not to be listening.

I'm going to make things with them- useful things like crutches for lame people, and bread for starving people. We'll go out in a big group and give them away, and tell those people how they can find hope in Jesus, even in the middle of their darkness.

We'll have birthday parties and spiritual birthday parties, even if we never have any presents. We'll celebrate every holiday together and make our own crazy traditions. We'll pray together every night and write down the things we learned about God and the things we're thankful for on a huge chalkboard.

I know, it won't be just like that. I'll get a disease, my kids will get diseases, and I'm not a nurse. I'm not a mother, I don't know how to deal with disrespect and disobedience. I'm not prepared to watch people suffering in a place where crime has no consequences and most little girls get raped by age 8 (according to a missionary I spoke to, who's been there for years). I can think I'll rescue kids and make a huge difference in their lives, but that may not happen. They may never get saved- they may die. I can say "I want to go to Haiti, God" but I may hear a "No."

It's just a dream. Those girls who dream about a perfect home populated by love-of-my-life and love-of-my-life-junior- they're not realistic, either. They're as naïve as little girls playing bride with dress-up dresses.

A bunch of happy kids in an orphanage in Haiti- that's my perfect dress. That's my white house with a picket fence.

GOP Seizes Control of Senate

YES WE DID!!!! Everybody go get some fried chicken in honor of our first lady, who's having a bad day ;-)

PS

So frustrating! I can't seem to edit my last post on my smart phone. That's the only place I have internet right now, as I'm not going to have it in my house anymore (and while I'm already in withdrawal, I'm super happy that that distraction is going to be gone :-) ) Anyway, I just wanted to say that I said what I think mainly about foreign policy, because that's the major thing I'm thinking about right now. But I don't imagine that that is the only important issue. I think abortion needs to be extremely limited (if not outlawed) and pastors shouldn't be persecuted for speaking against homosexuality, and we need immigration reform, better gun laws or fewer gun laws, armed guards in every school if not armed teachers.. the repeal of Obamadoesn'tcare.. I'm sure you wouldn't read my blog if I told you my opinions about everything ;-)

To Write an Election-Day Post Was to Our Heroine the Work of a Moment

I don't really think I'm a heroine, don't worry. I've just loved that phrase ever since I was a kid and read The Enchanted Castle by E. Nesbit. One of the characters in the book, Gerald, says things like that about himself all throughout. "To brush his hair and his clothes and to wash his face and hands was to our hero but the work of a moment." It struck me as really funny in an arrogant sort of way, and I've thought things like that about myself ever since. "To get out of bed when her alarm clock rang, was to our heroine the work of a moment."

Well, basically, I just want to say that I love my country. I've felt pessimistic about our future for a long time, but figuring out exactly what I believe politically and where the left has it wrong is really helping. I do believe that we are the greatest country in the world, and we have power to make the world a better place.

It's just so sad to me that Democrats (many of whom are good people) are focusing on such trivial issues instead of the really important things. Most of the things they focus on are based on lies. It's a lie that women are paid less than men for the same jobs. Women are paid less than men overall because many choose (yes, it is their choice, not yours, Mr. President)- to take time off work to care for their babies. Also, statistics saying that women are paid less than men don't take many variables, like different positions in a company, into account. So why is this even an issue? Why are feminists making videos with little girls spewing vile language to propagate this lie? It's a lie that raising the minimum wage will help people. It will hurt nearly everyone. It's a lie that black people are mistreated on a regular basis and that the goal of the police is to shoot them all. I hate it that our President is polarizing our country over things like race when I listened to his speech from 2004 and he said that he wanted to unify our country in every way.

I get it. It's easy to run with your emotions. Democrats may truly believe that they are more compassionate- but that's just not the case in the long run. They need to think about the long-term effects of their policies.

I've talked to some people lately, especially young people, who said they weren't voting because they didn't believe that it would make a difference. They said that they thought Democrats and Republicans are all the same, that it's all a farce, that the country is controlled by rich people. It made me want to bang my head against the wall.

You know something else that really, really bothers me? The fact that kids in public schools are regularly taught that our country is terrible. They aren't taught about the honorable, intelligent, courageous men who founded it. Instead, they're taught that we mistreated everyone, and that we still do today.

I listened to an a political ad by a regular citizen (in a contest) today that made me cry, and I felt a little silly about it and had to think about why. It was a woman saying that her grandfather was a German who was an American POW in World War 2. The Americans treated him so well that he vowed to become a citizen of the nation that would treat prisoners with such kindness. It made me realize that we are kind and good, and we have a long history of being that way, no matter how leftists try to portray us. And I want us to keep making that kind of difference in the world. This is what matters. Free birth control for women doesn't matter. Thousands of people getting brutally beheaded matters. President Obama should never have pulled our troops out of Iraq, making it possible for ISIS to flourish. And you want to vote for the people who supported him? The people who supported this guy who can only talk about trivial things and lies even in the face of enormous human tragedy? I don't believe we should just stay here and mind our own business and let the rest of the world go. I'm proud to be a citizen of a nation that has been involved in world conflicts, has stopped dictators from mistreating people, and has made the world a safer place. I truly hope that Republicans gain the majority in the Senate today, because I think that is the first step to stopping the worst makeover in history- the makeover and deterioration of my country. I believe that there is hope and that change is possible- and it's in spite of President Obama, not because of him.

Life Has No Opposite

On Sunday, I found out that Brittany Maynard, a terminally-ill, 29 year old woman whose story has been on national news, died by physician-assisted suicide. In a small way, I'm heartbroken (although I know that the heartbreak of her friends and family is much, much greater). I've felt burdened for Brittany since the first day I read her story, and I had it in my head that when I have a burden to pray for someone, God is planning to do something in that person's life. Brittany scheduled her death for November 1st. On Sunday, November 2nd, I watched a video in which she stated that she was still enjoying life enough to want to put it off. She also said that no one knows the right choice for her life except for her. I was elated that she delayed her suicide, literally dancing around my apartment, seeing it as a direct answer to prayer. I had hope that she would get saved (she clearly wasn't trusting in Christ for salvation, based on the things she said). Now, it's too late.

I heard a profound statement on Conservative Talk radio recently. A caller said, "What if I said that the opposite of death is not life, but birth? Life has no opposite." He was right. Life can't have an opposite because it is eternal; it never ends. Think about it. This short, fragile life can't be it. If you believe that it is, than why, why, why? Why everything? Brittany chose an early death-earlier than the one she would have experienced if she had faced her disease with real courage. But Brittany is still alive, and her life will never end. Of course I can't know for sure, but I have to think that she is alive in Hell, not because she committed suicide, but because she chose not to believe in Christ as her Savior. And that is the greatest tragedy of all.

I know that I wasn't the only person praying for Brittany. I would have done anything to stop her from going through with it, to help her understand the gospel, and many other Christians feel the same way. I know that the pain and fear she experienced were far beyond anything I've ever experienced- that I may never understand what she went through. I also know that she must have had good counsel in her life. She read the opinions of others- I know she did, because she talked about them. Some people may have been judgmental and harsh in the way they spoke to her, but I have no doubt that she communicated with at least one Christian person who told her the truth in love. That's what I specifically prayed for. The very fact that she put her suicide off indicates that God was holding her back. Yet, she chose to deal with things in her own way instead of turning to Him. I believe that God did answer my prayer, but sometimes, the person I pray for won't listen.

 

Now, I can only hope and pray that Brittany's campaign to make physician-assisted suicide legal in more states will NOT be successful; that terminally ill people  will turn to God, instead of to lethal pills. Because He is the only one who can help them. Because life is eternal, and life here on earth is just the briefest of moments. And really, it doesn't matter whether or not you seize the day now- because the only thing that will matter in the long, long, long life after death is whether or not you seized the Savior.