New Blog

Every so often, I do this.

Obviously, I didn't keep up with this blog. It makes me sad because now it is littered with promises like broken and empty bottles ("I will be here, every Tuesday, for the rest of my life.")

I want to be perfect, and I want to do everything I say I will do. But I can't make promises any more because I can't promise that I will keep a promise. I liked the idea of writing a sort of chronicle of my life and thoughts, one post a week, at least. I thought I'd be 80, in a wheelchair, writing my blog post on a Tuesday. But I'm not even 30, and I'm quitting already.

There is just one thing I don't regret about abandoning this blog: I was never completely satisfied with the domain. "I write on Tuesday." Shouldn't it be "I write on Tuesdays", or maybe, "I write every Tuesday"?

My new writing day is Saturday. I have two jobs now, so I will be very busy. But I'll make time for this. Maybe not every Saturday... but most. Because writing gives me joy. I'll do it whether you come to see it or not. I'll do it (sometimes- no promises) whether I feel like it or not, whether I feel I have anything good to say, or not.

springsinscorchedplaces.blogspot.com

Love

I've been thinking a lot, maybe partly because of a crumpled-up-in-the-trash-can-post I wrote earlier today, and partly because of some other blog posts I read that I hope will never get thrown away. By two women who I think know something about it. This word everybody keeps saying.

Sometimes I've thought that love is a feeling. It's the happiness that spread through me like the warmth of hot chocolate when I sat with my family around a table and we played the story game and howled with laughter. It's the crazy things I did with my sisters, rushing our faces at a mirror to scare ourselves and telling each other everything we thought about everything. It's lying on my little brother's bed discussing books on a Sunday afternoon. It's the feeling that these people will always accept me and they'll stick with me no matter what- because they're my family.

It's the feeling I get when I realize that life is short, and someone just took a piece of their short little life and wrote my name on it with a permanent marker and gave me that time, freely. It's being valued.

But love is not a feeling. Jesus didn't feel a warm little burst of happiness for us. He died a horrible death for us.

And so I think that I don't love people.

If I feel like someone has nothing to offer me- no way to relate to me, no way to make me laugh or feel better- if they annoy me, fill me with tension 24/7, or want something more out of our friendship than I want, I don't talk to them.

While I can be a good friend and willingly spend time and money on my friends (the people I like who like me), try to take care of their feelings, give them advice, etc... when it comes down to it, it's basically about me and the way it makes me feel.

This realization and the thought that everyone else might possibly be the same way... and just not honest enough to admit it... is very, very depressing to me.

I realize that I don't know the first thing about loving people. I don't understand unconditional love. I don't understand God's love. These things are foreign to me. I have empathy, but that's not the same as sacrificial, unconditional love.

I just went on a missions trip. I hugged little kids and played with them and they smiled at me and it made me feel good. See what I mean? That's not love.

Everybody talks about love. I wonder if they, too, ever wonder what they mean by it. We love the people who make us laugh and the people who make us feel good. We want to make people laugh and make them feel good so that we, too, will be loved. It's round trip selfishness.

I asked myself, is it possible for humans to love purely? To love without ANY ulterior motives such as looking good to people watching, or feeling better about themselves? To love people when it doesn't benefit them in ANY tangible or intangible way?

I think that it is possible, but it is not possible without God.

There are some people on here who I thought understood me better than anyone else. They exist in Myers Briggs personality groups. And the secular groups tell me that I don't have to love everyone, because I've got to take care of myself and I shouldn't have to bother with small talk and "fake" "dramatic" "manipulative" people. And the Christian groups tell me that they can relate, that it's the way we all are, and they understand.

But I forgot that Someone understands me better than Myers Briggs because He made me. And He commanded me to love- to love not just a few people, but everyone.

It has always bothered me when I didn't like someone. I have thought, well, I'm better than other people because of the REASONS for my dislike. I don't judge people based on their looks or their possessions but on their personalities and actions. Now I know why it bothered me. I may have a negative feeling toward someone else that I can't help, but regardless of the reason, it is wrong to be cold and distant to anyone.

I've heard that love is not a feeling, it's a choice. That's kind of a starting point. I'm going to find out as much about it as God is willing to show me and love as many people as God puts into my life, no matter how they act, or how they annoy, boss, ignore, discount, reprimand, misrepresent, or say rude things to me. Because my life IS so short, and it's probably at least one-third over. All I can think right now is, what a terrible waste. And all I can do now is to love people the rest of the time I have.

It is very hard for me because there are some people I just can't stand. You know who you are. (Kidding. Completely kidding).

I'm tempted to dwell on their actions and words instead of dwelling on JESUS'S actions and words. I also have a barrier of fear, among other things.

So please pray for me to grow in this love thing everyone is talking about, to somehow tap into unconditional sacrificial love under years and years of cobwebs, dust and rust, and I'm just going to stop analyzing motives and love and my personality, and just get out there and start talking to people I don't normally talk to, and pray for help because I NEED IT. So I'm going to go to work tomorrow and get started with the little bit I already know. And I almost said "and we'll see how it goes" but that's exactly what I would do IF love was a feeling.

Love is not a feeling. God is love.

I Am An American

I went to an island far away. A place where the trees are gardens suspended in the air. The waves gently polish the sand.

Trucks and motorcycles veer around each other, horns blaring. People have darker faces, brighter smiles. They don't speak my language.

 

We showed a Voice of the Martyrs cartoon. Adults and children stared at the screen, riveted.

 

The girls play clapping games. The boys climb trees.

 

I came back to a country glutted with entertainment and materialism.

 

We claim causes that don't matter. Defend the people who are doing just fine.

 

We're the priest and the Levite and we look the other way, while the people living far away suffer and die.

 

We play with our ipods and we refuse to consider the people who don't get to eat today.

We kill babies and put a transgender man on a pedestal for no other reason. 

 

I don't love this about America.

 

But I do love America.

 

Every day, people tell me that I shouldn't love my country. In person, on the internet, on TV. They tell me that we are the problem, the busybody sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. They tell me that we only cause harm in the world.

 

That we should hang our heads and reluctantly mumble that yeah, we're Americans.

It seems like many younger people really think they're clever for believing that America is the bad guy of the world. 

 

Politicians have lied, they've made mistakes. They've gotten involved for all the wrong reasons. I know this.

 

But I look back at my country's past and I see, behind all of the greedy, selfish, and deceitful men, a powerful army of the strong and honorable and selfless.  Leaders who got involved because they actually cared about the oppressed. Soldiers who left their families to fight for people they'd never even met. People who spoke up for the things they believed at the cost of their jobs and reputations. Architects and artists and writers and musicians who built up our culture, piece by piece, and bolstered it and strengthened it, so that we could enjoy their labor without a second thought.

 

Imagine giving your entire life to a light bulb, a book, a building, an album. 

Americans sacrificed for Americans so that we could come together and be one. E pluribus unum. So many backgrounds, religions, ethnicities, opinions, but we share so much too. We make each other better. 

 

How can you be ashamed of the land where you were born, where you were blessed with all of this, the blood and the sweat and the tears of millions? Where you hold education and culture and health and opportunity in your hands for so long that you barely even realize you're doing it anymore?

 

I visited an island rich in color.

 

But my country is rich as well.

 

And I've seen so much of it.

 

I've looked at the lights of a city when they seemed as countless as the stars in the sky. And every single light was put in place by a person. Every window of every building was carefully constructed. I've been in art museums and looked at paintings, and every painting was a tiny piece of a person's life that I got to view without effort or cost. I've passed fields where farmers toiled so that I could buy corn on the cob wrapped up in plastic at Walmart. I've seen stores and bought products that were the life work of entrepreneurs. I've pulled books off a shelf of the library and read them. And every page of every book  was typed up, words carefully selected and edited and edited again.

 

I've looked at waterfalls crashing down so that I could feel their power throughout my body. I've stood at the edge of the vast expanse that is the Grand Canyon and I've driven on a bridge over a wrinkled-up shining river. I've walked on paths where wildflowers bloom and I've stared out the windows of a Greyhound bus in a desert that I thought would never end.

 

I've sat in a classroom where I spent years of my life learning, learning, learning. Listening and filling in blanks and working calculus problems. I played games on computers and I wrote poems. I practiced piano. I had time to do these things, because I didn't have to support my family when I was eight years old.

 

And I can say the things that I think on this blog, and I get to vote and go to church and use the Internet. And other people burn the flag of my country and they lobby for the things that they want and they tell lies and they slander policemen. We do these things because we are free. We are free.

 

I hold this richness in my hands, and now I can give it away. One day I will read stories to Haitian children, because I sat in a clean, safe American classroom and I learned how to read. I will teach them to count money because my mom had time and she drilled me with addition and subtraction facts. I will teach them about the world because I've had time and money to travel and I've read books. I will give to people less fortunate than me and I'll accept them as they are and love them because I live in a country where these things have always been valued.

 

America is my past, and it is giving me my future.

 

I don't know what my life would be like if America did not exist. It would certainly be less wonderful in many ways.

When you love your family, you don't make sure nobody thinks that you're saying you had a special family better than other families. You talk about the positive things, the things you are thankful for.

I am proud to be an American. I am thankful for America. For its history, its beauty. For the opportunities it has given me.

I disagree that it is the bad guy of the world. I believe that it is still a great country and a kind one. And I disagree that we should focus on recent negative changes rather than on the blessings we've enjoyed as Americans. Of course, we desire and work for continued freedom. But you and I... we have nothing to complain about. We have no reason to be ashamed of our country. It is amazing. 

Poverty Photograph

Poverty. We catch a glimpse of it sometimes. It's like a photograph, or a landscape seen from a train window. We never really get close. Maybe someone else was there, and they distorted it with their camera lens and limited it with the zoom function. Maybe we were there, but we were shielded from it by a thick pane of glass, and our train whizzed through it so quickly. And anyway, we were sleeping. (The chairs were more comfortable than we expected, and we ate too much for dinner).

We have music, technology, a gym! Department stores, Walmart. We pack a lunch, drive in our air conditioned cars to our air conditioned jobs. We have enough to worry about keeping up with our stuff. Checking our notifications and updating our apps. Creating a playlist, creating a shopping list. Exactly when would we have time to think about poverty?

This week, I've had time.

I've been on a mission trip that was like a train ride. Relaxing and fun at times. We stayed in a ritzy hotel in Sosua. Played in the pool, walked on the sand, ate buffet style at every meal. Drank unlimited smoothies and pineapple juice.

But some Godly men and women also took us by the hand and led us out of the train. Right up to poverty to stare at it and at the sweet people who are mired in it. They are us. Born at a different time and in a different place. That's all.

Their homes consist of one or two rooms, an aluminum roof, maybe a couple of chairs and a makeshift bed- if they're lucky. That's middle class, here.

I went to a dump and swatted flies from my face. I looked into the eyes of people who live in mounds of trash and smoking ash. They sleep in the middle of a circle of used tires, dig through piles of vile garbage in search of plastic bottles that they can sell for just a few pesos. It's a dry, charred existence that most of us cannot even begin to understand.

They were famished, and so thirsty. I gave a cup of water to two young boys digging in the middle of the fumes, little boys who shouldn't have been there. I wondered if they ever heard any words of affirmation. I told them that they were good workers, "trabajadores" and they nodded in acknowledgment.

I picked a up little girl in my arms and wondered how long she'd have to live. I doubted that it would be long. I told her that she was beautiful and that God loved her very much. Daniel, one of the youth pastors for the ministry Cups of Cold Water, asked her in Spanish if she had a smile for me. She came up with a lovely one, and we took a picture. I don't remember her name, but I will never forget her.

Today we went to Munoz, a village of Haitian refugees that was ravaged by a fire. The entire middle section of the village is charred, covered in ashes and trash, with broken stone structures protruding from it. They were houses, once.

The villagers lined up to receive cups of hot soup. As we walked through the village to pass out more, I noticed that many of them refused to take the soup. I realized that they had probably already been through the line and didn't want to take more than one cup, although it would have been easy to do. I felt that they were looking out for each other, making sure that everyone was fed.

The kids were funny and sweet. Like kids everywhere. They teased each other, poked each other, laughed. Eventually, four girls ages 12-14 came up to me and hung onto me throughout the night, while we were talking to the villagers and afterwards, when we played a movie for them. I felt that I didn't have enough arms.

They asked me my name, I asked them theirs. Francesca, Kimberly, Mariela and Maria. When they told me their names, I said, "No! PRINCESA Francesca!" (Giggles). "I am not a princess, I'm a girl!" I kept calling them princesa. It was fun, and may have built them up in a small way. But most importantly, I had the chance to tell these girls that they are precious to God. It made me cry just to think about the way they have already suffered, and the suffering they will endure in the future. The Dominican Republic is not friendly to Haitians. In fact, in a movement that I saw compared to the Holocaust in a newspaper today, Haitian refugees will be deported back to Haiti soon. Racism is strong here; not the assumed racism of Americans who are eager to see it in every tone and expression, but true discrimination against people with darker skin. A civil war may even result. I love these people, and I love these girls. But I will have to get back into that train. I'll have to go back to my comfortable American life, and leave them to their fate, because there is nothing I can do. Beyond giving a cup of soup and a few hugs, there is nothing. And that realization is breaking my heart.

First Impressions

I came to the Dominican Republic with a jolt, cheers erupting from Dominican men as the plane's wheels hit the runway. Startled from sleep, I thought about feeling annoyed, but I could only laugh as the men cheered again and again. After all, they were demonstrating their love for their country- something Americans rarely do. And, I'd finally arrived.

We rode to our destination in a creaky open truck with a peaked metal roof. My first impressions were of the smoky grey sky and spindly thin palm trees with shaggy branches. I could smell smoke and manure. Eventually the breeze and the steady rumble of the truck almost lulled me to sleep.

The buildings were run down, like ones I have seen in the poorest of American neighborhoods. Some were simply mismatched materials piled in a building shape. Businesses had crude awnings and hand painted signs, many with a single bright bulb underneath. When I changed places with Will, I hung out the back of the truck a little and watched them receding into blackness, the taillights casting a rosy glow on the pavement under us. We passed police cars and trucks with red and blue lights flashing, even more brilliant than the lights of American police cars.

I saw a building with a grass roof and thought of the mansion I saw flying into New York City, with its circular driveway and pool.

The road's unevenness jerked us from our seats. The wind whipped our hair around in our faces. We were passing through a river of moving air.

I noticed that the sky was glittering, stars that I couldn't always see in my street-lamp-lit world. Signs proclaimed the names of political candidates with colorful cartoonish letterings and photos imposed on solid backgrounds.

It was 4:30 A.M. We passed a Dominican man bicycling on the highway. Others congregated at a food stand.

My first impression of the Dominican was that it was rough and crude, and that it was beautiful.

In Which I Become An Old Testament Scholar (Oh Yeah, There's an Old Testament Too)

Apart from the book of Proverbs, my relationship with the Old Testament has been like my relationship with a great aunt in North Dakota. I don't have a great aunt in North Dakota, but if I did. She would be the Old Testament, and I would be me. Just doing my thing over here in South Carolina, blissfully unaware, but asking who that lady was when we all got together every third Christmas.

Before you judge me for comparing the Old Testament to a great aunt, think about the fact that the Bible gets compared to lots of things, mostly love letters from beloved ones that you wouldn't just shove into a closet without reading. Is a love letter a better analogy for the Bible than a great aunt? Yes. It is. Do I have to come up with analogies comparable to the analogies that preachers come up with? No. I don't. They're preachers, and I'm just a person. Just a person scribbling on a blog writing everything that comes into my silly head, and that's why you've stopped reading by now, because no one would waste their precious time reading this no one would NO ONEEEEE.

However, I would like to tell the survivors of my last paragraph that I'm working on something that WILL be worth reading!

My first novel.

TA-DA!

Actually, I estimate that it will take me a year to write, AT LEAST, probably several years, MOST LIKELY. But I've been plotting all day and it is finally under way, and I'm very excited!

The great thing about writing this novel (which will be sort of suspenseful Biblical fiction) is that it is MAKING me delve into the Old Testament. It's going to be set in David's time, and it will specifically be about Mephibosheth's son, Mica. The Bible tells us one thing about Mica. Here it is.

2 Samuel 9:12 And Mephibosheth had a young son, whose name was Mica.

AAAAH!! I love it!! Basically this gives me COMPLETE LEEWAY to create Mica and his entire story! Of course, there are several Biblical stories surrounding Mica, who is closely tied to his father Mephibosheth, as well as to Jonathan (his grandfather) and to King David. Fascinating stories, I might add. I read commentaries on them until 2 AM last night. Then I got up late to go to work. That's bad. I can see that writing a novel is going to take all kinds of 1.Planning 2. Discipline 3. Self-control.

And, prayer. Because as elated as I sound- and I am- there's no way I can do this on my own. I need help with ideas, research, writing, and certainly any success in getting my book published. I want to write a book that will draw my readers in with an intriguing story, and make them realize that David was real- that the people in the Bible were real. They had personalities, emotions, and senses of humor (or not) just like we do. They struggled and made mistakes and chose to follow God (or not). I want to make the time period come alive for everyone reading it- to be as accurate as I possibly can- and most of all to point people to God, who is the same today as He was in David's day!

I'm not exactly sure why I'm telling you about all of this already. It probably would have been wiser to keep it hush-hush until I actually wrote it and got it published- if I did- and THEN to talk about it. But, I usually write about the things that I'm thinking about, and I’M THINKING ABOUT THIS. It's actually  been in the back of my mind for a loooooong time. Because when people write Biblical fiction, they usually write stories set in Jesus' day. And I think it would be really unique and educational- for me at least- and A LOT OF FUN to delve into the ancient history of Israel and write a book set in it (sneakily teaching people about it in the middle of a fascinating- I hope- fictional story!).

Right now I'm trying to imagine Mica and get to know him, in a sense. I'll share some of my brainstorming with you. I haven't gotten very far in answering these questions, and I'm going to have to read EVERYTHING I can get my hands on about this time period and about David's life.

Things I already know: He's a boy with a prosperous, good-hearted, humble, lame father (Mephibosheth) who has the king's protection. He eats at the king's table, deals with the reality of a famine and watches as his father's cousins die for the sins of their grandfather (Mica's great-grandfather) Saul. He contends with jealousy from one of Ziba's sons (fictional). He deals with conflict between Ziba and his father.

Questions I need to answer:

What's his objective?

Is he learning to trust in God?

What is he learning to do for a living? Does he take his father's prosperity (from David's hand) for granted? What about when his father loses his possessions to Ziba?

What is his personality like? Is he introverted or extroverted? What does he care about?

How is he being educated?

What will the main conflict of his story be?

What are his goals before and after the conflict? How is his life disturbed?

How old is he, what about marriage?

What are the rules of his society/ home? Does he try to challenge the norms of his society?

What does his name mean? What toys did he play with when he was little? What kind of food does he eat? What does his house look like? And all kinds of other details...

Make him funny or make one of his friends funny…

Make EVERYONE in the story interesting and relatable!

Again- I don't know if I should be writing these things on my blog- and I’m sure it's as boring to read all of this as it would be if I'd written Five Ways to Cultivate Cucumbers- but I can't write about anything else on here because I’m not thinking about anything else right now! Like I said, it will be AT LEAST a year before I finish this book- I'm thinking about making one year the goal. But since it requires significant research (maybe even a trip to Israel? Now THAT would be AWESOME), I don't know if a year will be long enough! I thought about writing a different book first, maybe a novel about American kids or Haitian kids, but I JUST CAN'T. This is what I've been feeling passionate about… for a long time… so… this is going to be my first novel!  If you're still reading this… you must be my friend or something to CARE SO MUCH!! Now I'm going to stop talking about it and get to work on it and I'll tell you all about it next year or two or three when I publish it… I hope!… aaaaaaaand you've now MADE IT to

THE END

P.S. Sorry about all of the caps and exclamation points… I wouldn't normally do that to you but… I just can't help it right now!

P.P.S. I'm still going to write on this blog every Tuesday, but I might write short posts because I might be a little… DISTRACTED

And you'll probably say, as Marley and Marley  said in Muppets Christmas Carol: "That was terrible. It was awful. It was….. SHORT. WE LOVED IT!"

P.P.P.S. No promises though. I'm sure this is just my novel writing honeymoon and I'll settle down soon enough. And I'll be back here writing long posts about everything that I'm thinking about, once again.

P.P.P.P.S. What are all the P's for anyway? Am I doing that right? If you know, please comment and tell me below, yes, comment,  in that comment box right down there. Yes, I KNOW, it is TERRIFYINGGGG to comment on such a blog as this. You'd practically be admitting to… READINGGGGG ITTTTT. But if you don't tell me that I'm doing it wrong, I'll keep right on doing it wrong, and the whole world will grind to a screeching halt, and it will be

ALL

YOUR

FAULT.

P.P.P.P.P.S. You can comment about other things too. Blog comments are my love language. Now that you know that, you're feeling extra extra extraly scared to comment, and I don't blame you. It's okay. Don't, if you'd rather not. I will let you stalk my blog quietly like the quiet blog stalker that you are. *Guilt Trip* *Namecalling* Well I'm a liar because I said that it was the end, and it wasn't, so I don't even deserve a blog comment, anyway. *Pity Party*

P.P.P.P.P.P. S. I don't actually care whether you comment or not. *Tough Act*

A-Whole-Bunch-Of-Ps. S. I just noticed that I started this post talking about the Old Testament, which comprises over half of God's sacred, inspired Word, and it has degenerated to THIS. Please come back next week. I will be much more sane and able to communicate much more clearly about much more compelling things. Like I said. I'm in novel writing honeymoon. I'll be back. You'll be back. Because you know that I won't be like this forever. Right? Okay. Good. *Feels Reassured* *Going to Talk to Mica Now*

Sisters

Families are supposed to be together.

Sisters

Mothering Sunday

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-442696/Mothers-Day-women.html

The Moms Who Work the Hardest

On Mother's Day, I want to honor my mom most of all. She works very hard, and she always has. She's amazing. But today I'm writing about some other moms, a group of moms that my own mom has taught me to appreciate by her words and her example.

They're all different ages, from a twenty-year-old devastated by her unborn baby's diagnosis, to a seventy-year-old struggling to care for a toddler in a fifty-year-old's body. They're in all stages of mothering, some changing diapers and some getting adult children ready for fast food jobs. They're assigned tasks that are much harder than the tasks assigned to most moms, and those tasks seem never-ending. They face disappointment and uncertainty about the future. Sometimes they're overwhelmed by despair.

I admire every mom. Motherhood, even more than marriage, means sacrifice. A mom gives up much of her social life for her kids. She can't just go out and have fun in the same way anymore. She's got a helpless, sloppy, wailing ball-and-chain. As her kids grow up and start going to school, she has a little more freedom, but many more errands to run and more places to take them. I used to look at my mom, who has five kids, and wonder how she could be content to live so completely for her family.

But mothers of children with disabilities sacrifice even more. Many of them remain stuck in the hardest stages of child rearing as their children's brains stop developing. When their children make progress, even amazing progress, other people don't understand or celebrate it the way they do. 

I used to play with some of their children. We had five four- and five-year-old babies at the Early Childhood Center in Godfrey, IL, when I was there in 2009. I remember one little girl in particular- her sweet smile, the way she stalked awkwardly around the room. Her hands reached aimlessly out, not purposely picking up a toy like another girl her age would have. Our "babies" were adorable, but we had to constantly guess what they needed. I heard the teacher arguing with the physical therapist, their voices rising. If these women who have been educated for years for this don't know what to do, how could an untrained twenty-year-old know what to do with this child? She'd have to study, learn, worry, make mistakes, get advice, try again.

Mothers of children with disabilities lose their freedom the way every  mother does, only more so- more completely and more permanently. Imagine having a baby for life. For as long as you live. I don't think I  could do it. (Not that every child who has a disability is a baby for life- but some are.)

If your child had physical needs, you'd have to design every trip and vacation to accommodate him. You might have to make special food and schedule repeated doctor visits. 

You'd feel forced out of social gatherings when your child screamed or misbehaved. You'd feel like an outcast after you left. If you didn't leave, you'd face annoyed stares and judgment. 

I see it this way: Everything that's simple for me is a chore for a mom, and everything that's simple for me is a huge struggle for the mom of a child with a disability.

I don't know if any mothers of children with disabilities are even reading this. If you are, I just want to say: Thank you for the happiness you bring into the world. Your child makes us smile and helps us in ways that other children can't. Thank you for putting up with the people who don't understand your struggle. I couldn't take the looks and the comments that you take on a regular basis.

I promise that I will never be annoyed by your child. I'll talk to him or her like I would to anyone else. I'll try to give you a break when I can. I won't tell you to "let me know if there's something I can do for you". I'll ask specific questions, what can I do for you, and I'll do it.

Most of all, I want you to know that God knows. He knows everything- all the extra work, the heartache and worry, the disappointment and the joy that your child brings to you. He knows the way your child makes everything in your life at least four times harder than it should be. He knows the looks people give you when your child is loud in public, and the times you pretend not to notice, but it hurts. He knows if you've lost a friend or two because they just didn't want to share your burden.

He knows that your child's babyhood or toddlerhood or childhood is lasting much longer than most. That it seems like that difficult stage will never end.

He is there. "Underneath are the everlasting arms." He knows, and knowing how hard it is, He wants you to rest. Just rest in His everlasting arms and trust Him that you're going to make it through this. He has a wonderful plan for you and for your child. If no one else tells you this mother's day, I appreciate you and I admire you. Your love makes the world a more beautiful place. Happy Mother's Day.

Trademaster

Today I "read" Son, the only Lois Lowry book I hadn't read. Actually, I listened to it- that's the way I read these days.

I love Lois Lowry because 1. She has my mom's name so I can't possibly hate her 2. Her books are entertaining enough that it's hard to drag myself away from them and yet they are deep. Even philosophical.

Anyway, Son was amazing, as I naturally expected it to be. If you haven't read it, I don't want to spoil it for you, (since I'm sure you're headed to the library this very moment to check it out) so I'll just tell you the main idea- that evil can only be defeated by refusal to participate in it. It's a good thought, but it's wrong. If I refuse to participate in evil in Greenville, S.C., the evil around the world will continue. The evil men in the middle east will continue their Christian holocaust, and children will still be enslaved and forced to fight wars in Africa. (Okay spoiler here) Gabe's refusal to trade with Trademaster made Trademaster shrivel and die, like a wicked witch splashed by water. Since Trademaster was the embodiment of all evil, Gabe destroyed the devil- the evil one who stole his mother's youth in a single moment- and traipsed home to her, unharmed. This does not actually happen.

But I was thinking that Trademaster is really a very good picture of the devil. He deceives people into trading the best parts of themselves for the things that they want. The invisible qualities of much greater but less apparent value. Mentor traded his honor for youth and good looks. Other villagers traded their honesty and kindness for cheap entertainment. Then Trademaster watched, maliciously, as their lives fell apart.

Satan's the same way. If I could only realize his evil and vindictiveness all the time! He doesn't smell foul or hiss when he talks. But he offers terrible trades, and makes them look desirable. He offers a life of fun and comfort over a difficult one of laying up treasure for eternity. "Trade!" he says, and waits for me to say it back to him. And eternity is so abstract, so invisible and distant...

He holds out the temporary satisfaction of asserting myself for the long lasting (abstract, invisible, distant) impact I could have on another person. "Trade!"

The temporary happiness I'd get by listening to music for the long lasting wisdom of the Bible. Temporary entertainment for communion with God...

It's like that, with so many things... and it is hard. And it never ends. Trademaster was given a fatal wound by Jesus Christ, but he will not shrivel into nothingness because of our refusal to trade. He will never go away until the end of time. And that's why I need you, and you need me.

Speak Up

A Gift, Not a Right

I’m trying to be intellectually honest. That is, admit it when I've been thinking incorrectly. Even admit it OUT LOUD. I've done this in my thinking about God a lot, and I'll keep doing it because there is so much to know about Him- and so many ways for my thinking to go wrong. For example, I used to think that God didn't care about people individually, that He was too big and too busy to really be concerned about what we do (although I wouldn't have said it). I also used to think that God wasn't sovereign over salvation (and I did say it- loudly. That God is not cruel enough to choose some people and reject others. HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT, YOU CALVINIST YOU). I've changed my mind on both things. Because God has proven to me that He cares about me in every way- even in the things I think about. Because He has shown me through the Bible and through the wise teaching of several men (from a college professor to R.C. Sproul) that He would not be cruel enough to His Son to send Him to die on a cross, hoping that maybe, just maybe someone would take advantage of it and get saved. That in the beginning of time, He didn't say "you're going to Heaven, you're going to Heaven, you're going to Heaven, but oh, you- I don't like you- you're going to Hell, you're going to Hell, and YOU- no way, I don't want YOU in Heaven, you're going to Hell!" He reached out to this mass of humanity- all of us, willfully rushing toward Hell- and He said "I'm going to save you, and I'm going to save you, and you, and you. Not because of anything you have done, or anything else about you, but because I choose to have mercy on you." He didn't have to save anyone.
 
I used to have an acquaintance with a (now) atheist. She doesn't know about this blog, I'm fairly certain, or I wouldn't say this. I was fascinated with HER blog- because she was a LOT like me. Christian parents, little brothers, same church, same Christian college, same passion for writing… we weren't even friends, I only had- maybe- three conversations with her… but I wanted to know her when I met her. She was funny and likeable. Then she turned away from Christianity, her family, everything. She constantly wrote about her misery, darkness, the way she cut herself, her thoughts of suicide. It was scary. I had an impression of a warning. Something like, "this is where you could end up if you turn away from God."
 
One thing I realized through her blog is that she was thinking about God as though He were another human. She talked about how terrible He was for doing and saying things that would indeed be terrible if one human did and said them to another human. But God isn't a human. We can't think about Him that way. In fact, I realized that most people who try to discredit God- saying that He's a jerk, or worse- are making the same mistake. It's kind of irritating. Like, really? You haven't considered the fact that there could be a Being who is bigger and wiser than you are… a Person who wrote all the rules, and had every right to do so? Ever heard of Anselm's Ontological argument? Please tell me you've heard of Anselm's Ontological argument. Just kidding. I don't want to be annoying and arrogant, but even if I did want to be annoying and arrogant, I wouldn't go there. I don't completely understand the ontological argument myself. However, you must know that there's a Person who is bigger than you and a purpose for life that is bigger than you. If you deny it, you're squishing that knowledge down inside your head like you might do with any other unpleasant reality. Like you might shove piles of clothes under a bed because you just don't want to deal with them right now. You're not being intellectually honest. I could get really irritated about that if I didn't do the same thing, and didn't have to stop sometimes and tell myself, "Bonnie.  THIS IS NOT ANOTHER HUMAN YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. THIS IS GOD."
 
I tend to put God on a human level when I think about life and death.
 
We all want life- more of it, more and more of it. Preferably long, happy, peaceful and pain free. Have you ever looked at history and chosen an era in which to live, carefully avoiding the surrounding war years? It’s fun to pretend we can do that, but we can’t. We wish we could order our lives out of a catalogue, but we don't have that option. We can't exchange them when they arrive with imperfections, either. We don't get a lifetime warranty. We each get one, and only one- and it comes As Is .

"You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit."
 
Except- we do throw fits. At least, I do. And I have a great life- really- considering everything. I look at people whose lives arrived in their mailboxes with numerous flaws from the very beginning- with crippling pain and loss- and THEY'RE not throwing fits. And I say that they inspire me. Because their lives didn't seem to fit, but they made themselves fit, and they fittingly did not throw a fit. (Now just pretend that I didn't just say that, but I'm going to leave it, because it was fun to say, and this is my blog, and I get to say anything on it- yes, ANYTHING I PLEASE.)
 
Whether you're throwing a fit or making the best of it, I know one thing about you, and that is- your life is precious to you. It's really all you have on this earth. No human can take it away from you with impunity. How could they? How could any one person take away another person's everything, and go on enjoying his own everything, worry-free?
 
But God is different. God is allowed to take a person's everything. Because He gave that person everything in the first place. Because He's not a human, He's God. 
 
Writing about life reminds me of Tuck Everlasting. I love that book. It's YA fiction… maybe even middle school fiction... but it is deep. It makes me think. It puts Natalie Babbitt on the Authors I Admire list. Here's a quote. 
 
"Know what that is, all around us, Winnie?" said Tuck, his voice low. "Life. Moving, growing, changing, never the same two minutes together. This water, you look out at it every morning, and it looks the same, but it ain't. All night long it's been moving, coming in through the stream back there to the west, slipping out through the stream down east here, always quiet, always new, moving on…the water's always moving on, and someday, after a long while, it comes to the ocean… Know what happens then? To the water? The sun sucks some of it up right out of the ocean and carries it back to the clouds, and then it rains, and the rain falls into the stream, and the stream keeps moving on, taking it all back again. It's a wheel, Winnie. Everything's a wheel, turning and turning, never stopping. The frogs is part of it, and the bugs, and the fish, and the wood thrush, too. And people. But never the same ones. Always coming in new, always growing and changing, and always moving on. That's the way it's supposed to be. That's the way it is… You, for instance. A child now, but someday a woman. And after that, moving on to make room for the new children."
 
Winnie blinked, and all at once her mind was drowned with understanding of what he was saying. For she- yes, even she- would go out of the world willy-nilly someday. Just go out, like the flame of a candle, and no use protesting. It was a certainty. She would try very hard not to think of it, but sometimes, as now, it would be forced upon her. She raged against it, helpless and insulted, and blurted at last, "I don't want to die."
 
I don't either. You don't. We feel defrauded when our lives are imperfect, and we feel defrauded when we get old. Most of all, we feel defrauded when we think about the fact that we're going to die. Defrauded by who? Well, by God- who else? Tuck had a lovely way of explaining life and death to Winnie, showing her how natural the process is. But his words didn't take away the sting of it. People cloak death in flowery words like his memory lives on and she's still with us in our hearts and it will be the most exciting adventure of all. Put on your best, boys, and I'll wear my pearls. But the truth is that death is frightening. It's ugly. I don't want to make its acquaintance, and you don't either. And we will be forced to do so one day.
 
When we think about death, though, we're thinking about the end of something good. So there's something else to consider- the fact that we had the good thing at all. We shouldn't feel resentment over the end of it- because we had it. If I died right now, God didn't have to give me the life I had. For me, apart from a little emotional pain, my life has been easy and good. If it hadn't- if I had lost someone in my immediate family, or if I had been in a serious car accident and had a leg amputated, or if I'd been born blind, or had acid thrown in my face, or lived in a homeless shelter- my life would still have been an unexpected gift. I guarantee, I would take any one of those lives over nothing. I would take my length of life in a shelter over 4 years in a palace. I would take 4 years in crippling pain over nothing. We look at the tiny coffin and we think that God is unjust and cruel. Why? He didn't have to give that child 1 or 2 or  4 years of life. It was a gift. If another human had taken it away, it would have been cruel, unjust, evil. That human would deserve to have his or her own life taken away. Absolutely. No question about it. If God takes a tiny child's life- He can do that. It was a gift, given for a shorter time than we, in our ignorance, expected. It doesn't mean that He is cruel.
 
I used to really struggle with the stories of the Israelites' "genocide"- which was commanded by God. They killed little children- they killed babies. Yeah, it's still really hard to accept. But God had the right to do that. He's different. He's above us. He gave us life, and He can take it away, and still be righteous and good, when a human person wouldn’t be.
 
Beyond our physical lives (which are so varied in length and painfulness), He offers eternal life. "But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the fruit you get leads to sanctification and its end, eternal life." (Romans 6:22) He offers joyful life. "You have made known to me the paths of life; you will make me full of gladness with your presence." (Acts 2:28) He holds it out in His hand. God has not defrauded you. No matter what.

Love

"If you take one step toward the Savior, my friend, you'll find His arms open wide..."

It's a line from a hymn that is not particularly beautiful or profound. I love it because it's TRUE. And it's the thing I've wanted to find throughout my life. Unconditional love.

I thought I had it with my family. Close, but... no. Then I thought I had it with a guy who later admitted he didn't really care about me. Friends... I've always wanted a group of really close friends, particularly girlfriends... I now know that I wouldn't even find it there.

I'm pretty quick to call people out on their conditional love- especially the people who exude disapproval because they have different beliefs or opinions than I do. The sad truth is that I don't love people unconditionally either. Not even close.

The conditions aren't so much their beliefs and standards, but their personalities, and the things they've said to me.

I judge the girls who snap at the socially awkward girl at church, but I don't even say hi to the drama king I work with. "I don't want to get him started," I think. "I'm tired. I can't deal with his drama today. I'll be nice to him tomorrow..."

I think when we experience God's love, the unconditional quality of it rubs off on us a little bit. Like walking into a perfume shop and carrying a whiff of some delicate scent out with us when we leave. And we need to experience God's unconditional love again and again and again so we can give it to other people. Because otherwise, we can't. We just don't have it in us.

Renewal of Vows

I'm terrible, just terrible. I'm sorry. I broke my promise, and I broke your heart.

After affirming that I would be here every Tuesday, for the rest of my life... I left you. For two weeks. Two long, lonely weeks. You scanned Google daily, searching in vain for my scintillating thoughts. The empty space where the posts for March 31 and April 7 should have been stabbed into your eyeballs like a knife.

I would walk down an aisle and renew my vows just to show you how sorry I am.

I feel like I should start over. Delete all my former posts, write "I will be here every Tuesday, for the rest of my life," and ACTUALLY KEEP MY PROMISE.

The thing is, I'm not perfect. I start a lot of things hoping to be consistent and fail. In the past I've consistently given up on them. I'm not going to do that this time- with either of my blogs.

I know this isn't a great blog. It's just my thoughts, and I'm not that intelligent, knowledgeable or witty. Still, it is actually and absolutely one of the best things in my life. Writing makes me so happy somehow. It's just pure relief.

So, why did I skip two weeks? Well, honestly... I haven't been happy lately. I've been struggling with the chore of getting around without a car, relationships, the grade I'm getting for one of the classes I'm taking right now... I go to work and people tell me that I never smile, and I don't want to fake smile because THAT'S SO FAKE. I'm tempted to wear a smiling clown mask so they'll leave me alone about it. I listen to audiobooks, which helps, but has the side effect of making me antisocial and guilty over being antisocial. People get tired of watching me move my headphones off my ears as I ask them to repeat what they said. They quit talking to me. Then I think that no one wants to talk to me. If I were rational I would think about the fact that it's my own fault. If you're a guy reading this, do you realize that girls actually know how irrational they are? Because they do.

Also, there's one person I work with (not drama king) who says nothing but negative things to me. And don't tell me not to take things personally because I just took it personally that you told me not to take things personally. What, you think I take things personally too much??

I've been pretty depressed. If I had written my weekly posts, they probably would have said:

March 31, 2015
Life is pointless.

April 7, 2015
Everybody hates me.

The truth is that I would have written LIES. Now, you wouldn't want me to get on here and tell you lies, would you? God says not to tell lies and so THAT SUPERSEDES ANY PROMISE I MAY HAVE MADE.

The good news is that I have a plan of action for Future Depressed Tuesdays. It's this:

1. Get on blogger NO MATTER HOW I FEEL
2. Write a story that is completely unrelated to me
3. Make people smile or maybe even laugh
4. Feel better myself and be free of Skip-Blog Guilt, Fakeness, AND Lies (WIN-WIN)

Do I promise to be here every Tuesday, for better or for worse, till death do part my blog and me?

I do.

Every Time I Hear This Song

It makes me smile.
This is my song.


Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto no. 1 for Piano & Orchestra in B flat minor, Op. 23: Allegro non troppo e molto maestoso


http://grooveshark.com/#!/s/Piano+Concerto+No+1+For+Piano+and+Orchestra+or+2+Pianos+In+B+Flat+Minor+Op+23+Allegro+Non+Troppo+E+Molto+Maestoso+Allegro+Con/2fmijl?src=5

Table Rock

(Since I decided that this is Throwback Tuesday... this is from a couple of years ago. I went on a hike really JUST to write a blog post about it, but it turned out to be amazing and memorable apart from the writing experience. Last week, I went to Jones Gap- a park similar to and close to Table Rock- with friends, but I can't concentrate, and write, when I'm trying to keep up and/ or keep up a conversation with people- although it was fun in its own way. I  think I'll do this again, soon... just like that time... I'll tell you about it...)

I really like art. And that's why I'm here at this gallery.

The best part is, the Artist is here with me and He's giving me the tour. He's saying, See the sunlight on those leaves turning them into a thousand shades of green and white and brown? I didn't have to clean my brush and dip it back into my palette and mix the paint just right. I did all of this with my voice.

His work isn't signed. Some people deny the artist. This living color and light and the water pouring and pouring and blurring the surface of the rocks- it all just came to be by itself. Yeah. Of course it did.

But God still lets them into His gallery and His work is there for them to look at and it's self-explanatory. They're not taking the tour. Maybe one day they'll see His hand in it- books in the running brooks, sermons in stones.

It takes some effort to get through this gallery. I'm tramping up mud slippery rocks and then I get up this slope and there's a tree with woody scales overlapping and no two are the same and He fitted them together. He's the master sculptor.

I think if I'd done that, I would have made them a regular shape and pattern, consistent and boring and my tree wouldn't even compare to the rugged beauty of His.

There's a pile of black leaves, beaten down by rain and there's bright green ones springing out of them, perfect in the traditional shape of teardrops. See, my tour guide says, my art is forever changing and renews itself and I don't need a custodian.

And I'm not looking in between at wallpaper and carpet and tables, just more and more and more living art and it goes on forever. No one, no one could think all of this up except for Him.

I can tell I've reached the top, it's open and easier to walk and then suddenly I'm on the sloping face of a huge rock and I realize that I've only walked through a tiny, tiny hallway in His gallery.

Mountain line-up, so far in the distance that I can't see the trees and boulders and creeks but I know they must be there. Gently curving line of the softest gray. More curves, and more and more like the waves of a motionless ocean.

I'm wondering why God poured out His creative energy and power into this place. There's no one here to see it right now except me. I've been hiking for hours, so I know.

He did it because He could. He did it because He is great. He did it because He doesn't need to impress anyone and He doesn't need our accolades.

Like the ocean full of intricate and amazing creatures living so deep that no human eye will ever see. Sometimes He paints and sculpts and.. really just speaks beauty into existence.. just because.

There's an eagle floating in circles above me, wings outstretched, and I think he's enjoying the view too. And there's a little mud colored toad who has no clue about it. I touch him with one finger and his skin is softer than I expected and I tell him that even he is a credit to his creator.

I wish I could describe all this with words or even photos. It's kind of like going to Vatican City to the Sistine Chapel and doing a few quick sketches with a pencil and then when you take it back you expect people to appreciate it the way you did.

His artwork is beautiful. He doesn't need me or anyone else to tell Him so. But I think He does like hearing it.

Ephesians 1

(Story I wrote a while ago... it is possibly the best post of my old, forsaken blogs... just wanted to share it with you. Michael is named after the archangel.)

Today I was driving on the interstate, and I noticed a sign with the word "Castle." I had to look at it again because it seemed too... well, official... to be a White Castle, or any cheesy tourist attraction. The sign simply gave directions to a "Castle." I veered toward the exit at the last second... I just had to check it out.

I turned left onto a curvy road with a bower of tree branches above it. The sunlight grew brighter, subtly, as the trees became more evenly spaced out. 

Then I came to a huge lawn, smooth as a green pool, with a fountain in its center shooting higher and higher every moment. The bushes surrounding it looked like they'd been trimmed with nail clippers.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it was really surprising to see an actual castle dominating the whole scene. It looked like it had come straight out of the pages of the Medieval Life book I had when I was a kid, with turrets piled on top of each other, pointed caps, and wide stone walls glimmering.

I parked in a parking garage about half a mile away from the entrance; the garage seemed modern and out-of-place. With some trepidation, I walked along a path bordered by perfect shrubbery and more fountains, then up some marble steps to the entrance. The door was held open with a huge rock; I could see that it was very heavy and carved on both sides.

A tall woman stood up from behind a polished desk. She walked around it towards me, extending her hand. "Welcome! We're so glad you are here. This is the best day to visit!" I breathed a sigh of relief- apparently, it was okay for me to be there. Then thought of the sign. Of course! If this place were private, the owner wouldn't have advertised it.

The lady was already paging a tour guide.  Soon, a man wearing an immaculate suit walked into the room.

"My name is Michael, and I'll be your guide. This is a very special day for all of us, and we're so glad you're here!" He gestured to the hall, and from where I was standing, I could see beautiful tapestries, golden fixtures, and an ornate carpet. "This castle is coming into the possession of an extremely fortunate heiress this very afternoon!"

"Really?" I exclaimed.

"Absolutely. Today, she will become one of the wealthiest people in the entire world. I've been authorized to give visitors a complete tour of her new estate. Please come this way!"

I walked into the great hall as Michael told me that throughout the tour, he would show me everything that the woman would inherit. "We'll start with the throne room."

We came to the end of a corridor, and a door loomed over us, made of the darkest wood I had ever seen. It looked sinister after the warmth and richness of the hall. Michael turned the knob, and the door swung open slowly.

I saw a great throne towering on a dais; the only furniture in the room. Three crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the walls were completely covered in crimson tapestries. It was a solemn and majestic place, and it took my breath away.

Michael's smile had disappeared. He spoke seriously, looking into my eyes as though every word were vitally important.

"The heiress is unworthy of favor. She has done great wrong to her benefactor, and he could have judged and punished her severely. But he has forgiven everything. Not only that, but in this very room he has proclaimed his will for her. She has been predestined to be completely blameless before him, and she will be." He spoke with confidence.

"She will change?" I asked, trying to make sense of the words.

"He will change her. She had an evil heart, but now she will fulfill his will, and she will be to the praise of his glorious grace. This is guaranteed. He has proclaimed it, and he has sealed her with his own seal."

"Wow!" I exclaimed. I'd never heard anything like this before. Then he smiled again.

 "We'll move on to the chapel."

In this smaller room, stone walls rose to a perfect arch, warm in the light of thousands of candles. A crimson carpet lay before the altar, which was carved with the image of an empty cross. Magnificent stained glass windows spanned every wall. "Here, she will receive every spiritual blessing in heavenly places. Her benefactor has chosen her before the foundation of the world to be his adopted daughter, and he even died to redeem her."

I couldn't speak. I had thought that someone this wealthy and powerful would be equally heartless, but it seemed that the one of whom he spoke had a heart greater than the whole world.

Michael gestured toward the hallway. We walked side by side to the next door; it was very heavy, and I saw him strain a little to push it open. Then my eyes filled up with the sight of row on row on row of books. They completely covered walls that were higher and wider than I'd ever seen in any library; and I've visited many.

"This library contains secrets that people have died to obtain, and still could not. They will be freely revealed to her. He will allow her to know the mystery of his will. He will give her wisdom, insight, and an enlightened heart. She will be given knowledge of him and of the hope to which he has called her."

I couldn't answer now because I didn't trust my voice. I saw the true value of the wisdom he was speaking about, of the hope and also the love in this room. I'd been smothering my desire for these things, chasing things I thought were attainable, the cheap substitutes. I wanted to stay, to pull a few books off the shelves. Michael gave me a knowing look and opened the door for me, and I thought that I would cry at having to leave.

"We're going to the banquet hall," he said, not looking at me. He walked quickly, and I broke into an awkward jog to catch up.

We walked through an open archway into a room that absolutely glowed. The walls were lit by oil lamps and lined with thousands of portraits in golden frames. The room had more tables than I had ever seen in my life. It was warm from a blazing fire in the great fireplace. I felt my feet sinking into the thick carpet and suddenly wanted to take off my shoes, but I realized that Michael was speaking again.

"This is the place in which the heiress will experience the most wonderful fellowship possible. She'll have a close friendship with her benefactor, and will be united with others because of him. These friends will be filled with the same love and faith that she'll be given, so they'll be understanding of each other and able to serve him together."

"This is so amazing!" It was all I could really say.

"There's more," he said. 

We came to a door that was inlaid with jewels and securely locked. Michael pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and expertly found the ones he needed. "This is the treasure chamber," he told me, and as the door swung open, I gasped. The place looked like a dragon's lair from a fairy tale. Gold and jewels were heaped up on shelves and even on the floor. Diamonds in velvet cases, the biggest rubies I had ever seen, and glittering treasure chests with wide-open lids. “It will all be hers; she's blessed in the beloved. He simply chose to lavish his rich grace on her."

Michael stooped to pick up a golden crown, set it on a shelf and turned back around to face me. I could see that he was tearing up a bit, himself. "You know, the best part is, she doesn't even realize the rich and glorious inheritance she will receive, but he is going to reveal it to her. He is so good. She'll even receive a guarantee of a future inheritance of greater riches."

"But-" I said, suddenly remembering something. A contradiction. "I thought you said her benefactor died!"

"Ah." His eyes lit up. "I have one more room to show you."

I startled a little when I walked into the next room and saw two knights holding enormous swords. Then, I realized that they were only suits of armor. The walls of this chamber bristled with swords and spears of every description, and an iron table in the center was piled with weapons and protective armor. I noticed a shield with the symbol of the empty cross.

"He died for her," Michael said, "but his father raised him from the dead. Their power is immeasurably great. And they will work in her with that very same resurrection power. They will give her their own power so that she can fight her battles.

“On top of all this, she will have my master as her head, to love and obey, and fill her with everything she needs. She will be his fullness, the fullness of him who fills all in all."

As we walked back to the entrance, I noticed something on the wall. A golden case with a thick document inside. "What's this?"

"It's the deed to the castle, and all of the riches that I've described to you." He pulled out one last key, and I thought I could see bloodstains on it.

Then he put it into the key hole and turned it.

"What are you doing?" I asked. I could hear my voice shaking.

"This is the deed for the rich and glorious inheritance." He held it out to me.

"It's for you."

Fighting Words

I'm starting a new blog, Fighting Words, for things I learn from the Bible that I want to share with you. It's ireadatsixam.blogspot.com. There's nothing there, but there will be. Tomorrow. First thing. In the morning.

Yes, that's right. I am the proud owner of TWO blogs. I'm thinking about starting a third anonymous one. (I do this a lot.)

(But that high-hopes-crashing thing that usually happens is NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.)

(I can do this.)

I have decided to write something on Fighting Words every day. I promised you I'd write on Conditional Me Writing Unconditionally every Tuesday, and I have written (almost) every Tuesday. Why? Because YOU READ IT. That's why. Because I know that you know my blog name, and it says I write on Tuesday. And if I wait till Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday, I can't deal with the guilt. I can't look at my laptop. I CAN'T FUNCTION. I want to become a Democrat. That's how bad it is.

So if Conditional Me forces me to write once a week, Fighting Words could force me to get up, read the Bible, and tell you about it, every day. It's one of the hardest things for me to do. I'm a night owl. But I'm going to change that.

Good night.

Little Kids With God

I've noticed something funny about little kids. Little, up to seven, maybe ten- sometimes. They accept what they're told (factually).

They don't know that adults make mistakes. That we're weak and foolish, we don't know everything, we tell lies.

But we expect that, right? We expect them to believe the things we tell them. And it's even a little jarring when they don't, anymore.

I went to a concert at BJU, a lady in a long dress singing "Good Night, Moon." The words of the picture book I used to love.

"Goodnight room
Goodnight moon
Goodnight cow jumping over the moon
Goodnight light
And the red balloon."

It was surprisingly beautiful.

And I thought about how trusting little kids are. How they believe that everything in their room has a personality, feelings, they kiss their teddy bears goodnight. They trust the lady whispering "hush", that it's best for them to hush. That they're safe and that they'll wake up again in the same safe room. That everything will be alright.

Fits notwithstanding, they believe that you know best and that you are doing what's best for them.

I'm trying to be a little kid with God. Like He doesn't make mistakes, He isn't weak and foolish. He knows everything. He doesn't tell lies.

The childhood illusion that's painfully broken and discarded. We recycle. Please place your illusions in the blue bin, new cynicisms are manufactured daily.  

But I think that the expectations of children are misplaced, they're really meant for God. Because He's the only one who can fulfill them.

God says, "But sexual immorality and all impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you." But people argue, because they're adults now, and they know better. It's okay, expected, even admirable for consenting (loving) adults. May I see your ID please? 

Because when we're 18 we know more than God. 

Listen to me. Your parents may be wrong. But God is never wrong. You will never know more than God. Not even close. 

You may never understand why, like a little kid doesn't understand why their parents tell them not to touch that, to come back, to run. But he knows his parents are concerned for his well-being. How? From experience.

"If you who have fallible parents trusted them to do what was best for you, how much more shall you trust your unfailing, all-seeing, all-knowing, everlastingly loving Heavenly Father?" (Not from the Bible) (I made it up).  

Sometimes when He says No, it is really really hard. But hard does not mean bad. Hard does not mean impossible. Just picture yourself as that little kid, right now. You're cozy warm, full, almost asleep, and you hear your mother whispering "hush", and you trust her with everything in you because she has always been good to you. You know that nothing bad will happen to you in that room. If your mother asked you to do something hard, you'd know she wasn't trying to hurt you. You'd believe that she was trying to help you in some way. And that's the way God loves you. He loves you even more. I'll prove it to you.

"As one whom his mother comforts, so I will comfort you." Isaiah 66:13

"Can a woman forget her nursing child And have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, but I will not forget you. - Isaiah 49:15

"O LORD, my heart is not proud, nor my eyes haughty; Nor do I involve myself in great matters, Or in things too difficult for me. Surely I have composed and quieted my soul; Like a weaned child rests against his mother, My soul is like a weaned child within me." -Psalm 131:1-2