"The human soul is a house of many fantastic chambers. But for most of us, as we go our way easily through life, the most curious of those chambers are the least frequented. Bluebeard's closet we would not unriddle if we could; blank doors we gape at in passing with a little wonder, perhaps, but with more relief that we, who are safe in our everydayness, will never be called upon to turn the key in the lock and face the incredible things within.
There are almighty things behind those doors. There is beauty so intense that it burns on the mind like fiery waters; much agony, hideous fear and many torments; and after the torments are past, a certain sense that seems to its wounded possessors priceless, a sense and memory of impossible things endured.
Not easily nor often do the doors swing open- they will not budge for the catchwords of ordinary speech. It is only the elemental forces of the naked and crying soul that will suffice to move them- the elemental powers, fear, hunger, love and hate. And this is just- and it is just that the doors should open seldom-
for the man upon whom they have opened even for an instant will never be the same again."
-Benet from Elementals
I found this book, Stories for Men just around the square at a little antique stored called Mardee's. I got the book for my brother, Matt, as well as Fathers and Sons. And being surrounded by old, worn, dusty books to me is like finding a room full of little beating hearts, and I can't help but want to peek into each one, hoping I'll find something in them that's familiar.
I got Anna Karenina, Winter's Tales, and Essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson for myself. I read some Emerson in a Romanticism class I had in Auburn, but the reading schedule and academic robotic like essays I was writing kind of took the joy out of it, so I'm excited to get to read a whole bunch of essays without a teacher staring at me, and waiting for me to say something profound....I don't really think I say many profound things, and if I do, I assure you it was accidental.
Growing up, I always hoped that when walking through the woods across the street from my house or down behind Kimberly Carnes' house I would find something amazing. I'm not sure what: the remains of some ancient civilization, an old shoe, a love letter, someone's secret.
I searched under the oak leaves and rotten stumps, I looked in the ditches and in the tunnels under the streets, I looked down the hills, and down holes, I looked behind the vines and the briers and only found more vines and more briers. There were no secrets to be found. And then one day, I opened a book and I found ancient civilizations, and old worn shoes left behind by a man named Goriot, or maybe Godot, and I found love letters written to young girls with warm cheeks or from old women with powdered wrinkles; love letters from poor men, rich men, handsome men, cowardly men, sad men, and I found secrets that belonged to me hidden in pages and pages, but that also belonged to someone else. My secrets were their secrets. And I fell in love with the written word.
To those who don't read, books are disposable, good for burning, good for wadding. Maybe they never saw themselves behind the covers. Maybe they didn't catch a glimpse at all there was to be offered in the pages: Solace, horror, love, adventure, wonder, jealousy, lostness, sleepy dreamers.
Maybe I look too much into them. But it's like watching someone stand before a crowd, and yell out their deepest thoughts and secrets, to let the blood gush from their hearts, with no concern for the listener's shiny, clean shoes- no concern for ruining someone else with their honesty- and you just can't look away. No matter how ugly, how heart wrenching, or how broken, you can't leave them standing there alone. You can't walk away. Because while they yell out there mistakes and flaws and beautiful memories, your reminded of your mistakes, your flaws, your beautiful memories, and you want to stay a little longer in their wake, because though it is getting bigger, and there is the fear of it all crashing down and you drowning, drowning doesn't seem as terrible as being alone.
A novel may be fiction, but the emotion, the stories, the characters, came from somewhere real, and while we pick up novels imagining that they are just paper, I can't help but believe that the author had to have bled just a little while writing it. They are that person standing before a crowd, yelling, at the top of their lungs, and I guess I'm one of those who steps forward, shiny shoes and all.
I think I'm just drawn to honesty; I'm drawn to the stories of others. I want to know them, I want to understand them, I want to search them out. Reading allows me to be a people watcher, and instead of the people knowing I'm watching them- allowing them to edit their words and movements- I see all the human, all the flaws, all the quarks, all the things in them that I know I, myself, have a tendency to hide.
Maybe books are just "blank doors we gape at in passing with a little wonder, perhaps, but with more relief that we, who are safe in our everydayness, will never be called upon to turn the key in the lock and face the incredible things within."
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
The Cold War
Tissues. Empty glasses of water lying around. My pink nose. My disappearing voice. Laughing at the funny impersonations having a hoarse voice allows me to do. Sore throat the next day from doing funny impersonations.
Cold is just a guest. No bother. He comes and goes every now and then, and I guess if he takes a bath he leaves the water running, which would explain the watery eyes and nose. He also has a tendency to light fires in my throat to keep himself warm at night, but it’s nothing I can’t put out with a little glass of cold water. I’ve heard he likes to dress up like a girl, and put on high heels and boas; though, it must be true because I think I can feel the feathers tickling in my nose…so I keep sneezing. But no bother, he only visits me once or twice a year, so I expect these things, and I usually don’t pay him any attention at all.
That is until he falls asleep. I figure he sleeps when I sleep because that’s when it happens. I lay my head down on the pillow, and all of a sudden, I can’t breathe. I’m not one of those people who has the ability to sleep with my mouth open: My mouth doesn’t just keep itself open, I keep my mouth open, and when I fall asleep…my mouth closes and I wake up in a fit of gasping and coughing. Clearly, not being able to breathe through my nose is a problem. I wonder over this phenonemon every time Cold comes to stay, and I try to go to sleep, only to find, just then- when I want to sleep- I can’t breathe. I’ve come to the conclusion that Cold spends the night in my nose, which doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I suppose when my head is horizontal and not vertical, he rolls over and blocks the air passage, making it impossible for me to breathe.
In the past, I’ve propped my mouth open with a thumb, and this was not sucking my thumb…it was strategic maneuvering to prevent my mouth from closing after I fell asleep, therefore, insuring that I don’t wake up by Cold suffocating me. But last night, I happened to see a bottle of Dayquil. I read on the label, multi cold symptom relief. I knew, of course, this would not cure my cold, and though my throat no longer hurt, my eyes no longer watered, and the majority of Cold’s things had been packed and he was ready to go, I figured I could do without the stuffiness while I slept. I figured, hey, I’ll take this here Dayquil, and Cold can go sleep somewhere else, and I can breathe through my nose tonight.
The Cold war had begun.
I have never been one to fight Cold. I can’t help it if he shows up, he’s really stubborn and I’m aware that I can’t just make him leave. Doctor’s can’t even make him leave. So, I always just deal. Last night’s decision to take Dayquil is the first attack in a very, very long time that I’ve had on Cold. Boy did it backfire.
There it was. 30 ml. Orange. Almost transparent. Thick like syrup. Sitting on the counter. It had been years, and when I say years, definitely more than 10 since I’ve had cough syrup or anything of that nature. At my house, we accept Cold and just continue on with our lives, so I had forgotten the horrors of Dayquil. But something in me didn’t forget, because I couldn’t make myself drink it. I thought it was silly, or course, but when I picked up that little cup, my hand shook, I think I broke out in sweat, little child-me somewhere was freaking out…I pushed this gut feeling I had away and brought the cup to my mouth and swallowed….coughed, choked, gagged, screamed….
Maybe I was over dramatic but terrible is such an understatement. I could feel large clumps of goo roll lazily down my throat. It had this overwhelming taste, almost similar to a cough drop…but not delightful at all like a cough drop. And what’s worse is that it had this cool, minty affect that opened my noses so that I could taste it even more. And it clung to my tongue, and the inside walls of my cheeks, my uvula, and my esophagus…I imagine if I had looked in my mouth and down my pharynx there would have been orange slime all the way down. It was like somewhere, in some demented Candy land, an evil orange jolly rancher was melted and given to the human race as punishment for eating their candy…so, so cruel.
The cup was half-full. Definitely not half-empty. I cowered from it. I Talked with myself, debated with myself, threw my hands into the air like a five year old and jumped up and down in absolute defiance. But I knew I had to finish it. In short, I attempted to recreate the I-can’t-breathe-situation in my nose, and then drink it without smelling it….but that didn’t work. The whole time it’s like I was trying to gulp it down quickly, but it had little arms clinging to my tongue, refusing to go down, and so, it seemed like I wasn’t swallowing it at all…it was just floating about in my mouth. Finally, I threw my head back, yelling, and shuddered when it was all over.
I gulped down sweet tea. I walked upstairs. I thought I was going to be sick. Really, I could have thrown up…and I realized that I will NEVER take Dayquil ever again. Cold is much kinder than that.
So here it is, Cold isn’t that bad….but Dayquil, “the help,” is pure evil. Don’t let that fun, tangy orange color deceive you…or that off minty smell. It’s only a front to cover its ugliness with. An ugliness that will take it’s time as it slides down your throat and into your stomach where, even there, you can feel it cackle.
Cold is just a guest. No bother. He comes and goes every now and then, and I guess if he takes a bath he leaves the water running, which would explain the watery eyes and nose. He also has a tendency to light fires in my throat to keep himself warm at night, but it’s nothing I can’t put out with a little glass of cold water. I’ve heard he likes to dress up like a girl, and put on high heels and boas; though, it must be true because I think I can feel the feathers tickling in my nose…so I keep sneezing. But no bother, he only visits me once or twice a year, so I expect these things, and I usually don’t pay him any attention at all.
That is until he falls asleep. I figure he sleeps when I sleep because that’s when it happens. I lay my head down on the pillow, and all of a sudden, I can’t breathe. I’m not one of those people who has the ability to sleep with my mouth open: My mouth doesn’t just keep itself open, I keep my mouth open, and when I fall asleep…my mouth closes and I wake up in a fit of gasping and coughing. Clearly, not being able to breathe through my nose is a problem. I wonder over this phenonemon every time Cold comes to stay, and I try to go to sleep, only to find, just then- when I want to sleep- I can’t breathe. I’ve come to the conclusion that Cold spends the night in my nose, which doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I suppose when my head is horizontal and not vertical, he rolls over and blocks the air passage, making it impossible for me to breathe.
In the past, I’ve propped my mouth open with a thumb, and this was not sucking my thumb…it was strategic maneuvering to prevent my mouth from closing after I fell asleep, therefore, insuring that I don’t wake up by Cold suffocating me. But last night, I happened to see a bottle of Dayquil. I read on the label, multi cold symptom relief. I knew, of course, this would not cure my cold, and though my throat no longer hurt, my eyes no longer watered, and the majority of Cold’s things had been packed and he was ready to go, I figured I could do without the stuffiness while I slept. I figured, hey, I’ll take this here Dayquil, and Cold can go sleep somewhere else, and I can breathe through my nose tonight.
The Cold war had begun.
I have never been one to fight Cold. I can’t help it if he shows up, he’s really stubborn and I’m aware that I can’t just make him leave. Doctor’s can’t even make him leave. So, I always just deal. Last night’s decision to take Dayquil is the first attack in a very, very long time that I’ve had on Cold. Boy did it backfire.
There it was. 30 ml. Orange. Almost transparent. Thick like syrup. Sitting on the counter. It had been years, and when I say years, definitely more than 10 since I’ve had cough syrup or anything of that nature. At my house, we accept Cold and just continue on with our lives, so I had forgotten the horrors of Dayquil. But something in me didn’t forget, because I couldn’t make myself drink it. I thought it was silly, or course, but when I picked up that little cup, my hand shook, I think I broke out in sweat, little child-me somewhere was freaking out…I pushed this gut feeling I had away and brought the cup to my mouth and swallowed….coughed, choked, gagged, screamed….
Maybe I was over dramatic but terrible is such an understatement. I could feel large clumps of goo roll lazily down my throat. It had this overwhelming taste, almost similar to a cough drop…but not delightful at all like a cough drop. And what’s worse is that it had this cool, minty affect that opened my noses so that I could taste it even more. And it clung to my tongue, and the inside walls of my cheeks, my uvula, and my esophagus…I imagine if I had looked in my mouth and down my pharynx there would have been orange slime all the way down. It was like somewhere, in some demented Candy land, an evil orange jolly rancher was melted and given to the human race as punishment for eating their candy…so, so cruel.
The cup was half-full. Definitely not half-empty. I cowered from it. I Talked with myself, debated with myself, threw my hands into the air like a five year old and jumped up and down in absolute defiance. But I knew I had to finish it. In short, I attempted to recreate the I-can’t-breathe-situation in my nose, and then drink it without smelling it….but that didn’t work. The whole time it’s like I was trying to gulp it down quickly, but it had little arms clinging to my tongue, refusing to go down, and so, it seemed like I wasn’t swallowing it at all…it was just floating about in my mouth. Finally, I threw my head back, yelling, and shuddered when it was all over.
I gulped down sweet tea. I walked upstairs. I thought I was going to be sick. Really, I could have thrown up…and I realized that I will NEVER take Dayquil ever again. Cold is much kinder than that.
So here it is, Cold isn’t that bad….but Dayquil, “the help,” is pure evil. Don’t let that fun, tangy orange color deceive you…or that off minty smell. It’s only a front to cover its ugliness with. An ugliness that will take it’s time as it slides down your throat and into your stomach where, even there, you can feel it cackle.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Call Me Gomer
Faithfulness. Dictionary.reference. com would say faithfullness is: steady in allegiance or affection; loyal; constant. I don’t know about you, but I’m none of those things. I’m about as constant as 60 watt light bulb; sure I shine real bright for several weeks, but one day, you go to turn me on and I just break…
it doesn’t matter if in my little glassy heart I really want to keep on shining for you, because eventually, it is in my nature to give in and burn out.
I wouldn’t say I’m always steady in allegiance or affection either, if I were, I wouldn’t be a sinner and I wouldn’t have given God the icy shoulder in the first place….because I would have been steady in allegiance or affection.
Here’s the thing.
Because I’m human, I have a short warranty for faithfulness.
Because I will tend to wander, I’ll tend to burn out, burn up, or not burn at all…I’ll just stop being faithful- even if I want to be faithful- for some reason, I’ll still end up neglecting God. I find myself in the same situation Paul found himself in:
“For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am of the flesh, sold under sin. I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very things I hate….So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out” Romans 7:14-15;18
Here’s the problem….no matter how hard I want to be faithful, I CAN’T be faithful because I have this ugly thing dwelling in my soul called sin, and it doesn’t matter how often I pray or how often I memorize bible verses, it will ALWAYS be there, and THAT is why I can never be completely faithful all of the time
…because sin is not faithful, it’s unfaithful…
which would explain why, without Christ, we’re as good as dead, because left to ourselves, we’re all wrath, and darkness…and sin. At least, it seems, in my own life, that’s all I am when I separate myself from God…I’m all bitter, and dark, and well, ugly.
So I’ve come to the realization that I am unfaithful. It shouldn’t be shocking to me. Sunday School teachers have been teaching me since I could say “Jesus” that I’m a sinner. I guess I didn’t think that meant that I would look God in the face, and by my actions, or lack-of, I would say “I don’t love you,” and walk away. But isn’t that what I’ve been doing all this time? Being bitter or angry with Him because I can’t see His plan, so I try to make my own plans, draw my own escape clause, and in the process of, I’ve said in my heart, “God, I don’t love you enough right now to be faithful, so I’m walking away….”
And what did/does God do?
“She shall pursue her lovers but not overtake them, and she shall seek them but not find them. Then she shall say, ‘I will go and return to my first husband, for it was better for me then that now.’ And she did not know that it was I who gave her the grain, the wine, and the oil, and who lavished on her silver and gold, which they used for Baal. Therefore, I will take back my grain in its time, and my wine in its season, and I will take away my wool and my flax, which were to cover her nakedness. Now I will uncover her lewdness in the sight of her lovers, and no one shall rescue her out of my hand…..And I will punish her for the feast days of the Baals
When she went with her ring and jewelry, and went after her lovers, and forgot about me, declares the Lord” Hosea 2: 7-10; 13
That entire passage makes my heart drop every time I read it, because I feel like I’m reading about myself. I keep waiting for my clothes and the food in the pantry to disappear: I keep waiting to find myself completely abandoned. But aren’t I already? If I’m not choosing God, my first love, and am instead running after the lovers of the world, haven’t I already put myself out in the desert to die? I think (I think means this is solely my interpretation) God isn’t pointing out that He just provided Gomer with stuff; I think he’s pointing out that he gave Gomer life. He was her first love, her savior, her bridegroom…he was the center of everything her life revolved around. And she wasted it on vanity, pride, stubbornness, bitterness….other men. She gave the life God intended for her to have and threw it to the wind.
And here’s the thing, if left on her own, Gomer- who too is a human, and thus has that ugly sin snoozing in her soul- would never have turned back to God.
“As it is written: None is righteous, no, not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God. All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one.” Romans 3:10-12
None of us will ever choose God, because none of us will ever be able to defy that sinful nature that is in us to turn away. We will always choose ourselves: our pride, our comfort, our family, our hearts. Because we are not faithful creatures, we are sinful creatures, and God knows this….and though it would seem He would let us wander, as 2 Timonthy 13 says, “if we are faithless, he remains faithful.” Why? It’s who He is. We are unfaithful…God is not.
When God was removing Gomer’s lovers (her vanity, worldly comforts, pride) He was making her naked, but I don’t think in a literal context, I think He was breaking her down so that there was nothing between her and God. I think He was making her as vulnerable as He could. He knew left with those lovers, she wouldn’t turn back, so He took them away, so that all she would have left would be the Lord. Painful? Yes. Affective? Very much so.
By removing the other lovers from Gomer/my life, God removes the distractions, the lies, the counterfeit: All that is left is my obvious weakness and his greatness, his love and my whore-like ways, his compassion and my overwhelming need for him to continue to love me and to teach me His faithfulness.
“Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her. And there I will give her vineyards and make the Valley of Anchor (anchor means trouble) a door of hope. And there she shall answer as in the days of her youth, as at the time when she came out of the land of Egypt. And in that day, declares the Lord, you will call me, ‘My Husband,’…..And I will betroth you to me forever. I will betroth you to me in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love and in mercy…
I will betroth you to me in faithfulness. And you shall know the Lord.” Hosea 2:14-16;19-20
The Lord lead Gomer into the wilderness, and in the wilderness, when all the rest of the world was put aside, he allured her, and spoke tenderly to her…he loved her. He made her bare, vulnerable, and broke her down, just so she could hear Him when He called to her. It seems drastic, a bit complicated, but it worked. And if you look at your own life, I’m sure the moments you heard the Lord the loudest and clearest is just after you hit rock bottom, and do you want to know why you hit rock bottom? Because the Lord had to get your attention so He could show you your unfaithfulness, and remind you that He’s your first love, and He could remind you that though you may be unfaithful, He has enough faithfulness for the both of you.
So here it is. I am unfaithful because I’m a sinner. I have a black splotch somewhere on my soul that even bleach can’t remove. I’m selfish, impatient, and I too often consider myself deserving of God’s blessings, and thus , believe at time that I must be faithful to receive such gifts, when all along, I’m really unfaithful; God just loves me enough to break down my hard heart, make me vulnerable, and drag me into the wilderness, so that after He’s reminded me of His love for me, and my true human nature ;instead of feeling worthless, disobedient, and the whore that I really am, I’m reminded that I am just human, He is God, and He’ll never give up on me...
He’ll never abandon me, and He’ll never hate me for my unfaithful tendencies. He’ll just keep pulling me out of the muck I throw myself into, and all the while, ready again to betroth Himself to me forever, in faithfulness, love, and mercy.
Friday, November 19, 2010
No need to fear, St. Stephen is here...
My computer crashed…
Fortunately I have backed up all of my essays, papers, poems, fiction, resumes, intern lists, and randomnosities on a flash drive.
Unfortunately, I lacked the mental capacity to do the same with my music.
My music is gone.
All of it.
Gone.
I feel as if I have lost a favorite pet…it was crushed by a dying laptop.
Safety suit, Santigold, Ben folds, Ingrid Michelson, Coldplay, Counting Crows, One Republic, Random Rap, Stateless, Parachute, Paramore, Allison Krous, Dave Mathews Band, The Swell Season, Josh Radin, Imogen Heap, Goo Goo Dolls, Train, Vitamin String Quartet, Bach, Bethoven, Jack Johnson, Taylor Swift, Five for Fighting, Foo Fighters, Jet, Flyleaf, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Kings of Leon (that one hurt), As Tall As Lions(that one hurt a lot), BAND OF HORSES…can’t….go…on…..
I think my heart is crawling on all fours, dragging its inferior Vena Cava of a tail behind it…leaving a ugly trail of brown blood on the white carpet…goodbye strings and drums, goodbye basses and cellos, goodbye kick A guitar solos, goodbye acoustic guitar that makes me drool…goodbye. I’m sorry I didn’t copy your name somewhere, I’m sorry I didn’t call the next day, I’m sorry I didn’t even say goodbye. WHAT KIND OF A PERSON AM I???
I now live in a world of depressing silence. All I have left is my little iPod, my little iPod holding what little music it can with no home to return to. Poor thing. It’s an orphan. I’ll refer to it as Annie now. Little Annie, my lonely, abandoned, neglected iPod. No more USB cables for it. No more electric highs or buzzes. No more musical library for it to wander through. My iPod is now deprived of sustenance and education. It’s going to be mentally stunted by the lack of new music. It’s going to be the annoying kid that sings the same songs over and over and over again, it’s going to be THAT kid.
ITunes can go to h-e-double hockey sticks. Who at ITunes agreed that once someone’s computer crashes, their library is forever closed? Evil people…evil people who would join the dark side for crappy, crumbly cookies, or worse, Nilla Wafers. You would think that with all of their knowledge, there would be some way to log back into iTunes to have your whole musical life there, but no, they’re too smart for that: They decided on the one time download policy. Forget taking a bite from that apple and putting it back into the refrigerator to finish eating it later, it won’t be there. One bite, one time, that’s all you get. What a waste. Had I known that, I would have just spent more time stealing apples rather than buying them to have them disappear in an ITunes magic trick.
We need a music super hero. I imagine a guy- young, maybe early twenties- who’s a hybrid of all music types. He’s got dark, brown hippy hair, glasses, emo bangs, ear gauges, a diamond studded tooth, a 5:00 O’clock shadow, tattoo sleeve on his right arm, a European/Australian Accent, piano hands with string calluses at the end, and some Toms. And he works at a Guitar Shoppe, and goes by the name, St. Steven.
St. Steven is the guardian of all things musical, that’s right, guardian. He’s like a human musical encyclopedia. He knows every song ever created, all the notes in that song, and he even knows who wrote it. And when he hears the cries of someone (me) in pain due to a musical catastrophe, he rides in on sound waves carried from Mount Treble (the place of his birth) which is much smaller, though the neighbor to Mount Olympus. Yeah, he’s part human- his mom was Heather, the blond who worked in a music store chewing juicy fruit and selling used records- and his dad was the god Apollo.
You might think that with a god-dad and a cool mom, he’d have a better name, but on the day he was born on Mount Treble, the sun momentarily went out, and because everything on Mount Treble works by sunlight, the power was gone. Because his mom was so in tune with music, she needed it in order to get through the birth…and Apollo was gone tuning some god’s guitar or maybe it was a sitar so he couldn’t sing to her or play the lovely lyre, the radio wouldn’t work with no power, and she couldn’t sing to herself because she was actually tone deaf, but then, just when she thought there was no hope, she found a toy Hera had given to her for the baby, a-grateful-dead-in-the-box. Perhaps you have never heard of this before, but that is only because the grateful-dead-in-the-box isn’t made anymore…too many people were becoming curious about its origin, which was actually Olympus because the gods liked a little grateful dead too. They were all freaked out by the Jack-in-the-box, except Hades, he thought it was delightful, which is the real reason why he was kicked out of Olympus and put in the land of the dead; no one could stand the suspense of little Jack popping out of the box. So after Hades and his demented toy were kicked out, the gods replaced Jack with Jerry and changed the song to St. Steven. So, on the evening of his birth, his mom cranked and cranked the grateful-dead-in-the-box, all the while she sang to herself, “St. Steven with a rose, in and of the garden he goes. Country garden in the wind and the rain, wherever he goes people all…” and right when Jerry sprung from the box, the little boy was born, and named St. Steven accordingly.
St. Stephen inherited his mother’s musical artist wisdom and his father’s musical ear, and thus, creating the perfect super hero for my debacle. And if he were to hear my cry, St. Steven would appear as if on wings, I would tell him my dilemma, and from his musical soul and through the ends of his callused fingers, he would command the exact music I had lost back onto my computer. End.
I can’t believe I really just made that up on the spot. Or did I? Maybe there really is a St. Steven somewhere rocking out….whispering to the minds of all artists desiring to write a song that will reach beyond our human limits….or trying to remind us to back up our iTunes on a flash drive.
Fortunately I have backed up all of my essays, papers, poems, fiction, resumes, intern lists, and randomnosities on a flash drive.
Unfortunately, I lacked the mental capacity to do the same with my music.
My music is gone.
All of it.
Gone.
I feel as if I have lost a favorite pet…it was crushed by a dying laptop.
Safety suit, Santigold, Ben folds, Ingrid Michelson, Coldplay, Counting Crows, One Republic, Random Rap, Stateless, Parachute, Paramore, Allison Krous, Dave Mathews Band, The Swell Season, Josh Radin, Imogen Heap, Goo Goo Dolls, Train, Vitamin String Quartet, Bach, Bethoven, Jack Johnson, Taylor Swift, Five for Fighting, Foo Fighters, Jet, Flyleaf, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Kings of Leon (that one hurt), As Tall As Lions(that one hurt a lot), BAND OF HORSES…can’t….go…on…..
I think my heart is crawling on all fours, dragging its inferior Vena Cava of a tail behind it…leaving a ugly trail of brown blood on the white carpet…goodbye strings and drums, goodbye basses and cellos, goodbye kick A guitar solos, goodbye acoustic guitar that makes me drool…goodbye. I’m sorry I didn’t copy your name somewhere, I’m sorry I didn’t call the next day, I’m sorry I didn’t even say goodbye. WHAT KIND OF A PERSON AM I???
I now live in a world of depressing silence. All I have left is my little iPod, my little iPod holding what little music it can with no home to return to. Poor thing. It’s an orphan. I’ll refer to it as Annie now. Little Annie, my lonely, abandoned, neglected iPod. No more USB cables for it. No more electric highs or buzzes. No more musical library for it to wander through. My iPod is now deprived of sustenance and education. It’s going to be mentally stunted by the lack of new music. It’s going to be the annoying kid that sings the same songs over and over and over again, it’s going to be THAT kid.
ITunes can go to h-e-double hockey sticks. Who at ITunes agreed that once someone’s computer crashes, their library is forever closed? Evil people…evil people who would join the dark side for crappy, crumbly cookies, or worse, Nilla Wafers. You would think that with all of their knowledge, there would be some way to log back into iTunes to have your whole musical life there, but no, they’re too smart for that: They decided on the one time download policy. Forget taking a bite from that apple and putting it back into the refrigerator to finish eating it later, it won’t be there. One bite, one time, that’s all you get. What a waste. Had I known that, I would have just spent more time stealing apples rather than buying them to have them disappear in an ITunes magic trick.
We need a music super hero. I imagine a guy- young, maybe early twenties- who’s a hybrid of all music types. He’s got dark, brown hippy hair, glasses, emo bangs, ear gauges, a diamond studded tooth, a 5:00 O’clock shadow, tattoo sleeve on his right arm, a European/Australian Accent, piano hands with string calluses at the end, and some Toms. And he works at a Guitar Shoppe, and goes by the name, St. Steven.
St. Steven is the guardian of all things musical, that’s right, guardian. He’s like a human musical encyclopedia. He knows every song ever created, all the notes in that song, and he even knows who wrote it. And when he hears the cries of someone (me) in pain due to a musical catastrophe, he rides in on sound waves carried from Mount Treble (the place of his birth) which is much smaller, though the neighbor to Mount Olympus. Yeah, he’s part human- his mom was Heather, the blond who worked in a music store chewing juicy fruit and selling used records- and his dad was the god Apollo.
You might think that with a god-dad and a cool mom, he’d have a better name, but on the day he was born on Mount Treble, the sun momentarily went out, and because everything on Mount Treble works by sunlight, the power was gone. Because his mom was so in tune with music, she needed it in order to get through the birth…and Apollo was gone tuning some god’s guitar or maybe it was a sitar so he couldn’t sing to her or play the lovely lyre, the radio wouldn’t work with no power, and she couldn’t sing to herself because she was actually tone deaf, but then, just when she thought there was no hope, she found a toy Hera had given to her for the baby, a-grateful-dead-in-the-box. Perhaps you have never heard of this before, but that is only because the grateful-dead-in-the-box isn’t made anymore…too many people were becoming curious about its origin, which was actually Olympus because the gods liked a little grateful dead too. They were all freaked out by the Jack-in-the-box, except Hades, he thought it was delightful, which is the real reason why he was kicked out of Olympus and put in the land of the dead; no one could stand the suspense of little Jack popping out of the box. So after Hades and his demented toy were kicked out, the gods replaced Jack with Jerry and changed the song to St. Steven. So, on the evening of his birth, his mom cranked and cranked the grateful-dead-in-the-box, all the while she sang to herself, “St. Steven with a rose, in and of the garden he goes. Country garden in the wind and the rain, wherever he goes people all…” and right when Jerry sprung from the box, the little boy was born, and named St. Steven accordingly.
St. Stephen inherited his mother’s musical artist wisdom and his father’s musical ear, and thus, creating the perfect super hero for my debacle. And if he were to hear my cry, St. Steven would appear as if on wings, I would tell him my dilemma, and from his musical soul and through the ends of his callused fingers, he would command the exact music I had lost back onto my computer. End.
I can’t believe I really just made that up on the spot. Or did I? Maybe there really is a St. Steven somewhere rocking out….whispering to the minds of all artists desiring to write a song that will reach beyond our human limits….or trying to remind us to back up our iTunes on a flash drive.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Some Things From my Day
I wake up and brush my teeth; spots appear on my mirror and drool down in white. Getting ready progresses in this manner: dip my head in the tub and wash hair, put on make-up and Burt’s Bees pomegranate Chap Stick, dry hair, do something with the mess on my head, put on clothes after ironing them on the floor, place a brown hair tie on my wrist.
I then have time to fumble my keys into my backpack, and walk to class. It’s a fifteen minute walk, a walk that I’ve done now for two years from my most recent apartment. Every day I pass the white house that reminds me of Boo Radley, and another white house with a red door and large square windows and a grass drive that I dream of buying: I pass the cat lady’s house; the cat usually watches me walk by. And I watch it. I pass the brick building with blue staircases and a dainty floral pattern on the wall surrounding an open hall; its door is always open, and because that hall reminds me of a small ballroom with its small chandelier, I consider walking/waltzing in, but I never go in. I always see myself reflect in the glass windows on the door, so I suppose, in some way, when the doors are closed, I can see myself standing in that tiled room. I pass that broken bicycle; the one that is rusted, and has had its seat misplaced, and I wonder whose bike it was that suffered such an orange, crusty end?
I stand on corners, my hands tapping against my legs to some song I’m listening to, or They lay between by backpack and back, or they hold the straps of my backpack while I tap my feet or turn them out to balance on the sides of them, waiting, waiting, waiting, for that left green turn light to come on. If it’s raining, I’ll avoid the slick white of the crosswalk, and when it’s cold, I’ll swing my arms quickly, and if it’s warm, I’ll walk slowly, ignoring that flashing red hand urging me to walk faster.
What time is it what time does class start am I late It’s freaking hot out here oh that leaf was pretty there are some people sitting at those picnic tables I want to sit at the picnic tables I could skip class and sit here at the picnic table and write something….
I usually think too many things at one time. I usually stare at the pink bike on the bike rack by the library. And I usually walk awkward down the steps by the library on the way to Spidle until the very last one, then, I manage a little skip down a step or two, down to the road.
Somewhere between Advanced Composition and Nutritional Biochemistry I sit in a corner in the library and read random books I pick up. I’ve thought about leaving little notes in them like: I’m bored. I wish today was tomorrow. I want to be a writer. I love you. I think you’re a hypocrite. Bippety boppety boo. Just whatever pops into my head, I’ve thought about scribbling it into the library books. I haven’t done this yet, but I’m seriously considering it. Just starting an anonymous journal in those stacks that some random person will read, who knows, maybe they’ll add a little something.
Sometimes I do sit outside at a picnic table. A random hawk appears from time to time in a big tree, and blue jays and cardinals are pretty entertaining to watch, especially blue jays, they do some really weird stuff when they’re looking for food. I like to watch the people getting on and off the transits. Basically, I think I just like sitting there and watching. When you’re watching it’s like you don’t exist. You’re just a table, or a sidewalk, or a random pole that’s just watching everything go by without even considering to think about it, or wonder over it, you just want to watch it. So, I guess, sometimes I’m that table on that hill where I sit, until I decide to peal my eyes away and become a good ole fashioned human again.
I walk home, really slowly. If it’s cold, my nose and cheeks will be pink when I get back to my apartment. If it’s hot, my face will look flushed and my hair will try to go to its natural waves. I hum. I pass Walt, my favorite person on campus, and I don’t even know the man or his name, Walt just seems to suit him. I laugh under my breath at little things that don’t belong like beer bottles in front of Cat Lady’s house or blooming flowers when it’s freezing or a singing mockingbird on a cloudy, rainy day. Those things are my favorite. I’m not sure why, but they are; the little unexpected things, the things that save me- in some way-during the week, those things are my favorite.
Before I go to bed, I like to think about everything. really, everything. If it exists, I might have thought about it. And I like to watch the lights from cars move across my room while I think. Thinking so much isn't good though, because it steals the time away, until I'm still awake at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning because I've been thinking for 2 hours.
And then, right before I go to bed, before I slip into dreams where my thinking is turned into beautiful places and ideas and the most absurd things I've ever seen...I wonder if I'll ever be a real writer. I wonder if I really do talk too much, and if so, how do I prevent it from happening again. I wonder when I'll go overseas again. I wonder who will love me. I wonder what God looks like. I wonder what the stars look like outside..and sometimes, I actually walk over to my window to look, and see just one, so then I'll go back to bed. And finally, I'll either be completley content with life that night, or I'll wish something about it or me were different, but either way, I still fall asleep, and I'll still wake up, and somehow, every morning, I'm still just me. And there's something beautiful about that, I suppose. At least, I know who I am.
I then have time to fumble my keys into my backpack, and walk to class. It’s a fifteen minute walk, a walk that I’ve done now for two years from my most recent apartment. Every day I pass the white house that reminds me of Boo Radley, and another white house with a red door and large square windows and a grass drive that I dream of buying: I pass the cat lady’s house; the cat usually watches me walk by. And I watch it. I pass the brick building with blue staircases and a dainty floral pattern on the wall surrounding an open hall; its door is always open, and because that hall reminds me of a small ballroom with its small chandelier, I consider walking/waltzing in, but I never go in. I always see myself reflect in the glass windows on the door, so I suppose, in some way, when the doors are closed, I can see myself standing in that tiled room. I pass that broken bicycle; the one that is rusted, and has had its seat misplaced, and I wonder whose bike it was that suffered such an orange, crusty end?
I stand on corners, my hands tapping against my legs to some song I’m listening to, or They lay between by backpack and back, or they hold the straps of my backpack while I tap my feet or turn them out to balance on the sides of them, waiting, waiting, waiting, for that left green turn light to come on. If it’s raining, I’ll avoid the slick white of the crosswalk, and when it’s cold, I’ll swing my arms quickly, and if it’s warm, I’ll walk slowly, ignoring that flashing red hand urging me to walk faster.
What time is it what time does class start am I late It’s freaking hot out here oh that leaf was pretty there are some people sitting at those picnic tables I want to sit at the picnic tables I could skip class and sit here at the picnic table and write something….
I usually think too many things at one time. I usually stare at the pink bike on the bike rack by the library. And I usually walk awkward down the steps by the library on the way to Spidle until the very last one, then, I manage a little skip down a step or two, down to the road.
Somewhere between Advanced Composition and Nutritional Biochemistry I sit in a corner in the library and read random books I pick up. I’ve thought about leaving little notes in them like: I’m bored. I wish today was tomorrow. I want to be a writer. I love you. I think you’re a hypocrite. Bippety boppety boo. Just whatever pops into my head, I’ve thought about scribbling it into the library books. I haven’t done this yet, but I’m seriously considering it. Just starting an anonymous journal in those stacks that some random person will read, who knows, maybe they’ll add a little something.
Sometimes I do sit outside at a picnic table. A random hawk appears from time to time in a big tree, and blue jays and cardinals are pretty entertaining to watch, especially blue jays, they do some really weird stuff when they’re looking for food. I like to watch the people getting on and off the transits. Basically, I think I just like sitting there and watching. When you’re watching it’s like you don’t exist. You’re just a table, or a sidewalk, or a random pole that’s just watching everything go by without even considering to think about it, or wonder over it, you just want to watch it. So, I guess, sometimes I’m that table on that hill where I sit, until I decide to peal my eyes away and become a good ole fashioned human again.
I walk home, really slowly. If it’s cold, my nose and cheeks will be pink when I get back to my apartment. If it’s hot, my face will look flushed and my hair will try to go to its natural waves. I hum. I pass Walt, my favorite person on campus, and I don’t even know the man or his name, Walt just seems to suit him. I laugh under my breath at little things that don’t belong like beer bottles in front of Cat Lady’s house or blooming flowers when it’s freezing or a singing mockingbird on a cloudy, rainy day. Those things are my favorite. I’m not sure why, but they are; the little unexpected things, the things that save me- in some way-during the week, those things are my favorite.
Before I go to bed, I like to think about everything. really, everything. If it exists, I might have thought about it. And I like to watch the lights from cars move across my room while I think. Thinking so much isn't good though, because it steals the time away, until I'm still awake at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning because I've been thinking for 2 hours.
And then, right before I go to bed, before I slip into dreams where my thinking is turned into beautiful places and ideas and the most absurd things I've ever seen...I wonder if I'll ever be a real writer. I wonder if I really do talk too much, and if so, how do I prevent it from happening again. I wonder when I'll go overseas again. I wonder who will love me. I wonder what God looks like. I wonder what the stars look like outside..and sometimes, I actually walk over to my window to look, and see just one, so then I'll go back to bed. And finally, I'll either be completley content with life that night, or I'll wish something about it or me were different, but either way, I still fall asleep, and I'll still wake up, and somehow, every morning, I'm still just me. And there's something beautiful about that, I suppose. At least, I know who I am.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
December Nights
I wrote this for my advance comp. class. And I liked it.
We’re lying on blankets-all of us- our heads on laps that lie on quilts that lie on the cold grass. At the top of the hill, the trees fall away to the edges, leaving a frosty window of the sky open. I open my mouth and blow slow and steady, watching the white puffs of my breath move up, up, and closer to those angel’s faces in the sky.
The cold is in my jacket, and in my hair. I don’t mind. It feels beautiful to me. I don’t know what time it is, it might be really late, or really early if the sun is about to rise. That’s seems possible…for the moon to fall and the sun to rise. Or He could show up. I blow another puff of white, and laugh at a joke someone just said, maybe it was John or Kimberly.
Someone is talking about God. I look at the stars, unmoving. I think about God moving them between His fingers like a magician moves quarters through his. He’s that big huh? I think about him in a ball, his hands around his knees, sitting in that black sky in a ball of fire like those stars, and then I think about him stretching out, arms and legs, fingers and toes pushing aside the space and the time… my little white puffs of breath. I could go on, but my head isn’t big enough to fit the universe and God into.
Someone is playing the guitar now. Someone else is singing. The strings reverberate loudly in the cold. I always thought cold air was cleaner, purer somehow. Maybe it really is, and that’s why the song sounds so good.
“Hey, Martha, have you heard from him?”
“What?” all I heard was “Martha.”
“Have you heard from him?” someone said again.
“Oh, uh, no. Wait who?”
It was Kimberly. She looks over at some of the guys, and then leans in to my ear to whisper the person’s name.
“Oh, him..Nope.” I laugh at the look on her face. “It’s fine.”
She leans back down and closes her eyes to listen to the song too, disappearing into the laps and the quilts, and the cold. I look back at the stars and wait for Him to move, and that’s when I see a white breath streak through the sky. I waited all night for that star to fall, and it’s gone in only a second.
We’re lying on blankets-all of us- our heads on laps that lie on quilts that lie on the cold grass. At the top of the hill, the trees fall away to the edges, leaving a frosty window of the sky open. I open my mouth and blow slow and steady, watching the white puffs of my breath move up, up, and closer to those angel’s faces in the sky.
The cold is in my jacket, and in my hair. I don’t mind. It feels beautiful to me. I don’t know what time it is, it might be really late, or really early if the sun is about to rise. That’s seems possible…for the moon to fall and the sun to rise. Or He could show up. I blow another puff of white, and laugh at a joke someone just said, maybe it was John or Kimberly.
Someone is talking about God. I look at the stars, unmoving. I think about God moving them between His fingers like a magician moves quarters through his. He’s that big huh? I think about him in a ball, his hands around his knees, sitting in that black sky in a ball of fire like those stars, and then I think about him stretching out, arms and legs, fingers and toes pushing aside the space and the time… my little white puffs of breath. I could go on, but my head isn’t big enough to fit the universe and God into.
Someone is playing the guitar now. Someone else is singing. The strings reverberate loudly in the cold. I always thought cold air was cleaner, purer somehow. Maybe it really is, and that’s why the song sounds so good.
“Hey, Martha, have you heard from him?”
“What?” all I heard was “Martha.”
“Have you heard from him?” someone said again.
“Oh, uh, no. Wait who?”
It was Kimberly. She looks over at some of the guys, and then leans in to my ear to whisper the person’s name.
“Oh, him..Nope.” I laugh at the look on her face. “It’s fine.”
She leans back down and closes her eyes to listen to the song too, disappearing into the laps and the quilts, and the cold. I look back at the stars and wait for Him to move, and that’s when I see a white breath streak through the sky. I waited all night for that star to fall, and it’s gone in only a second.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Fortuitous Randomnosity
Use: "There is so much randomnosity in the world"or"There is so much randomnosity in this blog."
synonym for random. Fortuitous. I like this word. I might use it. "That was fortuitous"
I googled the longest words in the English language today and found three.
1.Floccinaucinihilipilification- the act as estimating as worthless
2.Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia- the fear of long words.Does anyone else get the irony of this one? If you have a friend with Hippopotomonstronsesquippedaliophobia, don't tell them this is what it's called, they might have a panic attack. (who is scared of long words, and how did that happen...?)
I just thought of a scenario of a child in third grade. The word is really long. "Grandmother." They are freaking out.
3.pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis- this is a really over exaggerated way to say "you have lung disease."
If you look closely, this word is composed of words like,"microscopic,""sili," "volcano," "con,"
- I get the feeling the doctor wanted to outdo his buddies, so he just started putting words together.
Let me try: Tenacioutreegregrosarootrunkblacktorious- I made this word up for the slow dying of a tree's trunk, which will eventually spread to its roots, causing the tree to die. It is a slow death.
Here are some fortuitous things from my day:
1. Class attendance is directly related to weather. Of this I am 100% sure.
2. Eicosapentenoic acid is the fatty acid located in fish. It has 5 double bonds and 20 carbons. And if you think you're getting it by eating lots of salmon...eh. wrong. You only get omega three from salmon that were caught in the wild not home grown in a pond. Sorry, omega three is derived from the salmon's diet of algae. They don't eat algae in ponds. They eat cheap, crappy fish pellets.So you might want to check with the store to make sure it came fromt he wild, and not America's back yard.
3. Today the computer cursor was projected onto my professor's shiny head for a total of three minutes. I laughed a lot. It looked so real.
4. Every time it rains I argue with myself whether or not I should wear my asics or flip-flops. I know that when I wear flip-flops my feet get wet, which causes them to get slippery, which then causes lots of falling, tripping, and sliding on campus. I always end up wearing them, and wishing halfway through the walk to class that I didn't. This happened again today. When will I learn?
5. Today I found written in my library cubby racial slurs and references to herpes as well as things like, "motivation," "loud noises. Ahhhh," and "Blain is a pain and thats the truth." There were also little hearts with things like, "MJ + JC" and "RB and JP forever." Really? are we still writing me + you on walls? I predict that the separation rate for those who write these " 4 ever" notes on walls is at 60% and is increasing with time. I just don't see a relationship scribbled on bathroom stall doors lasting.
6. I was reading "A Midnight's Summer's Dream" in the library today when I realized shakespear wrote his "s" as a "f".So here's an example of a would-be sentence in act I.
"I fhall confent to thy love for I refufe to deny it any longer my fweet child."
- that fentence was ftupid, but I fuppofe you got the point.
7. The class before my Nutritional Biochemistry class was talking about giving teenagers "power" in their lives so they will feel the confidence to do things like go to college. Hm...I went to college because my parents didn't give me any power to argue. They would refer to this "power" the teacher was refering to as a get out of bs for free card.
8. I passed a dead snake on the road on my walk back from class today.
9. B-Hydroxy Acyl Coenxyme A Dehydrogenase, and my personal favorite, Phosphofructokinase-1 B 1,6 Bisphosphatse are just two of the many enzymes I've memorized for an exam on wednesday
10. Driving around the library parking deck, stalking people, and driving all shady around the coerners makes me feel like a sketchy shark.
11."You know you love me,I know you care, Just shout whenever, And I'll be there
You want my love, You want my heart.And we will never ever ever be apart"...blah blah blah..."And I was like Baby, baby, baby ohhh,Like baby, baby, baby noo,Like baby, baby, baby ohh" -wise words from the Bieber. Don't judge me. This was good dance in my car music...and I have to say, I like the beat of this song...lyrics not so much.
12. When I googled "random," this is what came up. (natalie at the beginning of this post too came from this search)
That's all. I think those four pictures are as random as this post can get. Making me very happy.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
My Little Hattie
There is, beneath my bed, a shoebox of letters written between the years of 1879 and 1884. And this worn shoebox I hold dearer than most things in my life. It seems insignificant from the outside, and it seems even more so after touching the worn edges of yellow sheets just inside; One can almost taste the musty and damp scent of time that has soaked into the paper. But time is what makes them so dear to me. Maybe it's because they come from somewhere, someplace that I don't belong to, a place that I can dream about because it seems better than now. I'm not sure. But reading Hattie and Jimmie's words, I wish I had what they had. I wish that I lived in a time where letters became a place of confession, and where affection was given easily with the end of a pen. Sometimes, I wish I had lived when words mattered, and when those who shared their words with us in letters, were not only confiding in us, but were sharing with us, in confidence, their hearts.
(Hillaryton) Ala August 5th 1884
Miss Hattie Oguyum
My Dearest Little Hattie,
I will this morning take the pleasure of answering your dear letter of the 31st which I received last night and contents carefully examined and proved quite pleasant and agreeable as it is allways happiness to me too read one of your dear letters. Hattie I was very glad indeed to hear that you was not feeling so sad when you written to me for if there is one thing that can render me unhappy it is the thought of your being unhappy. You said in your letter that you received I thought you silly to express your sad feeling indeed I did not. I never thought of you being silly for I dont think I ever saw ou act silly. Hattie I need you to sing for me and talk to me to keep waked up all the time for I havent slept all night but two nights since I saw you, that was last night and last Thursday night. Uncle Bille is still very bad off. I heard this morning that he was no better nor worse. (not sure) told me to tell you not to get scared at his picture and not carry it to the cow Ren for it would scare the calves to death. I dont know wheather it looks that bad or not. You will have to (stain). Well Hattie, (stain) worried for I didn’t know I dident know he was going to see her at all. Well Maby Jimmie and Hattie will surprise some one else some of these days. I hope so at least. Hattie you said in your latter that there would be preaching at the (name) church on the 7th Sunday and you hoped I would be there and I think I will be sure to be on hand at that time if nothing happens to prevent my comingdown, for then at the time I promised you I would come down and I certainly try to do what I promise you to do always for I wouldent have you to loose the least bit of confidence in me for this world. For if I was to loose your love and gain every thing else in the world, I never could be happy while life lasts. For if my future happiness depends on you, and I think you are calculated to make my future life happiness to me, and I think that is more than any one else on this earth can do, for there is no other that I can love and put the confidence in that I do no. (stain) do I expect to see any one else that I love half as well as I love you.
Hattie you said when in prayers I (not sure maybe loved) not to forget to pray. (lots of holes and stains). It has been a long time since I forgot you in my prayers, never do I expect to as long as I exist. Well I guess I have (written) enough for one time …I know you would enjoy reading my letter as well as I did yours. I would be perfectly satisfied but that I know is (impossible) for I know there is nothing to interest you so …I will close by saying good bye love and expecting an answer soon.
I remain as ever true to thee
Jimmie
P.S.
You I love and forever
You may change but I will never
Though separation be our lot
Dear little Hattie forget me no
Hattie, these are thee true sentiments of my heart…Jimmie
(theres no) joy for me
But loving thee
No rest but where thou art.
No pulse no pain
But in thy name
No home but in my heart
I assure you that the letter above is word for word from a letter written by Jimmie Weaver, my great, great, great, grandfather or something like that. Because the letters have aged, there are holes and pieces of text that I haven't been able to read, but for the most part, their words have far outlived Hattie and Jimmie. And because I wished to keep the letters as true to their writers as possible, I did not correct Jimmie's spelling: I his spelling endearing because I too cannot spell, though Jimmie was not so fortunate to have spell check.
I've read this letter, in particular, several times. I love that Jimmie calls Hattie, his dear little Hattie, because a man who would create such a sweet name for the person he loved is a man who must have loved much. I should mention that they did end up marrying, and all because of letters. From the first letter sent to this one, it is easy to see their love for one another grow, and not because Hattie wore beautiful dresses, or because of her family background, because they only saw one another, it seems, a few Sundays or Wednesdays a month, and sometimes, during prayer meetings. No, Jimmie loved Hattie for who she was...
Can you imagine someone writing you as he wrote Hattie? I can't even begin to imagine a boy writing me a letter, and on top of that, a letter where he confides his heart in me. "confidence" is a word used over and over in the letters between Hattie and Jimmie. In "confidence," you have my "confidence"...and so on. How is it they were so able to trust one anther's affection and confidence through pen and ink?
"For if I was to loose your love and gain every thing else in the world, I never could be happy while life lasts. For if my future happiness depends on you, and I think you are calculated to make my future life happiness to me, and I think that is more than any one else on this earth can do, for there is no other that I can love and put the confidence in that I do no."
What I find very disheartening, is that if these words were given to someone on paper, they would assume that they were taken from the lines of a novel, some work of fiction. I think very few people would recognize the truth in them, the life in them. Because I don't think we know what honesty is any more. I don't know if we know how to love with this kind of abandon or affection any more. I'm not saying you need to write like this to your best friend, but even Hattie and Jimmie's earlier letters were filled with warmth and affection, and in that time, they were only acquaintances.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm too much of a romantic because I'm a writer, as if the writing part of my brain takes over and reality is shoved to the corner. I could have easily imagined love letters, filled with the kind of words Jimmie wrote, but I never would have believed they really existed outside of Shakespeare. To know that such real lines of devotion and love exist makes me think that it wasn't the writer part of me that hoped for love like theirs, but the human part of me, all of me.
I guess what I'm trying to say is. Sometimes, when I hope for these things, letters, songs, poems, words of endearment, I feel I want too much. I feel like I should tuck those things away somewhere, perhaps a journal, and leave them somewhere in the dark because they don't really exist the way I wish they did. It's not possible for them to in this time of computers, and texts, and where girls ask boys out on dates...But then when I go to sleep, I know this letter Jimmie wrote is just beneath my head. I know he was real, I know he wasn't a great writer, though he was a writer, and because I know these things, I know he must have wanted what I want, or he would have never dared to begin writing Hattie in the first place.
when I feel I want too much, or hope for too much, or imagine too much, I remember so did Jimmie, and so did Hattie, and look at the box of love, and hope, and "too much" they left behind just for me, even if they didn't do it on purpose.
Maybe our generation has lost something. Maybe we've forgotten how to be reserved and still affectionate, honest but still mysterious. I don't know. But I feel we have lost something. Because I feel that in another time, these letters would have come to me as no surprise, but in my time, they are extraordinarily rare, so much so, that it would be easier to believe they are fictional letters of love, and nothing more. Maybe we've forgotten, out of fear, rejection, or one too many heartbreaks, what it means to really give one's heart over in confidence to someone else.
(Hillaryton) Ala August 5th 1884
Miss Hattie Oguyum
My Dearest Little Hattie,
I will this morning take the pleasure of answering your dear letter of the 31st which I received last night and contents carefully examined and proved quite pleasant and agreeable as it is allways happiness to me too read one of your dear letters. Hattie I was very glad indeed to hear that you was not feeling so sad when you written to me for if there is one thing that can render me unhappy it is the thought of your being unhappy. You said in your letter that you received I thought you silly to express your sad feeling indeed I did not. I never thought of you being silly for I dont think I ever saw ou act silly. Hattie I need you to sing for me and talk to me to keep waked up all the time for I havent slept all night but two nights since I saw you, that was last night and last Thursday night. Uncle Bille is still very bad off. I heard this morning that he was no better nor worse. (not sure) told me to tell you not to get scared at his picture and not carry it to the cow Ren for it would scare the calves to death. I dont know wheather it looks that bad or not. You will have to (stain). Well Hattie, (stain) worried for I didn’t know I dident know he was going to see her at all. Well Maby Jimmie and Hattie will surprise some one else some of these days. I hope so at least. Hattie you said in your latter that there would be preaching at the (name) church on the 7th Sunday and you hoped I would be there and I think I will be sure to be on hand at that time if nothing happens to prevent my comingdown, for then at the time I promised you I would come down and I certainly try to do what I promise you to do always for I wouldent have you to loose the least bit of confidence in me for this world. For if I was to loose your love and gain every thing else in the world, I never could be happy while life lasts. For if my future happiness depends on you, and I think you are calculated to make my future life happiness to me, and I think that is more than any one else on this earth can do, for there is no other that I can love and put the confidence in that I do no. (stain) do I expect to see any one else that I love half as well as I love you.
Hattie you said when in prayers I (not sure maybe loved) not to forget to pray. (lots of holes and stains). It has been a long time since I forgot you in my prayers, never do I expect to as long as I exist. Well I guess I have (written) enough for one time …I know you would enjoy reading my letter as well as I did yours. I would be perfectly satisfied but that I know is (impossible) for I know there is nothing to interest you so …I will close by saying good bye love and expecting an answer soon.
I remain as ever true to thee
Jimmie
P.S.
You I love and forever
You may change but I will never
Though separation be our lot
Dear little Hattie forget me no
Hattie, these are thee true sentiments of my heart…Jimmie
(theres no) joy for me
But loving thee
No rest but where thou art.
No pulse no pain
But in thy name
No home but in my heart
I assure you that the letter above is word for word from a letter written by Jimmie Weaver, my great, great, great, grandfather or something like that. Because the letters have aged, there are holes and pieces of text that I haven't been able to read, but for the most part, their words have far outlived Hattie and Jimmie. And because I wished to keep the letters as true to their writers as possible, I did not correct Jimmie's spelling: I his spelling endearing because I too cannot spell, though Jimmie was not so fortunate to have spell check.
I've read this letter, in particular, several times. I love that Jimmie calls Hattie, his dear little Hattie, because a man who would create such a sweet name for the person he loved is a man who must have loved much. I should mention that they did end up marrying, and all because of letters. From the first letter sent to this one, it is easy to see their love for one another grow, and not because Hattie wore beautiful dresses, or because of her family background, because they only saw one another, it seems, a few Sundays or Wednesdays a month, and sometimes, during prayer meetings. No, Jimmie loved Hattie for who she was...
Can you imagine someone writing you as he wrote Hattie? I can't even begin to imagine a boy writing me a letter, and on top of that, a letter where he confides his heart in me. "confidence" is a word used over and over in the letters between Hattie and Jimmie. In "confidence," you have my "confidence"...and so on. How is it they were so able to trust one anther's affection and confidence through pen and ink?
"For if I was to loose your love and gain every thing else in the world, I never could be happy while life lasts. For if my future happiness depends on you, and I think you are calculated to make my future life happiness to me, and I think that is more than any one else on this earth can do, for there is no other that I can love and put the confidence in that I do no."
What I find very disheartening, is that if these words were given to someone on paper, they would assume that they were taken from the lines of a novel, some work of fiction. I think very few people would recognize the truth in them, the life in them. Because I don't think we know what honesty is any more. I don't know if we know how to love with this kind of abandon or affection any more. I'm not saying you need to write like this to your best friend, but even Hattie and Jimmie's earlier letters were filled with warmth and affection, and in that time, they were only acquaintances.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm too much of a romantic because I'm a writer, as if the writing part of my brain takes over and reality is shoved to the corner. I could have easily imagined love letters, filled with the kind of words Jimmie wrote, but I never would have believed they really existed outside of Shakespeare. To know that such real lines of devotion and love exist makes me think that it wasn't the writer part of me that hoped for love like theirs, but the human part of me, all of me.
I guess what I'm trying to say is. Sometimes, when I hope for these things, letters, songs, poems, words of endearment, I feel I want too much. I feel like I should tuck those things away somewhere, perhaps a journal, and leave them somewhere in the dark because they don't really exist the way I wish they did. It's not possible for them to in this time of computers, and texts, and where girls ask boys out on dates...But then when I go to sleep, I know this letter Jimmie wrote is just beneath my head. I know he was real, I know he wasn't a great writer, though he was a writer, and because I know these things, I know he must have wanted what I want, or he would have never dared to begin writing Hattie in the first place.
when I feel I want too much, or hope for too much, or imagine too much, I remember so did Jimmie, and so did Hattie, and look at the box of love, and hope, and "too much" they left behind just for me, even if they didn't do it on purpose.
Maybe our generation has lost something. Maybe we've forgotten how to be reserved and still affectionate, honest but still mysterious. I don't know. But I feel we have lost something. Because I feel that in another time, these letters would have come to me as no surprise, but in my time, they are extraordinarily rare, so much so, that it would be easier to believe they are fictional letters of love, and nothing more. Maybe we've forgotten, out of fear, rejection, or one too many heartbreaks, what it means to really give one's heart over in confidence to someone else.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Dear Boy,
WARNING: This blog contains embarrassing material. If you suffer from reading syndrome, please see your doctor before reading, this may be long. Also, there is a 99.9% chance that I might regret writing this. Thank you. Yours sincerely, Martha Lee Anne.
Dear Boy,
You’re probably going to laugh at this, or think it is completely ridiculous: I lack the much needed wit and humor to keep it light and upbeat so that you won’t drift to sleep by images of princes and white horses, but just try to stay awake for the time being (I don’t know how quick of a reader you are, so for all I know, this could take you awhile). I’m not sure really how to go about explaining myself, so I’m just going to dive straight into the deep in.
I’m waiting for you. That’s right, waiting for you. And I don’t mean in the back seat with an ax or all stalker-ish like in your front yard, I mean simply that I’m waiting for you to be my hero. If the “H” word threw you off, I’m glad I got your attention.
“What does that mean, hero?” you might be thinking. It means exactly what you think it means. Maybe you think of superman, or batman, or spidey man, but ultimately you just thought of some guy with big muscles, a good jaw line, and a cape, and you may look in the mirror and see an inadequate, clumsy, and not so muscular guy, but to me, you look better than superman, because you’re real.
I’m here to remind you that you’re my knight in shining armor, and if not mine, then someone else’s. You stopped believing in super heroes and princes when you were a kid, but God didn’t make me like you, so I still believe in those things. When I wake up, and go to bed, and walk to class in the morning, I think of you.
I hope that you’ll find me and pursue me. I hope that you’ll guard my heart. I know that you may smoke, and drink, and occasionally cuss; I know you tend to be messy and enjoy several hours of halo, but I hope that you’ll save a little room in your heart for me. Because God didn’t make me like you. He didn’t make me as brave or strong. He made me soft and gentle. He gave me a desire to nurture, and a heart to be loved.
You can laugh all you want at my stupid girly dreams, but that won’t make them go away. And it isn’t just me, we’re all like this. We may not all admit to it, but we are all hoping you’ll rescue us, and it doesn’t matter that we keep getting older and older because the desire to be pursued won’t go away. And it doesn’t matter that you are only human, because we’re only human too.
I can imagine you thinking, “I can’t do it, I’m not really brave,” and even when you stutter, and mumble your words, I’m still positive you’re a knight, and you’ve just forgotten. I think your quirks, and failures, and mistakes are beautiful, and I don’t mind them because they compliment mine. You tell me you’re too weak, but so am I. You tell me you’re nervous, but so am I.
I thought you needed to know this because sometimes I think I’m waiting for you, but you’ve forgotten about me. You’ve forgotten that I’m breakable, that my heart isn’t made of stone but glass; you’ve forgotten that your harsh words have made me cry; you’ve forgotten that your kiss could make me melt, so you melted me, and left; you’ve forgotten that you were supposed to be my knight. You’ve forgotten, but I haven’t, and I won’t.
With all my heart,
Girl
Dear Boy,
You’re probably going to laugh at this, or think it is completely ridiculous: I lack the much needed wit and humor to keep it light and upbeat so that you won’t drift to sleep by images of princes and white horses, but just try to stay awake for the time being (I don’t know how quick of a reader you are, so for all I know, this could take you awhile). I’m not sure really how to go about explaining myself, so I’m just going to dive straight into the deep in.
I’m waiting for you. That’s right, waiting for you. And I don’t mean in the back seat with an ax or all stalker-ish like in your front yard, I mean simply that I’m waiting for you to be my hero. If the “H” word threw you off, I’m glad I got your attention.
“What does that mean, hero?” you might be thinking. It means exactly what you think it means. Maybe you think of superman, or batman, or spidey man, but ultimately you just thought of some guy with big muscles, a good jaw line, and a cape, and you may look in the mirror and see an inadequate, clumsy, and not so muscular guy, but to me, you look better than superman, because you’re real.
I’m here to remind you that you’re my knight in shining armor, and if not mine, then someone else’s. You stopped believing in super heroes and princes when you were a kid, but God didn’t make me like you, so I still believe in those things. When I wake up, and go to bed, and walk to class in the morning, I think of you.
I hope that you’ll find me and pursue me. I hope that you’ll guard my heart. I know that you may smoke, and drink, and occasionally cuss; I know you tend to be messy and enjoy several hours of halo, but I hope that you’ll save a little room in your heart for me. Because God didn’t make me like you. He didn’t make me as brave or strong. He made me soft and gentle. He gave me a desire to nurture, and a heart to be loved.
You can laugh all you want at my stupid girly dreams, but that won’t make them go away. And it isn’t just me, we’re all like this. We may not all admit to it, but we are all hoping you’ll rescue us, and it doesn’t matter that we keep getting older and older because the desire to be pursued won’t go away. And it doesn’t matter that you are only human, because we’re only human too.
I can imagine you thinking, “I can’t do it, I’m not really brave,” and even when you stutter, and mumble your words, I’m still positive you’re a knight, and you’ve just forgotten. I think your quirks, and failures, and mistakes are beautiful, and I don’t mind them because they compliment mine. You tell me you’re too weak, but so am I. You tell me you’re nervous, but so am I.
I thought you needed to know this because sometimes I think I’m waiting for you, but you’ve forgotten about me. You’ve forgotten that I’m breakable, that my heart isn’t made of stone but glass; you’ve forgotten that your harsh words have made me cry; you’ve forgotten that your kiss could make me melt, so you melted me, and left; you’ve forgotten that you were supposed to be my knight. You’ve forgotten, but I haven’t, and I won’t.
With all my heart,
Girl
Saturday, October 16, 2010
October Love
Before I begin my long explanation of my new found love of October, I would like to state that yes, I did change the name of my blog from “hearth, heaven, and everything in-between,” to “Brave Little Toaster”
1. Because writing the previous title just took too long
2. Because it didn’t riiiiiiing with me.
I recently remembered a time when a friend of mine called me the brave little toaster in high school, and because I’m not very witty, clever, or very creative when it comes to blog naming, I went with a memory. I don’t know if my blog title has anything to do with anything in this blog, but I like it, and it reminds me of the kind of person I’d like to be. I also changed the color of my blog because the black was depressing and the white letters were killing my eyes.
Ehem. So as I was going to say. I declare today, and perhaps for several years- we never know how these things go- October as my favorite month. You might be thinking to yourself, “Martha Lee Anne is the devil; how dare she prefer the month of ghouls and witches over months with things like Santy, and a giant turkey (I’m going to really let you think about who’s cooler now…Turkey lover), and Bunnies that hide eggs-and on that note, have the kids not figured out yet that it should be an Easter Chicken?
In summary, it occurred to me that October is the best month, and because I don’t feel like romancing you with paragraphs, I’ll keep things simple-generic- and in a list. Lists seem to be useful here lately; I might as well keep it going.
1. Kite season people, kite season. And whoever decided kites were just for kids needs to go eat a heaping bowl of Trix
2. October is a lady’s man (a season’s man?). He comes in saying he’s in with autumn, but in the morning you could swear it was winter. And then, as noon approaches, he’s hanging out with summer and its warm enough for you to wear your shorts and hang in the hammock outside. But later in the afternoon, the leaves rustle, the wind blows, and yep, He’s definitely only seeing autumn…or is he really? I tell you, he’s good.
3. The sky is the bluest in October. This may seem insignificant, but I find this very appealing…
4. October is the only time you can throw back shots of Reese’ Cups as passer-byers announce that there is a new pumpkin shape available. During any other month, if you were seen buying bags of candy, talking about the different shades of Reese’s, and making popcorn hands people would assume that
1. You just had a terrible breakup and now the only “sugar” you’re getting comes from the candy isle (that was so cheesy, and yet, so awesome) annnnd 2. I have no idea. I’ve never seen “normal” people do any of those things outside of October, which just proves my point.
5. October sky is a great movie
6. Blue October is a great band
7. Football season. Yes, I’m aware that football season begins BEFORE October, but I’d like to see you sit in a stadium at Auburn, Alabama during a game day...it’s not awesome, it’s freaking hot.
8. Yesterday, I carved my first jack-o-lantern. I might have accidently put a hole in my left palm, but it was nothing a little band aid couldn’t fix, or the feeling one gets when allowed to use reaalllly sharp knives on something other than cutting a sandwich in half or cutting chicken. Kiss “no playing with knives” goodbye….though I would advise you to aim carving in the opposite direction of your body to prevent injury. Knives are fun..missing body pieces, not so much.
9. “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.” Try using this when you go visit your neighbor in March and tell me how that works out for you.
10. SCARY MOVES! Yes! They are finally here.
The classiscs: Jason, Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street, The Shining, The Exorcist, Poltergeist, Chucky ( I hate that doll)
The newbies: The Grudge, Shudder (saw this one the other day), Paranormal Activity, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (old one is pretty creepy), Resident Evil ( I love these movies)
The Icangotobediwthouthavingnightmares: The Night before Christmas, Hocus Pocus, The Corpse Bride, Edward Scissor Hands, Donnie Dark, Sleepy Hollow, The Boogy Man (if you have not seen this, go watch it. now.)
Oh the nightmares I might have, and the 90 minutes I spend hugging a pillow in suspense, but I am addicted to the scary movie. My roommate does not share my taste for the scary, kind of gross, and maybe just disturbing, but October graciously provides all the scary I need for the year, allowing my roommate to pick out all the chick flicks she can handle. Though I do like scary, I might not be able to bring myself to watch The Last Exorcism by myself…demon/ghost stuff just freaks me out.
11. ARrrrrg…in October, if I want to be a pirate, dag gummite, I can be a pirate. If I don’t want to brush my hair, and wear an eye patch, and put on hideous red lipstick and eyeliner, I can. I can wear red and white striped stockings and a fake bird on my shoulder. I can say “ARrrrrg” after everything I say, and be considered a completely sane individual. (I would like to state, however, that I have yet to be a pirate for Halloween, but it will happen)
That’s all. I think the list makes some pretty valid points at why October is the best month of the year. And because I am a huge fan of all things cheesy and stupid, I will leave you with words of wisdom…
Me: “What’s the Pirate’s favorite letter in the Alphabet??
You: (laughing at the obviousness of the answer) “Rrrrrrr.”
Me: (laughing at all you still have to learn, while using my best pirate voice): “Nooooo, it’s the Ceeee”
p.s. I use this joke many times a year, and I never fail to laugh… a lot when saying “ceeeeeee”.
p.s.s. Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.
P.s.s.s. (is that even allowed?) if you didn’t know…the above is from a song, yes, a real song. And I’ll leave the lyrics so you can laugh at them, and then, secretly, try to memorize them.
It was very late one Halloween night,
after all the trick-or-treaters were sound asleep.
I thought I heard a knock on my front door,
so I snuggled down deeper into my sheets.
The knock kept knocking, louder and louder.
Finally it knocked me wide awake.
I tumbled downstairs to see what was the matter, (really? Tumbled down stairs.are you sure you don't need a neck brace? An Ambulance?)
yelled, "What do you want, for goodness sake?" and heard,
Chorus:
"Trick or treat, smell my feet.
Give me something good to eat.
If you don't, I won't be sad.
I'll just make you wish you had!"
It was a tiny old troll with a long white beard,
a pointy red hat, and a crooked grin.
I said, "Listen kid, that's a really cute costume,
but I ran out of candy at half-past ten."
I slammed the door and I locked all the latches,
took two aspirin for my aching head, (ahhh, there we go, some aspirin for that tumble)
went back to my room and was startled to discover
that rude little troll sitting on my bed! He said,
(chorus)
I decided to find out who was in the costume.
I pinned him down and yanked his beard.
The troll cried "Ouch!" and ran into the corner.
He hopped three times and disappeared.
I woke the next morning, happily believing
that the funny little troll was only a dream.
I turned on the TV, and guess who I saw singing
in his pointy red hat on channel three? He sang,
(chorus)
I flipped around through all the different channels.
Every single one was Troll TV.
I pulled the plug, but that was only the beginning.
All week long the troll pestered me.
He kept popping up in the least likely places.
Twenty three times I chased him away.
His crooked little grin was driving me crazy,
and by now you know all he had to say was
(chorus)
Finally I did the only thing that I could think of.
I bought a half-pound bag of sweets.
That day the troll was hiding in the bathtub
when I found him and I gave him his trick-or-treat.
He tucked the candy underneath his hat,
then he hopped three times and he disappeared.
And though he never did come back,
I still dream about the troll with the long white beard
….your welcome for that….I personally think the troll needs rehab, The girl needs to get over her crush for the troll, and where are the parents?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Starving for Compassion
Right now I’m typing this blog up on my laptop computer, while sitting on the floor of my bedroom which is on the second floor of my apartment, and in my bedroom are beautiful things that I’ve collected over the years, and while I enjoy looking at my bookcases and art and pretty little things from here and there I sip on a sweet tea that I got with a Chicken Caesar Salad at Panera’s with a side of Baked Lay’s for about seven dollars and thirty five cents, and as I munch on the chips which are probably sold by the hundreds per week from this one Panera Bread, I’m thinking that if I don’t finish I’ll just throw them away in my trash can and tomorrow morning the dumpster truck will have collected the trash, but what I don’t really grasp…Is that over 4 million people will die this year from starvation, 1.3 billion people live on less than $1 a day, and that every 3.6 seconds, someone is dying because they have nothing to eat or because they can’t afford it.
And if given my trash, they would dig through it just to eat those chips I threw away.
And as a follower of Christ (the guy who gave to and healed the poor, who said, “go, sell all that you have and give to the poor , and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me”) I find it easy to wake up each day to granola bars and television, and somehow, my heart is so callused that I am capable of forgetting that human beings, some my own age, are dying because of selfishness.
I am selfish.
It’s just amazing that the habit of flipping past commercials for Feed the Children or watching it for five minutes, but then finding starving children not entertaining enough is not rare in our society…and even more horrible, in our churches. What happened to compassion for our brothers and sisters? What happened to loving people? What happened to giving of ourselves and our blessings?
What’s most disheartening is that I’m guilty. I’m so guilty. And knowing I’m guilty, I continue to cling to my things, and to my television, and to all of the comforts I possess, but something in me doesn’t want those things. Something in me just wants to give everything that I am, to God, to people, to those hurting…and still I find myself fighting my human nature to cling to the things that give me safety and a home. I cling to things that I do love dearly. I love my art and my cute dresses, and yes, I love even the furniture in my room. Furniture that’s been passed down from great grandmothers and aunts, things that were passed down for the very reason I shouldn’t cling to them; their owners came to the end of their life, and couldn’t take washstands or chests with them, and so, left them to the next generation…
“And Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said to him, ‘ you lack one thing: go sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.’
“Disheartened by the saying, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.” Mark 10:21-22
That’s me. I’m the person Jesus loved enough to say, “get rid of your stuff. Because unknown to you, its worthless anyway. So get rid of it, give it to those who really need it…and follow me, because I’m all you really need.” And after he finished saying it, I laughed and said, “Psh. Like I can live without Ann Taylor or Cheez-its or my awesome bookcases.” What’s sad is that I read that make-believe conversation, but it’s the truth. I don’t really need new clothes. I don’t really need the furniture in my room. I don’t really need half the things in my home, they’re just space fillers, but I keep them because I have this weird emotional attachment to them, so much so, that I can look at the homeless and the starving, and clutch my things even tighter hoping they’ll back off because things are more important that human lives. And though I don’t mean to sound so heartless, is that not what I’m doing by the way I live my life? Is that not what we’re all doing every day when we chose to buy something for ourselves rather than consider those who need?
I don’t necessarily think that Jesus calls all Christians to sell EVERYTHING they own. But I definitely get the gist they we shouldn’t love our possessions so much that we would not be willing to sacrifice things for others. That we would choose to buy a new sofa over giving the money to someone in a third world country or down the street.
It’s just really disheartening when you honestly don’t know if you could sell your things to buy for others. Things. Things made from wood, and plastic, and metal. Things that will break and fall apart, things you might just forget about, and things that get left in a heap after you die.
We Christians talk about saving the poor and feeding the hungry and we talk about changing the world. But how are you supposed to change the world when you look just like it. When you love things and stuff just like it?
I think this is our generations biggest struggle. In the bible idols were statues and rituals and gods...but our idols are out things. We worship our stuff...we love our stuff...we choose stuff over people and God's will all the time, just like the man from Mark 10:22. He flat out chose his many possessions over following Jesus completely and with self-abandon, and he chose his stuff over those in need...
Being desensitized to cuss words, okay, whatever, that’s bad. Being desensitized to really horrible movies that people are
1. Capable of imagining
2. Capable of creating
Like Saw or Hostel, that’s pretty bad.
But being desensitized to suffering, and pain, and death in our own species, our own flesh and blood, and being capable of forgetting them altogether is a Tragedy.
Imagine you’re at a grocery store. And on each isle are 50 starving people reaching for food, but people stand there pushing them aside, shoving them out of the way, so they can fill their own carts with Lucky Charms and Little Debbie Cakes and heaps of food that they don’t really even need. And as they stock up, those small voices cry out because their stomachs are empty, their muscle is deteriorating in order to provide some kind of sustenance to their bodies, and their bones are near breaking because they’re the only source of calcium. Imagine their legs swelling with edema. Their faces sinking because they’re so emaciated that fat in their cheeks kept them alive a bit longer. And when their muscle is almost gone, and their skin grasps their bones, the only muscles left are their hearts and those making up their internal structures… until they’re heart wastes away or they die of dehydration or the complete shutdown of their organs… And we just shove them to the ground because their sitting in front of our Easy Mac.
Did I just make you really uncomfortable? I made myself uncomfortable..like I was being too graphic or something. But if anything, I wasn’t graphic enough. I don’t think we can imagine that happening, because we either don’t want to or because we’ve never seen someone starve to death like that before our very eyes. But children have seen their mothers and fathers die. Mothers and fathers have watched their children die. And though we know their dying, we shield our eyes from the ugly and convince ourselves that if we don’t see it, then it couldn't’t possibly exist.
And I can’t help but feel. To feel so much. I feel like this huge hole as been dug into my heart where compassion is supposed to be and I’v left it there all this time because I gave compassion up for what? Stuff? I dreamed of a beautiful house and wonderful job all these years, but now I’m dreaming of building homes for someone else and giving what I make at my job to someone else. It’s not in my nature to be selfless…because I’m human. But I if Christ could place his compassion in me for other people, and fill that hollow place in my heart with himself, I pray, really pray, that He’ll use me. Somehow.
Because it hurts too much to know that we as Christians have forgotten to give, to love, and to die to the world…and so we let those helpless in the world die instead.
And if given my trash, they would dig through it just to eat those chips I threw away.
And as a follower of Christ (the guy who gave to and healed the poor, who said, “go, sell all that you have and give to the poor , and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me”) I find it easy to wake up each day to granola bars and television, and somehow, my heart is so callused that I am capable of forgetting that human beings, some my own age, are dying because of selfishness.
I am selfish.
It’s just amazing that the habit of flipping past commercials for Feed the Children or watching it for five minutes, but then finding starving children not entertaining enough is not rare in our society…and even more horrible, in our churches. What happened to compassion for our brothers and sisters? What happened to loving people? What happened to giving of ourselves and our blessings?
What’s most disheartening is that I’m guilty. I’m so guilty. And knowing I’m guilty, I continue to cling to my things, and to my television, and to all of the comforts I possess, but something in me doesn’t want those things. Something in me just wants to give everything that I am, to God, to people, to those hurting…and still I find myself fighting my human nature to cling to the things that give me safety and a home. I cling to things that I do love dearly. I love my art and my cute dresses, and yes, I love even the furniture in my room. Furniture that’s been passed down from great grandmothers and aunts, things that were passed down for the very reason I shouldn’t cling to them; their owners came to the end of their life, and couldn’t take washstands or chests with them, and so, left them to the next generation…
“And Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said to him, ‘ you lack one thing: go sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.’
“Disheartened by the saying, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.” Mark 10:21-22
That’s me. I’m the person Jesus loved enough to say, “get rid of your stuff. Because unknown to you, its worthless anyway. So get rid of it, give it to those who really need it…and follow me, because I’m all you really need.” And after he finished saying it, I laughed and said, “Psh. Like I can live without Ann Taylor or Cheez-its or my awesome bookcases.” What’s sad is that I read that make-believe conversation, but it’s the truth. I don’t really need new clothes. I don’t really need the furniture in my room. I don’t really need half the things in my home, they’re just space fillers, but I keep them because I have this weird emotional attachment to them, so much so, that I can look at the homeless and the starving, and clutch my things even tighter hoping they’ll back off because things are more important that human lives. And though I don’t mean to sound so heartless, is that not what I’m doing by the way I live my life? Is that not what we’re all doing every day when we chose to buy something for ourselves rather than consider those who need?
I don’t necessarily think that Jesus calls all Christians to sell EVERYTHING they own. But I definitely get the gist they we shouldn’t love our possessions so much that we would not be willing to sacrifice things for others. That we would choose to buy a new sofa over giving the money to someone in a third world country or down the street.
It’s just really disheartening when you honestly don’t know if you could sell your things to buy for others. Things. Things made from wood, and plastic, and metal. Things that will break and fall apart, things you might just forget about, and things that get left in a heap after you die.
We Christians talk about saving the poor and feeding the hungry and we talk about changing the world. But how are you supposed to change the world when you look just like it. When you love things and stuff just like it?
I think this is our generations biggest struggle. In the bible idols were statues and rituals and gods...but our idols are out things. We worship our stuff...we love our stuff...we choose stuff over people and God's will all the time, just like the man from Mark 10:22. He flat out chose his many possessions over following Jesus completely and with self-abandon, and he chose his stuff over those in need...
Being desensitized to cuss words, okay, whatever, that’s bad. Being desensitized to really horrible movies that people are
1. Capable of imagining
2. Capable of creating
Like Saw or Hostel, that’s pretty bad.
But being desensitized to suffering, and pain, and death in our own species, our own flesh and blood, and being capable of forgetting them altogether is a Tragedy.
Imagine you’re at a grocery store. And on each isle are 50 starving people reaching for food, but people stand there pushing them aside, shoving them out of the way, so they can fill their own carts with Lucky Charms and Little Debbie Cakes and heaps of food that they don’t really even need. And as they stock up, those small voices cry out because their stomachs are empty, their muscle is deteriorating in order to provide some kind of sustenance to their bodies, and their bones are near breaking because they’re the only source of calcium. Imagine their legs swelling with edema. Their faces sinking because they’re so emaciated that fat in their cheeks kept them alive a bit longer. And when their muscle is almost gone, and their skin grasps their bones, the only muscles left are their hearts and those making up their internal structures… until they’re heart wastes away or they die of dehydration or the complete shutdown of their organs… And we just shove them to the ground because their sitting in front of our Easy Mac.
Did I just make you really uncomfortable? I made myself uncomfortable..like I was being too graphic or something. But if anything, I wasn’t graphic enough. I don’t think we can imagine that happening, because we either don’t want to or because we’ve never seen someone starve to death like that before our very eyes. But children have seen their mothers and fathers die. Mothers and fathers have watched their children die. And though we know their dying, we shield our eyes from the ugly and convince ourselves that if we don’t see it, then it couldn't’t possibly exist.
And I can’t help but feel. To feel so much. I feel like this huge hole as been dug into my heart where compassion is supposed to be and I’v left it there all this time because I gave compassion up for what? Stuff? I dreamed of a beautiful house and wonderful job all these years, but now I’m dreaming of building homes for someone else and giving what I make at my job to someone else. It’s not in my nature to be selfless…because I’m human. But I if Christ could place his compassion in me for other people, and fill that hollow place in my heart with himself, I pray, really pray, that He’ll use me. Somehow.
Because it hurts too much to know that we as Christians have forgotten to give, to love, and to die to the world…and so we let those helpless in the world die instead.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Past Files
It seems that all too often people are saying to each other, “today is today, and the past is the past,” but I think I can speak for the majority of us that all too often the past is today, and today is the past…so the past is really never forgotten, it just kind of intermingles with the present, forming this weird déjà vu where you can be at the grocery store today, but remembering how your heart was breaking as you stood in the ice cream isle at thirteen because Timmy said you were ugly and then threw a water balloon at you (If I just reminded someone of a terrible memory, I apologize).
It is difficult sometimes to put the past where it belongs, in the past. Maybe you’re watching a movie or reading a book or listening to a song that just happens to walk down memory lane in your brain, and then open that filing cabinet that you’ve attempted to lock, but its relatively simple in that moment to just open and take a look at some of those past files. And before you know it, your camping out on that isle looking through all of the files, some of them making you cry, some making you mad, and some making you want to go hide in the sleeping bag you brought along. It’s a problem. It fact it’s a huge problem. One moment you could throw that file cabinet out of your brain and sweep up any dust it leaves behind, and the next you want to lock it up because you feel that maybe the past is worth saving for sentimental or “a lesson learned” purpose.
I, however, don’t want to keep my file cabinets, and this has been a simple conclusion for me to come to.
Maybe, you don’t want your file cabinets either. You see, we as humans (both the A and B type) like to hold on to the past; we like to neatly organize it for easy reference, and we like to keep it fresh so that when it’s time to be referred to, it’s simple to read and remember. I don’t know why, personally it seems useless and doesn’t get one anywhere, but we do it. And yeah, I am pretty good at just walking past the “past files” most days of the year without noticing that their rattling at me, attempting to follow me around, but I think it would much better to not have them rattling at all, for them not to exist at all.
This is where I came to the conclusion that having memories erased from one’s brain could be a really great thing.
“Oh, this happened then, and this happened then, but my brain is about to empty the trash like an over packed e-mail account, so I won’t be thinking about you “happenings” anymore, mkay, so bye-bye. “
Sounds good doesn’t it. Except, my brain isn’t an e-mail account, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a delete key I can manually press. So am I defeated? Do I have live in the past forever? And even if I don’t live in the past, do I still have to refer to it so often, or have it snooping around in my today’s business, and the answer to that overly asked questions is…
NO!!
What?! There’s a solution to the past following me around?? “But how,” you might wondering. Well the answer is so simple and so obvious, that you’re going to laugh, and say, “that doesn’t work.” The answer, Jesus Christ. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Jesus doesn’t have a delete key to my brain, or does he? No, Jesus can’t literally delete the ever present past in your life from your brain, but he can help you make it into something beautiful.
I love Isaiah 43, in fact, I love this one passage SO MUCH, that I keep it in a locket that I wear from time to time, because most days, it’s something I need to hear. “ Ok Martha, that’s great…I’m so glad you shared with me your favorite passage in the bible, but what does that have to do with the big bad past that’s hiding under my bed?” In this passage is one of the most relieving verses in the world, and it says,
“Remember not the former things, not consider the things of old. Behold I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” Isaiah 43:18-19
I don’t know what that verse just did for you, but it just made me want to cry…with tears of happiness. God literally just said to anyone who just read that, “Hey, forget the past, I know it hurts, I know it’s scary and intimidating, and a really ugly thing for you to look at, so STOP looking at it. Don’t “consider the things of old,” because if you’re too busy looking at the past, you might not see the “new things” that I’m doing NOW.” Sigh. I just felt a whole lot of file cabinets get crushed into little pieces by the weight of God’s words. Yeah the past happened, but God is doing something now to make the past look like a dream. But how am I supposed to even see this hope and new future, if I’m wearing my “past glasses” where all I see is distorted to remind me of something that happened a week ago, a month ago, a year ago? Um….you can’t. The past files, have got to go. Stop organizing those horrible things for future reference. I’m not telling you to bury the past somewhere deep inside, because I don’t think that’s a healthy or a great idea. But I think what God is saying in this verse is acknowledge the past, but acknowledge that it’s in the past. When He says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert,” He’s saying that out of that ugly file cabinet of a past you have stored away, he’s going to create a promising and beautiful future. I think God can use the past, even the ugly past, to teach us of his Love for us when we see the “river” that was formed from those past
“deserts.” When God does good things in our lives, we feel blessed. But when God does good things from the bad parts of our lives…we feel in awe, grateful, loved; really, what do you not feel when God takes your brokenness to replace it with so much promise and hope?
This one verse says to me, “Martha Lee Anne, I see your past, and I know your past, and I know you keep looking back, but look at the good I’m doing with your past; look what I’m teaching you from it, and look towards the beautiful future I want to give you, if you’ll just give all of your past to me.”
But now maybe you’re thinking, “Ok, so God can use my past/wilderness to create a new path, but what about my sins, what’s He going to do with those?”
“I, I am he who blots out your transgressions for my own sake, and I WILL NOT remember your sins.” Isaiah 43-35
Read that again. One more time. Did you really just absorb what God just said to you? Your past, present, and future are all going to have sins, and those sins may be the cause of a lot of those past files you keep regretting and reading and crying over, but if it’s the sin that your crying over, you can grab a hanky and breathe easy. The moment you accepted Christ as your Savior and you gave Him your life to do with whatever He pleases, then your sins were no longer an issue, because for His “own sake,” He doesn’t want to, and will not remember them. They were “blotted” out. Basically, if you’ve ever painted with a child, you know that they get a little paint happy and sometimes whole sections of a drawing can disappear from the paint that was just slapped, brushed, or dropped on by the hand of that child, so when the painting is done, you may see a horse’s legs, a body, and a tail, but his head is gone. And there’s no use in trying to remember what the head looked like because all traces of it are gone, plus it takes to much out of you to stare at it and imagine what might have been, so you hang that painting up and smile at the tail, and the body, and the feet, and the head is just, well, for all you know, it doesn’t exist.
That’s how God treats your sin, it doesn’t exist because Jesus’ blood was like the red paint that just blotted it out, and all God can see is you, without your sin.
If you’re saved, you know God forgives sins, and you know that the past should stay in the past, but I know that it’s hard to keep it there. I know it’s easy to bring it up, sometimes, because you just want something to think about before you go to bed, but instead of focusing so much on mistakes and past regrets or whatever else the past monster reminds you of, go read Isaiah 43, and when you get to verses 18-19, really consider that God may be using that empty, desert of your past, to bring you to something good. And when you go back to that isle in your brain where you store those past files,I hope that your file has been erased; I hope it’s been “blotted” out, and I hope that while you sit there, bewildered , you fall in love with God when you see that a new story is being written in place of the past, and this one, you never want to put down because instead of being filled with your tears and regret, its filled with rivers and hope, and something much, much more beautiful.
It is difficult sometimes to put the past where it belongs, in the past. Maybe you’re watching a movie or reading a book or listening to a song that just happens to walk down memory lane in your brain, and then open that filing cabinet that you’ve attempted to lock, but its relatively simple in that moment to just open and take a look at some of those past files. And before you know it, your camping out on that isle looking through all of the files, some of them making you cry, some making you mad, and some making you want to go hide in the sleeping bag you brought along. It’s a problem. It fact it’s a huge problem. One moment you could throw that file cabinet out of your brain and sweep up any dust it leaves behind, and the next you want to lock it up because you feel that maybe the past is worth saving for sentimental or “a lesson learned” purpose.
I, however, don’t want to keep my file cabinets, and this has been a simple conclusion for me to come to.
Maybe, you don’t want your file cabinets either. You see, we as humans (both the A and B type) like to hold on to the past; we like to neatly organize it for easy reference, and we like to keep it fresh so that when it’s time to be referred to, it’s simple to read and remember. I don’t know why, personally it seems useless and doesn’t get one anywhere, but we do it. And yeah, I am pretty good at just walking past the “past files” most days of the year without noticing that their rattling at me, attempting to follow me around, but I think it would much better to not have them rattling at all, for them not to exist at all.
This is where I came to the conclusion that having memories erased from one’s brain could be a really great thing.
“Oh, this happened then, and this happened then, but my brain is about to empty the trash like an over packed e-mail account, so I won’t be thinking about you “happenings” anymore, mkay, so bye-bye. “
Sounds good doesn’t it. Except, my brain isn’t an e-mail account, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a delete key I can manually press. So am I defeated? Do I have live in the past forever? And even if I don’t live in the past, do I still have to refer to it so often, or have it snooping around in my today’s business, and the answer to that overly asked questions is…
NO!!
What?! There’s a solution to the past following me around?? “But how,” you might wondering. Well the answer is so simple and so obvious, that you’re going to laugh, and say, “that doesn’t work.” The answer, Jesus Christ. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Jesus doesn’t have a delete key to my brain, or does he? No, Jesus can’t literally delete the ever present past in your life from your brain, but he can help you make it into something beautiful.
I love Isaiah 43, in fact, I love this one passage SO MUCH, that I keep it in a locket that I wear from time to time, because most days, it’s something I need to hear. “ Ok Martha, that’s great…I’m so glad you shared with me your favorite passage in the bible, but what does that have to do with the big bad past that’s hiding under my bed?” In this passage is one of the most relieving verses in the world, and it says,
“Remember not the former things, not consider the things of old. Behold I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” Isaiah 43:18-19
I don’t know what that verse just did for you, but it just made me want to cry…with tears of happiness. God literally just said to anyone who just read that, “Hey, forget the past, I know it hurts, I know it’s scary and intimidating, and a really ugly thing for you to look at, so STOP looking at it. Don’t “consider the things of old,” because if you’re too busy looking at the past, you might not see the “new things” that I’m doing NOW.” Sigh. I just felt a whole lot of file cabinets get crushed into little pieces by the weight of God’s words. Yeah the past happened, but God is doing something now to make the past look like a dream. But how am I supposed to even see this hope and new future, if I’m wearing my “past glasses” where all I see is distorted to remind me of something that happened a week ago, a month ago, a year ago? Um….you can’t. The past files, have got to go. Stop organizing those horrible things for future reference. I’m not telling you to bury the past somewhere deep inside, because I don’t think that’s a healthy or a great idea. But I think what God is saying in this verse is acknowledge the past, but acknowledge that it’s in the past. When He says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert,” He’s saying that out of that ugly file cabinet of a past you have stored away, he’s going to create a promising and beautiful future. I think God can use the past, even the ugly past, to teach us of his Love for us when we see the “river” that was formed from those past
“deserts.” When God does good things in our lives, we feel blessed. But when God does good things from the bad parts of our lives…we feel in awe, grateful, loved; really, what do you not feel when God takes your brokenness to replace it with so much promise and hope?
This one verse says to me, “Martha Lee Anne, I see your past, and I know your past, and I know you keep looking back, but look at the good I’m doing with your past; look what I’m teaching you from it, and look towards the beautiful future I want to give you, if you’ll just give all of your past to me.”
But now maybe you’re thinking, “Ok, so God can use my past/wilderness to create a new path, but what about my sins, what’s He going to do with those?”
“I, I am he who blots out your transgressions for my own sake, and I WILL NOT remember your sins.” Isaiah 43-35
Read that again. One more time. Did you really just absorb what God just said to you? Your past, present, and future are all going to have sins, and those sins may be the cause of a lot of those past files you keep regretting and reading and crying over, but if it’s the sin that your crying over, you can grab a hanky and breathe easy. The moment you accepted Christ as your Savior and you gave Him your life to do with whatever He pleases, then your sins were no longer an issue, because for His “own sake,” He doesn’t want to, and will not remember them. They were “blotted” out. Basically, if you’ve ever painted with a child, you know that they get a little paint happy and sometimes whole sections of a drawing can disappear from the paint that was just slapped, brushed, or dropped on by the hand of that child, so when the painting is done, you may see a horse’s legs, a body, and a tail, but his head is gone. And there’s no use in trying to remember what the head looked like because all traces of it are gone, plus it takes to much out of you to stare at it and imagine what might have been, so you hang that painting up and smile at the tail, and the body, and the feet, and the head is just, well, for all you know, it doesn’t exist.
That’s how God treats your sin, it doesn’t exist because Jesus’ blood was like the red paint that just blotted it out, and all God can see is you, without your sin.
If you’re saved, you know God forgives sins, and you know that the past should stay in the past, but I know that it’s hard to keep it there. I know it’s easy to bring it up, sometimes, because you just want something to think about before you go to bed, but instead of focusing so much on mistakes and past regrets or whatever else the past monster reminds you of, go read Isaiah 43, and when you get to verses 18-19, really consider that God may be using that empty, desert of your past, to bring you to something good. And when you go back to that isle in your brain where you store those past files,I hope that your file has been erased; I hope it’s been “blotted” out, and I hope that while you sit there, bewildered , you fall in love with God when you see that a new story is being written in place of the past, and this one, you never want to put down because instead of being filled with your tears and regret, its filled with rivers and hope, and something much, much more beautiful.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Fear...
From time to time, I like to create really random scenarios or perhaps even questions just so that I can think over what I would do or say. For instance, a scenario that I’ve acted out in my mind ever since I was younger is the “what would you save if there were a fire” scenario, and over the years, this answer has changed from my teddy bear when I was seven to my journals at eight to my paintings at twelve to my chest that has all of my journals in it, and maybe I’ll grab just several paintings in the other hand, and then I’ll just throw my favorite books out of the window at twenty two; forget the clothes, money, laptop, phone, and whatever else most people would grab…those books are gold to me, and those journals are basically me in paper form, and those paintings may not be so awe inspiring, but it took way too long to paint them to have them melt in two seconds. Another scenario that I like to entertain before going to bed from time to time is the “what would you do if someone broke into your apartment” scenario. This one has so many different endings, that I’m not going to go into detail.
You get the point. I am a thinker, daydreamer, whatever you want to call it: I am the person who sits in class and when nothing too interesting or important is being said, imagines what I would do if someone showed up on campus with a gun or I’m imagining myself on an adventure overseas working at an orphanage. While lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I’m wondering what one thing I would take with me to an island, or who I would take with me. And if I’m feeling really thoughtful, I’m the person who really thinks in detail about what animal best describes me…by the way, I think it’s the nightingale. I might even be wondering if I could be any fruit, what fruit would I be: I have come to the conclusion that I would be a strawberry 1) because the strawberry is the most unique since it’s the only one that has seeds on the outside, kind of making the whole fruit thing pointless and 2) If you considered seeds a fruit’s heart, then the strawberry wears its heart on its sleeve, and I may not always do this, but I certainly admire it. And lastly, one scenario that I’ve thought over, as mentioned in a previous blog, is the whole knight in shining armor who will hopefully pursue me scenario…
There is one question, however, that I’ve thought over many times and have never known exactly the answer to…this being the, “what are you most afraid of” question.
So on TV, people are most afraid of monsters or spiders or roaches, well frankly, none of things scare me. Mice definitely don’t scare me after the whole catching one and releasing it outside adventure that took place a few weeks ago in Monroeville. I’m not scared of snakes because when you see one, you walk in the other direction. Maggots really do freak me out, but I’m not scared of them..I don’t fear the maggot colony climbing into bed with me or chasing me, but I do have to admit that I do get the whole “I’m going to be sick” when I see them episode. So besides the creepy crawlies, I guess I thought I was scared of the usual things like “what if I fail miserably in a class,” except I don’t worry about failing because I work too hard to fail, plus there’s always forgiveness if I do. I’m not afraid of graduating, I’m not afraid of moving, I’m not afraid of where I’m going to work because there are so many options as a Registered Dietician that is ridiculous, plus these make me feel like a new adventure is about to begin, which is far more exciting than scary. I’m not so scared of the dark any more, unless the power goes out, then I just go outside because for some reason outside dark is not scary like inside dark. I’m not scared of bees or ants or dirt or breaking a fingernail. I’m not deathly afraid of heights or planes or hurricanes. So really, there are things that might momentarily freak me out, but there aren’t many things that I’m really scared of, and even the “cat-lady” scenario, no longer scares me. If I’m the old, single lady with a bunch of cats, I will not be rocking in a rocking chair being depressed, hopefully, I’ll be on an adventure somewhere doing something good for the Lord…and if not, then shame , shame on me. But the point is that after a lot of thinking over this one question, I’ve never gotten to the root of what I’m really scared of…
Until today.
This morning, I was reading through Mathew chapter seven, and I stumbled upon a verse that I’ve read a many times before, and this verse says,
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ and then I will declare to them,
‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’
And after reading that, my stomach dropped, and I knew that without a shadow of a doubt, this verse was an answer to my biggest fear. And my biggest fear is….that again and again, I will get so caught up in the World, that I will again and again forget that I live in a world that sits in God’s hands…and though, I don’t believe that I am just a “Christian” but really a born again believer. I don’t want to be one of those, “whew…I barely made it” to heaven believers.
My biggest fear is never knowing Christ to the depth that He desires for me to know Him…
This verse says a whole lot about the world we live in. I feel like I know so many “Christians” and I know so many people who go to church, but honestly, I don’t know as many people who really know the Lord. And when I say “Christians,” you might be wondering what’s up with the quotes. When I say Christian (without the quotes), I’m referring to those who believe Christ died for them, and so they died to themselves, meaning that everything they were, believed in, knew…changed. Their lives went from one that looked like the world to one that looked like Christ. And when I say “Christians” I’m referring to those who believe in God, and they may or may not go to church, but they don’t look like Christ, they don’t talk like Christ, and they aren’t living to find Christ. So basically, there is your definition of those who are “hot” and those who are straddling the fence of “lukewarm”. Cold would be those who have denied Christ flat out (Revelations 3:15-16). And if you venture to go read Revelations chapter 3:15-16, you’ll see that it’s basically a backup of the Mathew verse, except instead of saying the nicer “depart from me,” He says concerning those who are “lukewarm,” “I will spit you out of my mouth,” but both verses are referring to those who say ‘Lord, Lord,’ but never really knew him. In really simplified terms, you can’t live a life as a “Christian” and satisfy God. God either comes into your life and changes it or He doesn’t, and you remain like the world, but God doesn’t come into your life and you change in the sense that you go to Church and you don’t steal, but you don’t care to study the word, you don’t care to really know him, and you don’t care to follow him because you love Him, you just pick and choose what you will or will not do on your terms, and being a Christian is about God’s terms, being a “Christian” is about your terms, and that isn’t “knowing” God, that’s just “believing” in God, and we know that even Demon’s can do that.
You may be thinking I sound ridiculous, but give it some deep thought. If you were a musician (I don’t know sports, so this example will have to do) you would own an instrument, let’s say a guitar. You would come home every day and want to play that beautiful cedar top guitar. After awhile, you would know the smallest details about this guitar, like what strings sound best on it, or the best way to keep it shiny and new, and if you really love your guitar, you’d name it (my guitars name is Aeda). You would be extremely protective of it, not just anyone could put their greasy fingers on it, and if someone dissed your guitar or put a scratch on your guitar, you’d probably get angry and banish them from touching it forever. So with time, you’d get better at playing, you would constantly be learning new things from playing it, and your guitar would become something that you really care about because you would have invested so much of your life and time into it. And of course you’d carry it around with you on trips or wherever in its case, and you’d take it out and play for those who asked you to, even if sounds crappy, because that is your guitar, and you’re proud of it.
Now if you had a guitar case with a guitar in it, and you carried it around, people would assume that you are a musician, ok. But if you don’t practice, and you never play that guitar, and you just let it sit in the corner of your room to collect dust (which mine does from time to time) and you don’t know anything about that guitar (strings, care taking, what a chord is), then you’re not really a musician, you’re a “musician” because you may do some things that, on the outside, make you look like a musician, like going to guitar shops and buying strings, but if people really pay attention and they never see you play, and they never hear you talk about practicing, they’re going to start disregarding the guitar case, and in their eyes, you’re going to be just like them, musically illiterate.
And if both the musician and the “musician” were to audition for some band, I’m confident, because of the musician’s knowledge of the guitar and overall time spent practicing, that at the audition the lead singer would say,
“Dude, I can tell you love that guitar. Your fingers are so calloused from all the practice, that even if you make mistakes and you’re not as bad as Andy McKee, you have the passion we’re looking for, you can totally be in our band.”
And as for the “musician,” they wouldn’t know anything about the guitar other than it has six strings. They may be able to pull off a few chords from hasty memorization a few months back, but knowing guitar chords and knowing how to play the guitar, are two completely different things. And I’m sure the lead singer would say to the “musician,”
“Dude, you don’t have a clue what you’re doing. I bet you’ve never picked that thing up for more than five minutes in months. Sure, you probably go to the music store every now and then to pick up some tips, but obviously you never put any of them to practice, and it shows. Honestly man, you’re sitting in limbo between knowing about the guitar and not knowing about the guitar, and frankly I don’t want some guy in my band who doesn’t even care enough to learn about the instrument he ‘claims’ to love, you’d be better off just not playing rather than being a ‘lukey.’”
And while the musician gets to stay and hang out and play his guitar that he truly loves playing, the “musician” is probably pondering what “lukey” means, not having a clue that he was just spit out by the lead singer, and “lukey” was short for “lukewarm.”
So that’s pretty much the best I can do at describing to you what it means to be a real Christian and what it means to be a “Christian”. I never really thought about the two too often growing up, because I knew that I loved the Lord and I went to church, but when I was in High School, I realized that I tended to carry the world in my back pocket, which is not anywhere close to being Christ-like.
I don’t know about you, but it’s next to impossible to follow Christ with the world in your back pocket. Because when you start to fall in love with Christ, and you start growing closer to him, you’ll hear those muffled sounds of the world coming from your pocket, and you’ll look back, and when you look back, you’re no longer looking towards Christ. And you may pause, take the world out, play some hacky sac with it, toss it about, roll it in between your fingers, and before you know it, you’ve had the world out for an hour, and then a day, and then it’s been a whole week with you and the world, until you hear a quiet whisper from the other direction, and that’s God, so you feel bad and you put the world back in your back pocket and try all over again to get back to Christ,
But it’s only a matter of time before the world calls, and you’re looking back at that pocket, and your fingers are fidgeting to just take it out for an hour or so.
Even though I love the Lord, I still feel like I could know Him more. I could want Him more. I could choose Him more. I’m reminded of a song that you might have sung in youth growing up, and the chorus goes like this,
“I want to know you. I want to hear your voice. I want to know you more. I want to touch you. I want to see your face. I want to know you more.”
And that…is what I want… I want to know God more. After reading in Mathew, I went to crosswalk.com to look up what it means to “Know” God. Some definitions were “to come to understand,” “have knowledge,” and one that at first I thought was completely irrelevant was the “know” that referred to being intimate with a spouse. Now, I know what you’re thinking because for about five minutes I thought it to: “Martha, you cannot ‘know’ God in that manner because it’s disgusting,” but I don’t think “know” here is referring to being intimate with God in a physical manner as with a spouse, but I think the word “intimate” is really important in our quest to know God. If you look “intimate” up, you’ll find things like “inmost, deep within” or “suggesting privacy, warm or cozy” and lastly, “involving warm friendship or personally close.” I don’t know about you, but being “intimate” with God sounds wonderful. Knowing God in an intimate way is to share with him your deepest fears, desires, and needs(those things deep within). It is to cozy up with him and to whisper your heart to him, it’s to crawl into His lap and know that, though He is the Alpha and the Omega, He’s also a father and a friend. I’m reminded of a song I wrote several years ago called “Just for awhile,” and I want to share those lyrics with you because intimacy with God is what I was longing for when I wrote it.
verse one:
I love you, when the sun begins to rise,
And can you, see me when I close my eyes?
Do you see me the way I see you?
I love you, when the darkness rises,
And can you, see the tears that fall from my eyes?
Do you know me the way I know you?
Chorus
I’m fading away.
Time stand still for awhile.
Nothing seems real today,
When you’re here,
So take me as yours tonight,
If just for awhile.
Verse two:
And I know, I am not forgotten,
When the day is done.
And my heart,
It’s not really broken, just waiting,
For the healer’s touch.
And your there,
Arms wide open,
To a prodigal son
So there you have it. My biggest fear is that instead of throwing that hacky sack of a world away in the next trash can I walk by, I’m going to keep it in my back pocket. I think I’m most afraid that I’ll keep replacing time with God with really stupid and meaningless things like TV and Facebook. I guess, in summary, that even though I am a Christian, I have to be wary of looking like a “Christian,” because the one thing that I desire most, is to stand before God and for him to say,
“Ah, there’s Martha Lee Anne. She knows my heart, and I know hers, and now that she’s here, I can’t wait to get to know her more.”
You get the point. I am a thinker, daydreamer, whatever you want to call it: I am the person who sits in class and when nothing too interesting or important is being said, imagines what I would do if someone showed up on campus with a gun or I’m imagining myself on an adventure overseas working at an orphanage. While lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I’m wondering what one thing I would take with me to an island, or who I would take with me. And if I’m feeling really thoughtful, I’m the person who really thinks in detail about what animal best describes me…by the way, I think it’s the nightingale. I might even be wondering if I could be any fruit, what fruit would I be: I have come to the conclusion that I would be a strawberry 1) because the strawberry is the most unique since it’s the only one that has seeds on the outside, kind of making the whole fruit thing pointless and 2) If you considered seeds a fruit’s heart, then the strawberry wears its heart on its sleeve, and I may not always do this, but I certainly admire it. And lastly, one scenario that I’ve thought over, as mentioned in a previous blog, is the whole knight in shining armor who will hopefully pursue me scenario…
There is one question, however, that I’ve thought over many times and have never known exactly the answer to…this being the, “what are you most afraid of” question.
So on TV, people are most afraid of monsters or spiders or roaches, well frankly, none of things scare me. Mice definitely don’t scare me after the whole catching one and releasing it outside adventure that took place a few weeks ago in Monroeville. I’m not scared of snakes because when you see one, you walk in the other direction. Maggots really do freak me out, but I’m not scared of them..I don’t fear the maggot colony climbing into bed with me or chasing me, but I do have to admit that I do get the whole “I’m going to be sick” when I see them episode. So besides the creepy crawlies, I guess I thought I was scared of the usual things like “what if I fail miserably in a class,” except I don’t worry about failing because I work too hard to fail, plus there’s always forgiveness if I do. I’m not afraid of graduating, I’m not afraid of moving, I’m not afraid of where I’m going to work because there are so many options as a Registered Dietician that is ridiculous, plus these make me feel like a new adventure is about to begin, which is far more exciting than scary. I’m not so scared of the dark any more, unless the power goes out, then I just go outside because for some reason outside dark is not scary like inside dark. I’m not scared of bees or ants or dirt or breaking a fingernail. I’m not deathly afraid of heights or planes or hurricanes. So really, there are things that might momentarily freak me out, but there aren’t many things that I’m really scared of, and even the “cat-lady” scenario, no longer scares me. If I’m the old, single lady with a bunch of cats, I will not be rocking in a rocking chair being depressed, hopefully, I’ll be on an adventure somewhere doing something good for the Lord…and if not, then shame , shame on me. But the point is that after a lot of thinking over this one question, I’ve never gotten to the root of what I’m really scared of…
Until today.
This morning, I was reading through Mathew chapter seven, and I stumbled upon a verse that I’ve read a many times before, and this verse says,
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ and then I will declare to them,
‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’
And after reading that, my stomach dropped, and I knew that without a shadow of a doubt, this verse was an answer to my biggest fear. And my biggest fear is….that again and again, I will get so caught up in the World, that I will again and again forget that I live in a world that sits in God’s hands…and though, I don’t believe that I am just a “Christian” but really a born again believer. I don’t want to be one of those, “whew…I barely made it” to heaven believers.
My biggest fear is never knowing Christ to the depth that He desires for me to know Him…
This verse says a whole lot about the world we live in. I feel like I know so many “Christians” and I know so many people who go to church, but honestly, I don’t know as many people who really know the Lord. And when I say “Christians,” you might be wondering what’s up with the quotes. When I say Christian (without the quotes), I’m referring to those who believe Christ died for them, and so they died to themselves, meaning that everything they were, believed in, knew…changed. Their lives went from one that looked like the world to one that looked like Christ. And when I say “Christians” I’m referring to those who believe in God, and they may or may not go to church, but they don’t look like Christ, they don’t talk like Christ, and they aren’t living to find Christ. So basically, there is your definition of those who are “hot” and those who are straddling the fence of “lukewarm”. Cold would be those who have denied Christ flat out (Revelations 3:15-16). And if you venture to go read Revelations chapter 3:15-16, you’ll see that it’s basically a backup of the Mathew verse, except instead of saying the nicer “depart from me,” He says concerning those who are “lukewarm,” “I will spit you out of my mouth,” but both verses are referring to those who say ‘Lord, Lord,’ but never really knew him. In really simplified terms, you can’t live a life as a “Christian” and satisfy God. God either comes into your life and changes it or He doesn’t, and you remain like the world, but God doesn’t come into your life and you change in the sense that you go to Church and you don’t steal, but you don’t care to study the word, you don’t care to really know him, and you don’t care to follow him because you love Him, you just pick and choose what you will or will not do on your terms, and being a Christian is about God’s terms, being a “Christian” is about your terms, and that isn’t “knowing” God, that’s just “believing” in God, and we know that even Demon’s can do that.
You may be thinking I sound ridiculous, but give it some deep thought. If you were a musician (I don’t know sports, so this example will have to do) you would own an instrument, let’s say a guitar. You would come home every day and want to play that beautiful cedar top guitar. After awhile, you would know the smallest details about this guitar, like what strings sound best on it, or the best way to keep it shiny and new, and if you really love your guitar, you’d name it (my guitars name is Aeda). You would be extremely protective of it, not just anyone could put their greasy fingers on it, and if someone dissed your guitar or put a scratch on your guitar, you’d probably get angry and banish them from touching it forever. So with time, you’d get better at playing, you would constantly be learning new things from playing it, and your guitar would become something that you really care about because you would have invested so much of your life and time into it. And of course you’d carry it around with you on trips or wherever in its case, and you’d take it out and play for those who asked you to, even if sounds crappy, because that is your guitar, and you’re proud of it.
Now if you had a guitar case with a guitar in it, and you carried it around, people would assume that you are a musician, ok. But if you don’t practice, and you never play that guitar, and you just let it sit in the corner of your room to collect dust (which mine does from time to time) and you don’t know anything about that guitar (strings, care taking, what a chord is), then you’re not really a musician, you’re a “musician” because you may do some things that, on the outside, make you look like a musician, like going to guitar shops and buying strings, but if people really pay attention and they never see you play, and they never hear you talk about practicing, they’re going to start disregarding the guitar case, and in their eyes, you’re going to be just like them, musically illiterate.
And if both the musician and the “musician” were to audition for some band, I’m confident, because of the musician’s knowledge of the guitar and overall time spent practicing, that at the audition the lead singer would say,
“Dude, I can tell you love that guitar. Your fingers are so calloused from all the practice, that even if you make mistakes and you’re not as bad as Andy McKee, you have the passion we’re looking for, you can totally be in our band.”
And as for the “musician,” they wouldn’t know anything about the guitar other than it has six strings. They may be able to pull off a few chords from hasty memorization a few months back, but knowing guitar chords and knowing how to play the guitar, are two completely different things. And I’m sure the lead singer would say to the “musician,”
“Dude, you don’t have a clue what you’re doing. I bet you’ve never picked that thing up for more than five minutes in months. Sure, you probably go to the music store every now and then to pick up some tips, but obviously you never put any of them to practice, and it shows. Honestly man, you’re sitting in limbo between knowing about the guitar and not knowing about the guitar, and frankly I don’t want some guy in my band who doesn’t even care enough to learn about the instrument he ‘claims’ to love, you’d be better off just not playing rather than being a ‘lukey.’”
And while the musician gets to stay and hang out and play his guitar that he truly loves playing, the “musician” is probably pondering what “lukey” means, not having a clue that he was just spit out by the lead singer, and “lukey” was short for “lukewarm.”
So that’s pretty much the best I can do at describing to you what it means to be a real Christian and what it means to be a “Christian”. I never really thought about the two too often growing up, because I knew that I loved the Lord and I went to church, but when I was in High School, I realized that I tended to carry the world in my back pocket, which is not anywhere close to being Christ-like.
I don’t know about you, but it’s next to impossible to follow Christ with the world in your back pocket. Because when you start to fall in love with Christ, and you start growing closer to him, you’ll hear those muffled sounds of the world coming from your pocket, and you’ll look back, and when you look back, you’re no longer looking towards Christ. And you may pause, take the world out, play some hacky sac with it, toss it about, roll it in between your fingers, and before you know it, you’ve had the world out for an hour, and then a day, and then it’s been a whole week with you and the world, until you hear a quiet whisper from the other direction, and that’s God, so you feel bad and you put the world back in your back pocket and try all over again to get back to Christ,
But it’s only a matter of time before the world calls, and you’re looking back at that pocket, and your fingers are fidgeting to just take it out for an hour or so.
Even though I love the Lord, I still feel like I could know Him more. I could want Him more. I could choose Him more. I’m reminded of a song that you might have sung in youth growing up, and the chorus goes like this,
“I want to know you. I want to hear your voice. I want to know you more. I want to touch you. I want to see your face. I want to know you more.”
And that…is what I want… I want to know God more. After reading in Mathew, I went to crosswalk.com to look up what it means to “Know” God. Some definitions were “to come to understand,” “have knowledge,” and one that at first I thought was completely irrelevant was the “know” that referred to being intimate with a spouse. Now, I know what you’re thinking because for about five minutes I thought it to: “Martha, you cannot ‘know’ God in that manner because it’s disgusting,” but I don’t think “know” here is referring to being intimate with God in a physical manner as with a spouse, but I think the word “intimate” is really important in our quest to know God. If you look “intimate” up, you’ll find things like “inmost, deep within” or “suggesting privacy, warm or cozy” and lastly, “involving warm friendship or personally close.” I don’t know about you, but being “intimate” with God sounds wonderful. Knowing God in an intimate way is to share with him your deepest fears, desires, and needs(those things deep within). It is to cozy up with him and to whisper your heart to him, it’s to crawl into His lap and know that, though He is the Alpha and the Omega, He’s also a father and a friend. I’m reminded of a song I wrote several years ago called “Just for awhile,” and I want to share those lyrics with you because intimacy with God is what I was longing for when I wrote it.
verse one:
I love you, when the sun begins to rise,
And can you, see me when I close my eyes?
Do you see me the way I see you?
I love you, when the darkness rises,
And can you, see the tears that fall from my eyes?
Do you know me the way I know you?
Chorus
I’m fading away.
Time stand still for awhile.
Nothing seems real today,
When you’re here,
So take me as yours tonight,
If just for awhile.
Verse two:
And I know, I am not forgotten,
When the day is done.
And my heart,
It’s not really broken, just waiting,
For the healer’s touch.
And your there,
Arms wide open,
To a prodigal son
So there you have it. My biggest fear is that instead of throwing that hacky sack of a world away in the next trash can I walk by, I’m going to keep it in my back pocket. I think I’m most afraid that I’ll keep replacing time with God with really stupid and meaningless things like TV and Facebook. I guess, in summary, that even though I am a Christian, I have to be wary of looking like a “Christian,” because the one thing that I desire most, is to stand before God and for him to say,
“Ah, there’s Martha Lee Anne. She knows my heart, and I know hers, and now that she’s here, I can’t wait to get to know her more.”
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