New bloggish of sorts.

To my two readers:

I have a new blog!  I have recently joined my online universities blogging team, and so they have set up a nice new blog for me.  I will most likely be writing on that one, unless I have something more intimate and rambly to say, then I will revert back to this one.  But for now, that one will be the primary source of all things not so rambly.

So here it is:  http://regentcassandra.blogspot.com

Yay!

I have a gift.

I have a gift, and it is this:

I have the amazing supernatural ability to be good at things I don't understand.  I'm talking intellectual things that involve the cranium. Excluded from this ability is AP Physics in High School.  I didn't understand a word, and I got a C...which actually I suppose is still fairly decent for wanting to run around and scream during first period everyday Senior year.  I'm also not necessarily good at physical things that I don't understand: flying airplanes, rugby, teleportation.

In college I managed to graduate in the top 10% of my class, with a major that I drooled through with incompetence.  I am able to produce amazing assignments without ever letting the information click.  

I remember the day I realized my superpower.  It was halfway through junior year in COB300, where the majority of the semester was devoted to creating a business plan.  Once again, reminiscent of AP Physics, I wanted to run around and scream everyday.  I was sitting in Finance when myself and one other student got called up in front of a lecture hall of students to be honored in receiving acceptance into Beta Gamma Sigma internationally recognized business honors society.  I had never even heard of this organization before, but apparently everyone else in the room had, and was extremely congratulatory with hints of envy.

I remember returning to my seat and saying to my proud group members that maybe they should have given the award to someone who knew what was going on.

Now, I don't mean to bash International Business. Really, I had a lot of fun, and despite not retaining 85% of the information, I did learn a lot and wouldn't trade in the experience for anything. Consistent with my character, however, the information I retained has to do with the International part, not necessarily the Business portion.  And besides, sometimes you learn the most about yourself by discovering what it is you don't want to learn.

Today, I find myself taking online English literature classes, quite the opposite from International Business studies.  Finally I have found something that I am both good at and I understand.  That isn't to say that learning isn't difficult and that I haven't been challenged, but for once, I can actually look back at everything I have written over the past semester and a half and say wow!  that's good!  I get it!  Things make sense and I am finally grasping information that will make a lasting impression on my life.  I care about what I am learning, and I sit on the edge of my seat as I wait for grades to be posted.  The satisfaction in understanding something, trying your hardest and surpassing your superpower, and then receiving professor approval for your work is something I never thought I would experience!  

Here's to education and finding my niche!

On Writing, By: me...not Stephen King

My creative writing course is sadly coming to a close.  I had fun and definitely took away new techniques to improve my writing (we'll see if I actually use them).

If anyone is looking for an excellent book to help with the art of writing, I would highly recommend my textbook for this course: Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft by Janet Burroway and Elizabeth Stuckey-French.

During week one of class I read a quote in this compilation of short stories, lectures, practical methods, and unique exercises, that will probably slosh around in my brain for the rest of my life.

"The best fiction comes from the place where the terror hides, the edge of our worst stuff.  I believe, absolutely, that if you do not break out in that sweat of fear when you write, then you have not gone far enough." - Dorothy Allison

This is true.  And this is scary.

I did quite well grade wise in this class, but my most impressive grade and professor feedback came from an assignment that I wept through as I wrote.  The prompt entailed writing a dialogue between two characters who are having a hard time communicating.

I wrote inspired by a dear friend of mine who said something to me that week.  And then I wrote what had been in my heart for the past three years.  

What I wish had been said years ago.  

What I wish I had said that week.  

What I wish no one would ever know.

I cried as the characters played out the conversation I longed to have myself.  When it was completed, I was frightened by my honesty.  I considered deleting the entire work: something that had escaped from the pages of my journals to be seen by someone else's eyes.

Finally, after much self-consoling, I submitted the assignment, convincing myself that my professor in grading will look past my personal life, and probably won't even know it's a topic that isn't entirely fiction. (On second thought, what good piece of writing isn't inspired by real life events?...uh oh.  Abort! Abort!)

A few days later when grades were posted, I saw that he was impressed.  

Every piece I've written since then has seemed safe and boring.  There's no wow factor without vulnerability.

Unfortunately, Dorothy Allison, you're right.

And I'm terrified.

My Life on Wheels

I find it quite ironic that one of my students who I teach how to read has just published her biography while I struggle to even maintain a blog.

But in reality, she is an amazing woman who deserves all the notoriety in the world.  I don't know much about her life except that she's Jewish, confined to a wheel chair needing help for every physical need, and brings joy to my stressful days with her huge heart and persistent attitude.  

I haven't read her story as told to Shaindy Perl yet (mostly because I didn't have the cash to buy it off her today... yet another one of my inadequacies), but I am anticipating only good, spirit lifting fun.

Afterall, when I asked her if she wrote a chapter about me she said, "Why, the whole book is about you!"

...Wise guy.  =)

Review to come soon.

I'm a sucker.

I don't watch much TV.  In the times when I am cooking lunch in the kitchen, if I'm not watching the news, I'll flip on the Travel Channel (or ABC family for some nostalgic viewing experiences).

This commercial aired on the Travel Channel several years ago, and it used to make my heart ache.  

Just now, I found myself curious as to if I could find it on YouTube since I haven't seen it in about a year.

I'm sad to say that it still serves it's purpose in making me want to hop on a plane and go.

There is so much beauty in this world, and I want to see it all.

Anastasia

I was mad at God on Friday.

I've never actually been genuinely angry at God. Oh yes, I've had those "Really God? What are you doing?" moments, but on Friday, I was raging. It was only for a fraction of my day, but it was enough to draw me away from him and begin to doubt the promises he has already fulfilled in my life and those he will continue to be faithful with.

We had been praying as a small group for weeks that this little baby would be a girl.  In a matter of 24 hours, we found ourselves back at their house, praying that this little baby would resurrect from the dead.

The parents didn't take the doctor's word as the final answer.  They would bring it to Jesus for the next few days and see what he had to say about it.

Everything pointed to a resurrection.  The name they chose twelve years ago: Anastasia, which means "resurrection."  Prophetic words spoken over the couple, and her womb ten years ago.  Encouraging words given three weeks ago, the time the baby supposedly died.  The room full of hopeful prayers that night, as the mother sat with the most peaceful smile on her face.  There was an expectancy and anticipation in that room.  There was joy that overcame the mourning.  There was hope in the power of Christ; the same power that rose Christ from the dead felt so available at our very fingertips.

All for His glory.

We truly believed Anastasia would live.

We truly believed this would launch something huge in our church and throughout the state.

We truly believed this little baby would be born and grow to be a witness of God's power and compassion to the nations.

But on Friday, the heart didn't start.  The baby remained dead.  Three ultrasounds that day, just to make sure.

And I was angry.

"God is still good, but they did miscarry", the messenger told me on the phone.

God is still good, huh?

I didn't believe it.

How come, when Jesus was on this earth, he healed everyone who asked?  How come now, when we have the promise that we will see greater things than these, a room full of Christ followers, declaring new life in Jesus' name shows no results?

How come a plane lands flawlessly in the middle of a river without a single casualty, and then just a few weeks later, a plane crashes into a house with no survivors?

But God is bigger than all of this.  If we understood all of his facets, he wouldn't be God.

I had to put away my anger, and praise him for the boldness he has instilled in our church over the past three years.  The fact that we were able to meet as a group and actually ask him for something so huge is well...huge.  

Bill Johnson tells of his church (which sees miraculous healings and resurrections on a regular basis) that they had to fight to get to where they are.  They saw plenty of failures in the process.  Over the years they have seen numerous babies who have been declared dead in the womb, resurrect from the dead.  But what has hidden in the shadows is the story of one of the pastor's wives who many years ago (before they began seeing regular healings) had a miscarriage, and even after intense praying, the baby remained dead.

But their failures became their victories.  Instead of choosing the path of anger and discouragement, you begin to pray more fervently as you become even more desperate to see his glory.  As you find yourself crying out to God even more, you're able to see his heart clearer.  It's that alignment that reveals His kingdom on earth.

And who knows.  The story isn't over yet.  

No matter what the ultimate outcome of Anastasia's life, she will be a testimony.  The way God rose her from the dead, or the way He used her to instill a strong faith in a small Sunday night church community to ask Him for anything and keep seeking for his heart.

And besides, the fetus is still in the womb.  There's still hope.  

I need some Flame Broiled love!

I have actually been waiting for this new Holiday Hipsters song for about 2 months. Quite possibly their best one yet!

My friends are silly... and extremely talented.



To hear other Holiday Hipster songs, go here!

A Snippet from "But Jesus Went to the Mount of Olives"

I was sure that if I stayed in Galilee for just a few more days, God would have been able to speak to me through sunflower fields and grazing sheep. It was devastating to leave the peace of our lakeside kibbutz for the stone, congested city of Jerusalem. Although on the Mount of Olives, another hill, the garden was taken well care of, rather than the beautiful, organic mess of nature in Galilee. With the perfect timing I learned from living on my University’s quad, I dodged the methodical sprinklers to find my own place to sit and sigh, away from the rest of my group who didn’t stray far from the entrance gate. I began to stroll up the garden, following the weaving path, one hand outstretched, allowing it to feel the shrubbery it passed. Watch out for the thistles. I didn’t want the deceptive purple plant to leave me with a sore palm as it had in the wilderness of Banias a few days earlier. I was at least relieved to see that the rocks lining the path resembled those in Galilee: cream colored and porous, like a rock rabbit with iron jaws burrowed through the mass, transforming it into a piece of dense coral. I hopped over a root that had protruded through the tiled jigsaw path where the blocks had turned orange with oxidization. I tugged at an olive branch and let it escape from my grasp as I carried on up the hill. It sprang back, shaking the whole tree. The sounds of nature were drowning out the sounds of civilization as I climbed higher. From this height, the wall protecting the garden was no longer obstructing the view of the city. The golden Dome of the Rock obscenely protruded itself through the simplistic panorama of Jerusalem. It was the perfect time to sit down and sketch, but my mind would not let me rest.

What do You want me to do? Where do You want me? I could… Australia. I need to stop planning. But, ugh, I spent all that time in Durban… wasted? No, no, never education. Never wasted. Stay in Connecticut? I’m so antsy! I want to be in Durbs. Where are you? If I make $12 an hour and I’m only working fifteen hours… How flexible would this be anyways? Back to college? Teaching. Ugh, I’m done with school. Really? Work in the mall when the sun is… miserable! What if I’m missing out on… no, You wouldn’t let me do that…

“Just let me love you.”

I was interrupted.

It wasn’t as if someone stood outside, speaking into my ear. Someone stood inside me, speaking out. I had only heard a voice this audibly once before. Last summer. In a bar.

The only sound now was my breathing, slightly heavy from the incline, the noonday sun, and the shock from the words that permeated my thoughts. I stood in my place, and moved nothing but my eyes. A rock. The path. The city. My hand. Then a cooling breeze blew through the olive trees. The tiny leaves on the skewed branches showed their playful silvery undersides as they tinkered against each other. The cicadas lifted their voices in a crescendo ushering in the coming summer and a bird hidden in a nearby tree repeated his melody.

My own voice added to the symphony. “Is it that simple?”

No response.

The porous rock under the leaning olive tree beckoned me to rest. I tucked my flowing skirt out of the way and joined the rock in the shade. Just let You love me, huh? I dug in my backpack and yanked my thin brown paper journal from between my Bible and water bottle. The front of my journal framed a messy drawing from the day I spent hours on the pebbled beach where Jesus cooked breakfast. I turned it over to the blank back. Through the olive leaves that hung over my face, I sketched Jerusalem.

Water Spirits

The old woman whose name Kristina couldn’t pronounce was squatting in her garden across the street, a wheelbarrow propped up beside her. She wore all of her jewelry, even in the dirt. A wrist full of tarnished gold bangles, necklaces dangling with a variety of trinkets that perpetually forced her head downwards, and thick hoop earrings that would be quite scandalous for a woman her age to wear anywhere in the world but here. Kristina threw her duffle bag in the trunk of her rusted Pontiac and waved.

“Hello, where are you going?” the old woman called across the street, moving a wisp of gray hair off her chocolate skin.

“I am going to the coast. I have a meeting,” Kristina responded, making sure her English was articulate enough for the old woman to understand.

“The coast?” The old woman rose to her feet, showing the soil stains on her geometrically patterned skirt.

“Yes. I am going to the coast.”

“The sea?”

“Yes, near the sea.”

“You go to the sea?” Her inquisitive eyes were fixed on Kristina’s bobbing head of blond curls that answered her redundant questioning. “You could do for me something?”

“Um, I suppose so. I won’t really have much time but I…”

“Please, neighbor. You bring me seawater?” As she spoke, she hobbled across the dusty road, stepping over the chickens, her eyes never leaving Kristina’s.

“Seawater? Why?” she asked.

“It is good for uhh… my tummy. It is good tummy water. Salt and minerals. Very good. You do for your neighbor? Bring me seawater?”

The old woman now stood six inches from her face. Kristina took a step back, away from the overpowering scent of spices and soil. The old woman’s staring blood shot eyes made her consent, just so she could get on the road and away from her pleading neighbor. As soon as Kristina said “sure”, the old woman smiled with her seven teeth, told her to wait a moment, and ran unevenly back across the street, creating a cloud of dust between the two houses. Kristina could hear things crashing within the old woman’s small brick home. She returned a minute later, carrying four empty Coca Cola bottles, a liter each. “Please. This is good,” she said, handing Kristina the bottles, which she then carelessly tossed in her backseat.

After a final glance at the old woman’s crooked smile, and a little chuckle, Kristina got into her car and drove off through the small village towards the city on the coast. She arrived at the hotel three hours later where the other foreigners and she would be encouraged for the next four days, swapping stories and learning the cutting edge techniques of English language teaching. During a free afternoon, her peers enjoyed the entertainment as Kristina battled the hectic waves, gathering the “tummy water” for her neighbor.

Once the four Coca Cola bottles were filled, and her feet were safely back on dry sand, Kristina held up a bottle to her giggling friends and said, “She’s going to drink this stuff? Really?” She shook it and watched as the bits of sand separated from the murky water and resettled on the bottom. “Anyone have a stomach ache?” she joked.

Four days later, with a peeling nose and browned shoulders, Kristina tapped on the old woman’s door with one of the Coca Cola bottles, juggling the rest under her arms. “Hello neighbor. It is Kristina,” she called. The garden wrapped around the one-roomed dwelling was filled mostly with root vegetables and disorderly placed herbs. A small stone statue with a wide-open mouth showing its fangs startled Kristina when it peeked at her from behind a licorice plant. There was a shuffle inside and the old woman opened the door, letting a beam of sunlight into her dark home. Her bangles tinkered against one another as she clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming at the four bottles. “I brought you your seawater,” Kristina said, placing them on the threshold, the old woman’s eyes following their descent.

While the bottles of dirty seawater distracted the woman, Kristina peered inside, curious as to how this eccentric woman lived. A young man was asleep on the floor cushion, bordered by small bones and skinny pillars of rising incense. The old woman didn’t say a word but scooted the bottles inside and shut the door, as Kristina craned her neck to look longer at the young man. Once she could see nothing but the closed door, she crossed the dusty road back to her house. She settled into her couch with a cup of mint tea and a book that reminded her of home, the image of the young man and the bones interrupting her only a few times.

Across the street there was only a thin stream of light coming from under the door of the small brick house. In the dark, the old woman rummaged through her clutter, found her hollow gourd, and filled it with her long waited for “tummy water.” She looked at the sleeping young man, and in her ancient native language, she spoke. “Do not worry, my dear boy. You will get better. Healing will certainly come now.” She took a gulp of the “tummy water”, and continued. “Come, water spirits, come.”

My apologies, Ms. O'Connor

Am I the only one?

Please, someone tell me I am not alone.

This should disqualify me, here and now, from ever becoming an English teacher.

Fortunately there is grace... and 12 years of English teachers I can blame who never taught me properly.

Yes, my friends, today I found something out.

I found out that I am dumb.

And I found out that Flannery O'Connor is a woman.

Love is like a box of chocolates.

I don't have any experience with true love.

For the past couple weeks I have been thinking about what it would actually look like.

I used to look for similarities in a mate, but I am finding the value in sharing differences.

This is the picture that was shown to me (inspired by a real event), and what I hope to have one day.  This picture has become quite complex over the weeks as my thoughts continue to mature, but here is the gist:

A family friend gives you and your significant other a box of assorted chocolates for Christmas. 

You both have a passion for chocolate, but differ in your specific tastes.

You love the dark chocolate pieces.  He doesn't care for them.

He loves the milk chocolate pieces.  You don't care for them. 

You both love the mint chocolate truffle.  He sacrifices his pleasure for your enjoyment and insists you eat it.  But of course, you bite half of it and insist he has the rest.

During a conversation with an elderly neighbor, you discover that she absolutely adores white chocolate.  Both of you run home, grab the white chocolates, and deliver them to the old lady, fulfilling her need and bringing her much joy.

The box is empty and everyone is appeased.  

The Inauguration of Barack Obama According to Thirteen Year Olds

Along with the majority of America, I had to work on Inauguration Day.

Fortunately, my job that day entailed filling in the shoes of an 8th grade English teacher who was absent for the very reason I wanted to be.  By the elegant picture of our president above her computer, the signature bumper sticker on her file cabinet, and the Obama shaped cookie on her desk, I saw why this teacher took a personal day and traveled to DC to witness history in the making.  Because of her own passion, the lesson plans that day consisted of silent reading and watching the ceremonies.

Education in Connecticut is oh-so-cutting-edge.  To make sure Nutmegger children aren't raised to be ignorant, the students were excused from class for an hour to watch the swearing in on the big screen in the auditorium.

At first, the chatty pre-teens angered anyone in the room who wasn't a student, as they snickered at the funny looking people on the screen moments before the official ceremony.  The teacher behind me shouted over my head at the kids she knew better than I did.  As I have observed over the past few months, however, this group of Middle School kids are surprisingly respectful at assemblies when it comes down to it.  They could beat any High-Schooler in a "Who Can Be the Least Obnoxious" competition.  

But today, they were excited.  In the classroom they reflected on the past administration, and forecasted what would happen in the upcoming one, repeating phrases they heard their proselytizing parents use too often.  As I tried to calm the heated debates that were forming during the students' "silent reading time", the muted newscasters and vignettes of cheering Americans projected on the classroom overhead were the only things silent that day. In the auditorium, the hundreds of students stood up when the speaker told everyone present to stand, clapped anytime the multitude on the Mall cheered, and raised their voices when there was a song.  

I laughed as my authority over this rambunctious group waned, and joined them in their standing and cheering.  

There are certain moments in history that you will always remember where you were when they happened: September 11th, when the Sox won the World Series, the shooting at Virginia Tech.

On January 20, 2009, the day that Barack Hussein Obama became president of the United States, when excitement overcame America and a small town Connecticut Middle School, I'm glad I found myself within those walls.  I wouldn't have fancied a better memory of the occasion.  

"The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce: Restored to the Good of Both Sexes"

John Milton.  I will never dote on him like my Shakespeare, but he speaks of some gripping matters.

In "The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce", Milton fights the canonical law that states the only reason you can get divorced is adultery.  He delves into Matthew 5 where the church had taken Jesus' words and turned them into law, and argues that Jesus never meant that adultery was the only reason for divorce.  I will not focus on that for the purpose of this post since it is fairly convoluted.

Milton refers all the way back to Genesis to discover what the purpose of marriage is.  Why did God create Eve?  In the garden, Adam was romping around with all the animals, but he was still lonely.  There was a void that needed to be filled.  We all know the verse: "It is not good for the man to be alone.  I will make a helper suitable for him" (Gen 2:18, NIV).  God creates Eve to be Adam's helper.  This is marriage.  If Adam, in Paradise, needed a helper, how much more now does man, in a fallen world, need a hard-working, God-fearing, suitable wife to help him?

Considering we are fallen people, we make mistakes.  We may choose a spouse who is in fact not compatible.  Unfortunately, you probably won't find that out until after you're married and living in close quarters.  Milton actually condemns how hastily people get married.  We lazily go about our youthful lives, taking time in making decisions... except when it comes to marriage.  Society, friends, family, and even the Church, tend to influence us in the wrong direction and we become so desperate to get married that it doesn't matter to whom.  Upon marrying the wrong person, Milton says this:

Lest therefore so noble a creature as man should be shut up incurably under a worse evil by an easy mistake in that ordinance which God gave him to remedy a less evil, reaping to himself sorrow while he went to rid away solitariness, it cannot avoid to be concluded that if the woman be naturally so of disposition as will not help to remove, but help to increase that same Godforbidden loneliness which will in time draw on with it a general discomfort and dejection of mind not beseeming either Christian profession or moral conversation, unprofitable and dangerous to the commonwealth, when the household estate, out of which must flourish forth the vigour and spirit of all public enterprises, is so ill-contented and procured at home, and cannot be supported; such a marriage can be no marriage, whereto the most honest end is wanting; and the aggrieved person shall do more manly to be extraordinary and singular in claiming the due right whereof he is frustrated than to piece up his lost contentment by visiting the stews, or stepping to his neighbour's bed, which is the common shift in this misfortune; or else by suffering his useful life to waste away and be lost under a secret affliction of an unconscionable size to human strength.

As a woman, I have the power to either fulfill or increase the loneliness that man feels.  I have a lot of work to do before I ever put on that white dress.

Since the purpose of marriage is to fulfill that void of loneliness, there must be more to marriage than carnal pleasures.  There needs to be a total unification of spirit, soul, and body, in that order.  Believing that the only plausible reason for divorce is adultery, is believing that sex is the most important thing in your marriage.  This is shocking to realize.  What if your wife starts worshipping Satan?  (Extreme, ok, but you get the point.) What if she becomes a woman who cares not about you and your being, but only about your wallet?  What if your husband is emotionally or physically abusive?  When there are deeper impending issues, and when the man's loneliness is not being properly filled, THAT is when he commits adultery.  When a man is brought into a state of grief and loathing, or there are issues of idolatry and the unhappiness of souls, it is a much more legitimate reason to get divorced than simply adultery (which of course can be a path that unhappiness leads a spouse).   

Jesus on divorce says: "Therefore, what God has joined together, let man not separate" (Matt19:6, NIV).  But who says that your marriage was actually brought together by God?  God is merely a witness at your ceremony, not necessarily the one who joined you two.  Why should man try to keep together what God didn't even join in the first place?  In keeping with the character of God, if your marriage brings about more hatred than peace, it is not of Him.  When your marriage upholds peace and love, that is when God is in it and when God has joined the two.  In fact, by living in a situation where the relationship cannot be remedied, a failing marriage will affect the rest of your relationships, especially that with God.  Milton asks:

Where can be the peace and love which must invite God to such a house?  May it not be feared that the not divorcing of such a helpless disagreement will be the divorcing of God finally from such a place?  But it is a trial of our patience, they say: I grant it; but which of Job's afflictions were sent him with that law that he might not use means to remove any of them if he could?  And what if it subvert our patience and our faith too?

By being bound in a marriage that allows sin to enter, the effect is more separation from God, rather than seeking him out together.  But if you remove yourself from a hateful marriage, you allow God to have full reign over your single life once again.

...God prefers the free and cheerful worship of a Christian before the grievous and exacted observance of an unhappy marriage...

In a nation where divorce is 50%, and even higher in the church, it frightens me to even consider marriage.  Just because I may be against ever getting a divorce in favor of working through problems, no matter how hard, doesn't mean that my husband won't leave me without my consent.  After reading Milton's take on this issue (of which I just presented a mere smattering), I am no more willing to divorce, but encouraged to make sure I become the right woman and marry the right man, thus preventing the need to ever separate.

"Hmm...a bar next to a barber...just like the phone book!"

I have often times expressed my love for Anthony Bourdain and have searched the numerous YouTube clips to give my adoring fans a glimpse of this unique man.  I believe this ten minute clip in New Zealand epitomizes Mr. Bourdain.  

It is the best of his being:  his cooking skills, his beer radar, the amazing locals he gets to spend time with in an equally amazing location, his hate for vegetarians and his love for food, and his adrenaline pumping experiences, all backed with his smart-ass commentary peppered with witty word play.

I want to be him.

How I regained my faith at a Caspian show

The beauty of instrumental music is that you're not explicitly told what to think or how to feel.  You can simply close your eyes and formulate your own interpretations while the artists silently guide you through theirs.  There are no lyrics that set the tone of the song, or reveal the thoughts of the creator.  Like a piece of well done, fine art, you can listen to the same song a hundred times and it will speak to you in a multitude of ways depending on your season, your circumstances, and your mantra.  Without words, the song is able to organically flow through you, becoming something deeply personal.

With a band like Caspian, the audience is left with an unanimous reaction: happiness.

While leaving the show Tuesday night, my always encouraging and supportive cousin, Eve, held onto her good friend and guitarist, Phil's forearms in the most endearing way.  Through her frosty breath she praised him for a job well done.  "No matter how many times I see you guys play, I am always left feeling happy.  It takes so much talent to play the type of music you play and not make everyone depressed or longing to kill themselves."  Then, she put into words everything my soul was longing to shout but could not articulate. "You instill a deep rooted joy through your music."

Could it have been that my very own cousin was the answer to my pleading prayers I had lifted up just an hour earlier in the basement of that Middle Eastern restaurant?  It was there that I begged God to give someone else the revelation I was having.  It was there that my faith in Him was restored.

I love going to shows.  I love discovering music that is new to me.  But this was a holy night.

During the first two songs I found myself crammed near the stage with my Stoli Raz and seltzer, bobbing my head, closing my eyes, and swaying with the rest of the crowd to the piercing tunes oozing from Caspian's weapons of choice.  

The music was beautiful.  The notes were so tangible that I could have plucked them out of the air as they swirled around me.  

But then I realized what was really happening.

My eyes were opened. 

God was there.

I found myself being so thankful that God created beautiful things like music and that these boys were thoroughly utilizing the talents He gave them.  Whether they realized it or not, they were honoring Him by creating space for me to worship.  It was space that had always been stifled and occupied by other people's voices.  A space that longed for the expression of my very own heart, uninfluenced by anything but Caspian's instrumental background.

My soul sang a new song to the Lord.  First, I whispered quietly into my cup as I pretended to suck up the icy remains.  But soon enough, propelled by the melody, I was screaming out Jesus' name and singing Him love songs. Since God dwells in the praises of His people, I knew He was present in that space.

It wasn't only the notes swimming through the crowd of six hundred that night; it was the Holy Spirit.  Searching. Touching souls.  Waiting for someone to recognize the ultimate source of her emotion and passion that emerges with the aid of the music.  There is no giant schism between the "secular" and the "sacred."  God shows up in the most unusual of places and displays His glory.  He is so desperately after every one of us that He will use every method to wake us up, realize it's Him, and mutually grasp His heart, (even if it's enjoying loud music with an eclectic mix of people, drink in hand, underneath the aroma of falafel and tabouli).

And that's when I became myself again.  I wanted my revelation and my renewed faith in the one true, everlasting, perfectly good God to be shared with everyone.  Like Abraham bartering with God on the edge of Sodom and Gomorrah, I naturally began interceding for everyone within that room, just like I used to do.  I begged that He would show just ONE person that night where her joy and movement ultimately came from.  How the one that is touching her heart isn't Phil Jamieson and his guitar, but Jesus and his Spirit.  Just one.  

I have faith that He heard my prayers.

And I have faith that is where His heart is.