Healing the Haphazard

New bloggish of sorts.

2009-03-16T09:10:00.001-04:00

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.

2009-03-01T11:03:00.004-05:00

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

2009-02-23T17:07:00.007-05:00

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

2009-02-17T18:40:00.002-05:00

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.

2009-02-16T13:49:00.005-05:00

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

2009-02-15T23:41:00.007-05:00

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!

2009-02-12T12:21:00.003-05:00

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"

2009-02-11T11:39:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-03T12:57:00.005-05:00

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

2009-01-30T20:49:00.006-05:00

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.

2009-01-23T17:37:00.010-05:00

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

2009-01-21T20:41:00.009-05:00

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"

2009-01-18T10:36:00.010-05:00

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!"

2009-01-13T16:42:00.007-05:00

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

2009-01-02T19:03:00.018-05:00

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.

Fog Soup

2008-12-28T10:58:00.012-05:00

Last night I drove home through the thickest fog I've ever been.

I couldn't think of a better metaphor for my life.

My average speed was about 20 mph. There were times when I had to nearly stop, not being able to see 5 feet in front of my car. Other times the fog would completely clear as if the clouds never even imagined kissing the earth, only to be lost in them again 50 feet later.

As Ian McIntosh played through my car speakers, I meditated on the tears I shed and the encouragement I received moments earlier in my best friend's garage. The way he's heard me pray, the way he's seen me grow over these three years. It can't be false, he said. But still, I want more.

Oh to be the person that I was created to be. Completely unabandoned and free. Dancing before the throne of Jesus. Going on a daily adventure. Being confident of His ways. Persevering towards His voice, even in the fog.

The music permeated the soup and comforted me with truths. Ian McIntosh's poem set to music, Adoration, related to me the most.

There is a light that shines within me

There is a hope that burns inside me

Deep within my soul, my very existence

There is a being waiting to be freed

A child who knows no fear pain or rejection

There is an emotion all encompassing of excitement joyfulness gladness and love

The creative potential of laughter and the undeniable power of an infant's joy live inside me

Unmeasurable are my limits for I call You Father

Unimaginable my potential for You have called me son

There is someone inside of me waiting to be unleashed

Whom You embrace, whom I long to be

There is an all consuming fire, a light that permeates from my very being

You have unlocked me God

The doors You open no man can shut

I will praise You for all my days for You are good

You have released me God with Your love

You are everything

Haste, haste, to bring him laud!

2008-12-25T01:00:00.016-05:00

Every year, without fail, my sister and I goof off at the Christmas Eve service. I am surprised our parents have allowed us to sit next to each other all these years, but I see they are beginning to get in on it as well. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em I suppose.

One of our goof off traditions is to laugh while singing "Haste, haste, to bring him laud!" in the sober classic What Child Is This? Several years ago, I decided to stop pretending the word was "lard" and actually looked up "laud" in the dictionary. Basically, as everybody in the world except for me probably knew, laud = praise. Ok, that makes sense, I told myself... but I'm still going to laugh!

Last night my family and I attended the 11:00 service after a fantastic three hour French dining experience. We were more tired than usual, but still willing to be obnoxious in church. Things began normally as we eagerly anticipated the chorus to this beautiful song. We sang it one time through and had our giggles. On the second round, I got punched in the stomach.

"Haste, haste, to bring him laud!"

Translation: "Hurry up and don't wait a single second more to get up and praise Him!" The urgency expressed in this line finally set in after years of giggling through the command. My smile seceded. I wanted to do nothing but dance in the aisles, but the sudden revelation of the meaning of these words kept me stunned in my seat. The fact that everyone was sitting down as they passed communion would have made my sudden spurt a bit inappropriate as well... but I am ashamed now that I passed up the opportunity to dance like David.

I felt anxious and excited for the rest of the night. No, it wasn't because Santa was coming. I could not wait to get back home, close myself in my room, and praise uninhibitedly and void of distractions. I realized that this is my calling - to praise, not only immediately, but also with joy, and I could not wait to get it started. He deserves every ounce of our worship and every molecule of our hearts (Happy Birthday, Jesus!).

As I laid in bed last night, I laughed as I usually do on Christmas Eve. This time it wasn't due to silliness. Instead, my laughter exploded from the joy of being unconditionally loved by my Creator. I fell asleep whispering sweet nothings to Jesus, (which really mean everything to him), wishing I could have stayed awake to bring him laud all night.

All it takes is 3 snow days

2008-12-22T17:18:00.005-05:00

It snowed a lot this weekend. I couldn't really go anywhere. I decided to finally finish the process that I started a year and a half ago when I moved back home after college. Yes, my friends...I gutted my room.

It was a room of transition. I wasn't planning on staying here long since I had big plans for my life. There was no need to unpack. But, after MY plans were put on hold, I decided it was time to settle in, unpack, and say goodbye to certain things. Memories of my past not fitting in with my present were making no room for my future.

I assembled my bookcases, the best Christmas present ever and the motivation of my cleaning spree. Please look at the picture to the right. Now imagine all of those books with no home, scattered throughout my room. You would be ecstatic over a couple of bookcases as well if you saw the previous situation.

In just 3 days I consolidated, threw out one-third of my life, and rearranged furniture. My room is a happier place because of it. The only fear now is that with such a cozy, pleasant room, I'll never want to leave.

Well... that's probably not true.

"What dreams may come..."

2008-12-17T10:08:00.006-05:00

I dream every night. I like it.

Last night I had a dream I was in Rome, and spent the majority of it looking at one of my top 3 favorite sculptures, Michelangelo's Pieta (the other faves are Donatello's David, and Michelangelo's Unfinished Prisoners). I am always blown away by sculptures more so than other works of art, because I have tried to carve something out of a chunk of marble and failed miserably. It would be what my high schoolers call an "epic failure". I have an extremely high respect for anyone who can turn a rock into something beautiful.

The Pieta is in St Peter's Basilica, but is protected by bullet proof glass and set off some ways from the viewers, a necessary nuisance after some crazy man in the 70s went after it with hammer.

But, in my dream, the sculpture was up close and personal. It wasn't protected by anything but a knee-high fence. It looked way different than the actual sculpture, as most dream-like objects do, but I knew it was the Pieta. Mary, instead of sitting upright, was actually lying next to Jesus, a look of agony on her face, holding him close and rocking his limp body. I just stood there for hours, examining every detail.

The amount of love that you could tell she had for him was striking.

I think my dream was a calling to embrace him the same way. Clinging to Jesus with everything in my soul. But, fortunately, we don't have to hold onto a cold, dead, body, but can embrace the living, risen God as he warmly embraces us back.

"Is it possible to feel enriched and hollowed out at the same time?"

2008-12-13T19:02:00.008-05:00

Anthony Bourdain is one of my favorite people of all time, and he became even more so after he made this remark upon leaving Malaysia. He had just experienced Malay culture to the full: discovering the food, getting a traditional tattoo, spending time in the jungle, killing a pig with a spear as is custom for guests to do, and making the most intriguing friends amidst the language barrier.

The network sent a helicopter to airlift him out of the jungle, an exit he was not proud of. As he was leaving, he didn't feel quite right. He knew that although he may not belong in Malaysia, he definitely didn't belong in New York anymore.

I know the feeling.

It's the feeling of a nomad.

Anthony Bourdain lives the life I have always dreamed of. He is an extremely eloquent writer, a much experienced cook, and gets to travel wherever the heck he wants to and dive into the local color. He gets to be on TV, smoke, drink and swear ruthlessly. Although an object of my admiration, I am afraid to ever meet him knowing he adamantly hates vegetarians.

But, despite our differences in diet, I have felt like him often; every time I have had to leave somewhere.

It's the feeling of being filled to the brim with the enlightenment your journey has revealed to you, and the emptiness accompanying the end of the chapter. As a changed person, you suddenly don't belong where you used to make your home.

What was once familiar becomes foreign, and what was once foreign becomes familiar.

You become hungry for more. Places you have not explored become your craving. And like a glutton, you can't stop.

Hair on the bathroom sink

2008-12-11T15:51:00.004-05:00

I don't think girls ever grow out of cutting their own bangs.

I had coffee with a friend today who commented on the status of my hair. "Did you get a hair cut?" he asked.

"Nope...I'm actually trying to grow it out."

"Oh...it looks like your bangs are shorter," he responded with an unusually keen eye for a gentleman.

"Oh...well, I cut my own bangs. Maybe that's why."

I don't think I ever cut my bangs as a child, but in my adulthood they have a bi-monthly date with my scissors.

We then recalled the night I met him and his four year old daughter. Her bangs were jagged in the way only a preschooler could chop them. He rolled his eyes and smiled over the antics of his child.

Some things never change about the female species.

Christmas just got a little sillier

2008-12-08T11:37:00.005-05:00

Talk about lifting your holiday spirits! I always knew my Swing Dance training would come in handy, especially when my friends and I want to dress up as elves and go for a little Christmas Charleston-ing!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

I like my Bible how I like my men...dark, artistic, and Swedish.

2008-12-05T10:48:00.020-05:00

Dag Soderberg of Sweden was inspired to create this: Bible Illuminated: The Book New Testament. It is the entire New Testament, in a glossy magazine type finish, chock full of photographs and art depicting the culture that we currently find ourselves in. It's kind of like the Bible transformed into a National Geographic, or high fashion magazine. As Dag describes in his video, sometimes people are ashamed of their Bibles because they make people uncomfortable. But, it should be celebrated, shared, and out in the open for everyone to see. Sweden is a nation nearly void of all God-fearing people, but since the launch of this version, Bible sales have increased by 50%, not to mention that 10% of Stockholm attended The Book launch.

The mission of The Book is as follows:

"Illuminated World seeks to introduce today's audience to a revolutionary contemporary Bible, one that encourages dialogue and is culturally relevant, readily accessible and easily digestible for any reader regardless of religious, economic, racial or social background.

We have no religious agenda and support no specific faith. Bible Illuminated is intended to be a unique vehicle for reacquainting today's reader with one of history's most important texts."

Interesting.

So many people have been hurt by the church, and the "religion" of the church, that the Bible becomes a disgusting object associated with that pain. By getting rid of the uncomfortable stigma associated with the traditional Bible, and actually creating a Bible that is unlike anything else, yet still a Bible nonetheless, people will be attracted to the Word once again. It is a shame, however, that the WORD OF GOD isn't already attractive to many by what it is in and of itself. The Bible will forever remain timeless and relevant to our world, rather than remain an ancient, dead text that many believe it to be. By adding modern artistic interpretations depicting the joys and pain of our culture, the life breathing forth from the words is exemplified.

I think the fact that this Bible wasn't necessarily created by Christians is making many Christians angry. I agree with Paul: "But what does it matter? The important thing is that in every way, whether from false motives or true, Christ is preached. And because of this I rejoice." philippians 1:18 If this gets people who normally would be embarrassed to own a Bible, to read a Bible, then I say it is beneficial.

These angered Christians see the artist's interpretations of some passages as adding to the word of God. They perceive it as a "secularized" (which by the way, I don't believe there is a giant schism between the secular and the sacred), distorted view of Scripture. What then do you make of your study Bible that adds little blurbs within the text on how to apply the verses, and includes all sorts of commentary? Are these not also someone else's interpretations of the Scripture? I would argue that the added thought provoking photographs further prove that the cross of Christ is relevant to every aspect of culture, and every corner of the earth. God works in mysterious ways and I find it a blessing that people who we wouldn't traditionally consider "believers" are able to be touched by the Word of God.

I'll admit, some of the images are disturbing, but we must ask why. Are we disturbed because the images actually provoke anti-biblical principles? Or are we disturbed because we become aware of certain issues we have been ignoring that a picture is able to remind us of? Jesus may be prompting us to be his hands and feet in that area. We are able to play our part in restoration only when we know what it is that is broken. Or are we disturbed because someone's modern, artistic, culturally in-tuned interpretation of a verse might be different from our own? The Word of God is so brilliant and moving that it is in fact able to touch people in different, unique ways, and has done so for millenniums. I believe God's hands are very much in the arts and he speaks volumes through paintings, sculptures and photographs. Occasionally, we have some artistic members of our church present "prophetic paintings" that are able to bring a new spin on Church, drawing every aspect of culture and gifts into the body.

Nevertheless, it is important to hold fast to the words held in The Book, which of course is the Bible we know and love. The text shouldn't be compromised for the captivating photographs adjacent to it, but it should be approached with prayer and discernment. Prayer for your eyes to be illuminated by the words, first and foremost, and then to the artistic interpretation. Discernment as to whether the interpretation is valid, and what you should do about it, if anything.

Celestial beings...and things.

2008-12-02T17:50:00.005-05:00

If I were an astrologer, I would probably be freaking out right now. The sky was incredible last night. After an amazing sunset that I watched from my Panera window, the moon appeared looking rather sharp (literally, it looked like a tiger claw just waiting to be plucked from the sky to pop some child's balloon). Next to the moon were two really bright stars that made our celestial ceiling look almost like an alternative interpretation of the Turkish communist flag. But lo and behold, they were not stars, but some planets! Jupiter and Venus, I presume. This view will not be seen again until 2050 something. Lucky me!

Furthermore, this is on the BBC News homepage today. No worries, people. The UN will soon remember the great resource our planet has in Bruce Willis. He'll take care of that meteor!

Our skies will soon be able to rest.

Heroin legalized in Switzerland.

2008-11-30T12:35:00.004-05:00

Go ahead and watch this news video.

I have mixed feelings.

I have seen the effects that heroin has on good friends and it is nothing less of debilitating and destructive towards everything that gets in the addicts path. I'm not sure even the "stability" these heroin clinics provide are able to heal broken relationships and lives that the drug causes.

The drug culture seems to be a bit different in Switzerland than the US, but I'm still not sure this is the way to go about dealing with addicts, especially since these clinics have been around for ten years, with not much progress in recovery.

Thoughts?

I am falling in love

2008-11-27T20:09:00.007-05:00

In the words of Will Ferrell: "I'm in love! I'm in love! And I don't care who knows it!"

I never thought I would say this. I never imagined I would become so enamored with this person, so swept away in his wooing words and his immense passion. People told me I would fall in love with him, but I didn't take heed. I to

ok their encouragement as a far off dream. "This could never happen to me," I convinced myself. "I will never have the love they do!"

But I am drowning in the ocean of his expressed feelings.

I am proud.

I want to scream it from the top of my lungs and the depths of my soul!

I LOVE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE!

I've cried... in public... while reading soliloquies, at the death of characters I have become fond of, when I realize my own nature in certain persons, and even at the sheer genius of his use of language. Wow. Even though I am aware of the plots and outcome of every play before I dive into the text, the suspense and intensity he creates forces me to remind myself to breathe.

How dare anybody ever turn the man I love into a cliche. "To be or not to be"... Just a common household phrase!? Nay, Shakespeare was nothing less of phenomenal. Do you realize the profoundness of this statement within the context of the rest of Hamlet's life!? His turmoil!? The brilliance of his speech!? I implore you all to read it and find out!

Fall in love for yourselves. It will not be love wasted.

...plus, he's a hottie.

Just call me Mary

2008-11-27T19:52:00.005-05:00

In college I went through a book with a girlfriend; Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World by Joanna Weaver. It was decent and definitely worth the read, and it instigated attempts at becoming more laid back, resting in God's presence, and not always having to be a do-er.

What I realized today during our Thanksgiving feast is that I am a Mary. I don't think I ever was a Martha, but alas, I got caught up with the trendy reads. Sitting in the dining room with my brilliantly cultured uncle and his European, fellow vegetarian wife, drinking four different types of wine throughout the evening and speaking on topics from European culture, to literature, and the newest happenings in Greenwich Village appeals to me more than standing over a hot stove with my grandmother, mother, and sister, butchering the turkey with a thirty year old carving knife.

Usually my hands are more useful in the creation of side dishes and baked goods, but this Thanksgiving I cooked nothing. Actually, I nearly vomited this morning when I walked in on my mother with her hand underneath the turkey skin rubbing it with spices, in what looked like something out of Silence of the Lambs.

I have completely migrated to one end of the spectrum. Not that my Mary-heart has made me complacent and unmotivated to do God's work and serve others, but I would much rather be driving around aimlessly in my car singing praise at the top of my lungs, than washing dishes after a church dinner. I am not unwilling to do these things, but I find pleasure in spending time with people and just resting.

Is this bad? Is this balanced? Thoughts?

On a side note, it might not be such a bad idea to revert back to how Thanksgiving was once celebrated; with fasting and prayer.

Gettin' all Christina Aguilera up in this joint!

2008-11-24T17:36:00.004-05:00

...I'm gonna tell ya what a girl wants.

Perhaps I AM a words of affirmation kind of girl. In reality, I think every girl desires to be loved with every love language, but I am just now discovering how much I love words.

An old friend called me a "jewel" this weekend. It was nice. It was reassuring. It was a big ol' boost to my confidence!

I can't help but think about what I was doing a year ago today. I was coasting into a beautiful summer in Durban, daily losing power over the hectic evening thunderstorms, and the government mandated neighborhood power cuts. I was learning how to teach English to French speaking Central African refugees during the week and learning how to surf on weekends. I was spending my days with an eclectic mix of fellow students, and my evenings with the most incredible Church family I have ever been a part of.

I still remember my last night in Durban. After laughing like crazy over cookies and pterodactyls at Pippa's, we headed to Spiga's for some late night dinner... and laughed some more. When it came time to say goodbye, I was given a multitude of hugs and even a few gifts. But, the waterworks didn't start until a dear friend of mine hugged me forever and said, "You are a precious legend." (For the record, it took over a year to reach "legend" status amongst my Americanized South African friends, and only a month and a half for those who didn't fly the coop... what's up with that!?).

Anyway, the point is as follows: Girls like to be affirmed. It doesn't matter if it is a romantic situation or not! They like to be told nice things and cared about through words.

That's all. Just another realization I had this past weekend.

If grace is an ocean, we're all sinking.

2008-11-20T22:54:00.003-05:00

Someone prayed for me tonight. I didn't want it. But they did anyway. Turns out I needed it.

It's so hard to ignore the insignificant thoughts. To focus on the things I know to be truth and the unchanging things that matter.

I still have unanswered questions. But, for the moment grace is surpassing them all.

It's comforting, but also a bit scary, to find out that some friends of yours have been going through the same exact thing and have been entertaining the same exact thoughts.

Jesus is up to something and those against him are not happy.

I heart Hezekiah

2008-11-17T12:50:00.004-05:00

History is not my favorite subject and I have dreaded ever reading through 1 and 2 Chronicles again. About two years ago I was trekking through my one year Bible and actually skipped over a majority of these two books. When I reached the end, I felt guilty and ended up reading them, but with lusterless passion and multiple unintentional naps.

Last night I had quite a different experience that may have restored a love for the Chronicles. I read the account of King Hezekiah in 2 Chronicles 29-31. Wow. Talk about a leader who is bold! His desire was for God's chosen people to return to their first love. He was full on struck by God's heart. Some of his actions were very reminiscent of my own experiences in Israel... for example, removing Asherah poles. Other actions were concepts I never even dreamed could happen.

At the time of his reign, Passover hadn't been properly celebrated in years due to a lack of consecrated priests, and the people's lack of desire to join in community in Jerusalem for the feast (kind of like my former lack of desire to read about it!). So what does he do? Why he crafts a letter and sends it out to everybody inviting them to the party! What surprised me was his lack of hesitancy:

People of Israel, return to the Lord, the God of Abraham Isaac and Israel, that he may return to you who are left, who have escaped from the hand of the kings of Assyria. Do not be like your fathers and brothers, who were unfaithful to the LORD, the God of their fathers, so that he made them an object of horror, as you see. Do not be stiff-necked, as your fathers were; submit to the LORD. Come to the sanctuary, which he has consecrated forever. If you return to the LORD, then your brothers and your children will be shown compassion by their captors and will come back to this land, for the LORD your God is gracious and compassionate, He will not turn his face from you if you return to him (2 Chronicles 30:6-9, NIV).

He's calling the prodigals home and gets mocked by the population for doing so. Nevertheless, some men of various tribes and what seems like most of Judah united in this cause and humbly went to Jerusalem.

What if our political leaders sent out a letter like this?

How about it, Barack? Are you willing to be mocked by the mass population for standing up for the beliefs you have claimed and implore America to return to the LORD?

When I went to the polls, I made the commitment to pray throughout the whole term of our next president. To pray that he would be completely transformed by the power of the cross and help guide our nation in the characteristics of Christ. Maybe a public decree like Hezekiah's is not what God has called Obama to do, and I can live with that.

It would be nice to have a leader like Hezekiah, "doing what was good and right and faithful before the LORD his God. In everything that he undertook in the service of God's temple and in obedience to the law and the commands, he sought his God and worked wholeheartedly. And so he prospered" (2 Chronicles 31:20-21, NIV).

With or without the support of our government, a renewal is coming. There is something in the air and the stakes are high. I can feel it.

Promise me I won't crash when you make me cry on my drive home, Jesus.

2008-11-16T01:16:00.004-05:00

When you've just endured the hardest week spiritually in the past year and a half, sometimes all it takes is a good cry in the car to wash away all of the tension suspending between you and God.

Sometimes it takes one other person to confirm the spiritual warfare in the air, all hinging on the implications of having 7,000 people coming to a Christian concert. A Christian concert where you are one of 50 prayer warriors. A Christian concert that the devil would just love to plague will all sorts of hindrances to the Gospel of peace.

Sometimes it takes meeting inspiring people. People like men in their twenties... the most joyful, kind men you have ever met... men who have taken the Franciscan vows of poverty, chastity and obedience... men who spend time in community with each other, donning their traditional habits, radically devoted to God and serving the poor. Or people like middle aged men who have taken the Nazarite vow... separating themselves as holy, and publicly declaring it through their long locks.

Sometimes it takes watching nearly half a stadium stand up to either recommit their lives to Christ, or do so for the first time. Sometimes it takes those chills, the shaking hands, the butterflies.

Sometimes it takes a flood of people approaching you to stand beside them in prayer and intercede on their behalf. Sometimes you need to be completely overwhelmed and incompetent in serving so many needs in prayer. Most of the time that's when God is the strongest.

Sometimes it takes having a glimpse of heaven... seeing thousands of people lift their hands, dance and shout in worship... all ages, all genders, all races. Sometimes you need that out of body experience, where you lose grips with reality for a moment and ask yourself how you have been living.

Then when you sit down in your car after being on your feet ministering in prayer for seven hours you let the weariness hit you. You let the doubts and the conversations that have run you around in circles all week fade away. You let the pouring rain and the perfect song minister to you. And you cry. And you feel like you again.

And you let God say to you "Where can [you] go from [my] Spirit? Where can [you] flee from [my] presence? If [you] go up to the heavens, [I am] there; if [you] make [your] bed in the depths, [I am] there" (Psalm 139:7-8, NIV, pronouns changed).

This is definitely not the end of the journey, the end of the questioning, or the end of the seeking for answers. It is a renewal of God's patience over your life. A renewal of the promise that He is always there, no matter how far away you feel. A renewal of his love that catches every tear and rocks you to sleep whispering "I love you... I love you.... I love you"... just like the perfect, tender father that he is.

And you are assured that He is victorious. And you can finally rest. And you are still. And you know that He is God.

I wish some fictional characters were real... and my friends.

2008-11-13T11:05:00.007-05:00

You know you are a nerd when you thrive off of the local library's bi-annual booksale and the one gift you want for Christmas this year is a bookshelf (perhaps not as nerdy as my desire for years to have an overhead projector... but that is for another time). You know you are a bigger nerd when your excitement busts through the windows when your mother tells you she was already planning on giving you said bookshelf (even if it is just to clean up your room because there are literally books stacked in every corner... you should see it... I could build a fort!).

A year ago, the high school English department head (yes, the same woman who sparked the infamous political fiasco in the work room from my earlier post) asked me what my favorite part about reading was. At that point, I was completely dumfounded... and just plain old dumb. Everyone knows I love to read, but no one has ever asked me why. I made up some bull-crud about how I like to be transported to the author's world and yada yada. Although true, that question has lingered and the answer has matured.

Over the past four months as I have re-entered college and begun to tackle a book list of 50+ masterpieces that every English teacher needs to be well-versed in, I am finding that over and over again, these author's are able to tap into the core of human nature. The ability to reveal such things so eloquently, and the realization that there really "is nothing new under the sun" (thanks Solomon!) is fascinating. The way a slew of words written centuries ago continues to speak to my inner-being makes me chuckle. This is my favorite part about reading.

I found myself literally crying over the death of one of Steinbeck's characters who felt like my own grandfather (with an Irish farmer twist), and yelled at Edith Warton's weak male characters (because her females who were discovering what love is wouldn't do it themselves). This is what makes reading so good. The intricacies and reality of human behavior and emotions are embodied and eternalized in the written word.

Currently I am drudging through one of Shakespeare's lesser known plays, Coriolanus. It is not my favorite, but majestic nonetheless.

Coriolanus is basically this Roman war hero who is a huge a-hole and ends up being a traitor to his people. After he is banished, his lunatic of a mother approaches the men who exiled him, proclaiming that it was wrong to banish a man whose wounds he accumulated for Rome spoke louder than his words against Rome.

The tribune replied:

"I would he had continued to his country

As he began, and not unknit himself

The noble knot he made." (Act 4 scene 2 line 30-32)

Coriolanus was a noble Roman. He was a loyal Roman in regards to his service on the battlefield in protecting his fellow citizens. The people looked upon him with much respect, knowing not his heart. But when he spoke as he did and showed his true feelings to Rome, all loyalty was broken.

Acting upon the love you profess is necessary (oh how I know the hurts of someone who is all talk and no action). What is less talked about in the Church is that you can't just do things without love. Coriolanus is guilty as charged. He desired to unify, build up and fight for Rome, but he loved not the Romans. In fact, his character showed him to be a proud man, unwilling to apologize and humble himself for his wrongs.

What of us? When we use our spiritual gifts, are they backed with love? When we attempt to edify our Church, is love the underlying bedrock? When we feed the poor, do we do it in love, or in pride? If our words left our hearts and went immediately to our tongues without the filter of the mind, what would it say? Would our heart scream of love for others and love for God, or would it proclaim solely love for self?

Are we all a bunch of CoriolANUSes (pun intended), acting in pride and raising ourselves above others? Or are we acting as the image of God, remaining loyal in both heart and deed to the one who created us, and the others he created?

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing" 1 Corinthians 13:1-3, NIV.

This isn't rocket science. It's just a realization I had today. I suppose this is yet another facet of the wonderful call to "integrity" that we are given.

Follow the bouncing head... of Jesus!?

2008-11-09T10:41:00.006-05:00

Pastors and elders have the responsibility of discerning between whether a word or a vision is for the whole Church, or just for that individual person. During a service one day, a young man approached James Levesque in order to share what he was seeing.

"I'm having a vision... I can see Jesus' head... and it's floating and bouncing around the room."

James internally said, "Ya ya... that's great... go have a seat buddy," gave him a "Thank you, God bless you" and brushed the young man back to the direction of his friends.

After taking a few steps, the young man turned around.

"Well... don't you want to know what he's saying?"

"Sure, humor me," James thought. "Sure, tell me," James said.

"Well... I see Jesus' head floating over us crying, 'I WANT MY BODY BACK! I WANT MY BODY BACK!'"

Woah.

It's time for us to cease stopping at false finish lines and camping out on one aspect of Christ... one gift.. one verse... one promise... This only causes division and denominations. We need ALL of him. If we were as desperate for Jesus as he is for us, we would be satisfied... and unified. It's time to give Jesus his BODY back.

thoughts??

*These jewels were taken from James Levesque's talk at New England Aflame on November 8th at Gateway Church*

Baskerville

2008-11-07T15:37:00.012-05:00

Digging his head deeper into the refrigerator, Tim pushed aside the relish and the expired yogurt. "What do you want in your coffee? I have a little bit of milk left... sugar... and some of that hazelnut cream stuff if I can find it...but who knows with these roommates of mine."

Mary craned her neck around the corner into the kitchen.

"Oh that's alright. I'm fine with just a little bit of milk...no sugar. I'm a pretty plain and simple girl."

Tim made the coffee concoctions and joined Mary on the torn sage couch that once made its home in his Dad's house since before he was even out of diapers. He handed Mary the oversized mug and she thanked him. Eleven years ago, Tim kissed his first girl on that couch; a spunky, freckle-nosed brunette with two long braids hanging over her shoulders. He had kissed her spontaneously after watching one of those ooshy-gooshy movies that girls her age like, and she proceeded to wipe the kiss from her lips, expressing her disgust.

Now, he looked at the woman sitting next to him on that couch and could not believe a girl like her had never cringed at his kisses. Mary turned her body to face him, her elbows resting upon her knees, one hand twirling her sun-kissed locks. Her hair never needed much maintenance. It was always messy, but beautiful that way. Her other hand lifted her mug to her lips until she had to let go of her hair to assist in supporting the weight. For a moment, they sipped in silence.

"I don't know ... I don't think you're a plain and simple girl...I think..."

He had already told Mary he loved her and she had received it, to his surprise, with much gratitude and reciprocity. The fear that the vision in front of him was exactly that - just a vision - caused him to brush his fingertips over the tattoo on his forearm as he always did when he got nervous. Mary, attuned to his behavior after their months spent together, followed his fingers with her eyes that morphed to the color of the couch. She waited anxiously for what he would say next. He searched for the words. How could he ever describe this woman who wore old hand-me-downs yet looked like a beauty queen, who expressed herself in the most extravagant paintings and was always up for a last minute hike without a map, or for an afternoon of sitting in the garden with a good book. And out it came...

"...you're a total Baskerville."

He looked up at her just in time to watch her eyebrows go from a height of anticipation, to the depths of confusion.

"Baskerville? What does that mean?"

He couldn't find the strength to explain, afraid that she would vanish as soon as he verbalized his feelings. He touched his tattoo again and hoped she could discover his hidden meaning without him having to use his own words.

"Look it up."

The corners of her lips turned up with the prospect of an adventure within this puzzle. The gigantic coffee mug soon hid her face so all Tim could see was her eyes smiling at him from above the brim. He chuckled at how he ever let a girl make him stumble over his words, but was pleased nonetheless.

After a day of treasure hunting through numerous internet search engines with no pot of gold in sight, Mary approached Tim, who sat with a book in his hand by the weeping willow next to the pond. She stood over him, the sun on her back turning her into a silhouette wrapped in a halo of light. Tim stared at the angelic figure in front of him. Her voice, laced with frustration, broke the silence of his dreaming.

"Ok, so I looked it up and all I could come up with is that Baskerville is a font!"

She crouched down opposite him allowing the sun rays to flood in and warm his body once more. He loved her at every angle.

"It is a font," he assured her.

While laying his book at his side, he tucked a piece of her unruly hair behind her ear, taking his time so he could touch her as long as possible.

"Sooo... you think I'm a font...?"

One eyebrow lifted as she demanded a reason.

"Well... kind of. We learned about Baskerville in one of my computer classes. This guy in the 1700s, or something like that, dedicated practically his entire life perfecting this font of his. When you look at Baskerville, it looks like your everyday, simple, run of the mill font. But, when you look deeper, you see how perfect it is... the proportions, the serifs, how refined it is. It is the perfect font."

Mary's face softened and she felt warmth coming from behind her eyes.

Tim continued. "Ya... And this was during the printing press days where they had to use those stamps, ya know, on that big machine. Quite the tedious process. Well, this guy, so treasured his font that he rarely printed anything with it, afraid the letters would become damaged, since all the stamps became worn with use. And when he would use his font, he dipped the letters in an ink of pure gold... well, that's what they say at least."

Mary's face scrunched, trying to allow her sincere, touched smile win the battle against the tears that came forth. She leaned in and kissed him. Her eyes, now the color of the weeping willow fighting the spring breeze behind them, trickled tears down Tim's cheeks. Without wiping them from his face, he allowed them to soak into his skin, wishing he could write her a book filled with his adoration.

*Based on a true story ... unfortunately, not my own ... sigh*

Integrity For Beginners

2008-11-04T21:01:00.005-05:00

"What if every Christ follower on the planet was a man or woman of total integrity? It would change the world." This conversation starter gave me chills last night.

Integrity has always been a difficult concept for me to grasp. In college, it was the dudes who focused on the "warrior-like men of integrity" issue while the chicks were busy trying to not think about those dudes and guard their hearts. However, integrity is a characteristic that needs to infiltrate not only the 20-something males in colleges that have a 65/35 girl to guy ratio, but Christ followers as a whole, regardless of age, gender, or location.

Think about what came directly from Jesus' mouth:

"Again, you have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not break your oath; but keep the oaths you have made to the Lord.' But I tell you, Do not swear at all ... Simply let your 'Yes' be 'Yes', and your 'No,' 'No'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one" (Matthew 5:33-34, 37, NIV).

That is profound. What if every Christ follower was a man of his word? What if we never said anything we didn't mean? What if we acted upon the things we've said? What if when we tell a friend "I'll pray for you", we actually did it? There would be no need to make promises and oaths, for we would all be naturally trustworthy men and women of our word.

The face of the planet would be transformed if Christ followers everywhere actually followed Christ in one of his most noble traits. What would happen if every Christian held onto the conviction of integrity, not for integrity's sake, but for the glory of God and the love of our neighbors?

Pieces of heaven. Restoration. Souls awakening to the kingdom among us. Freedom. Unconditional love. Joy.

'Twas the Night Before Election Day...

2008-11-03T22:44:00.006-05:00

Here I am on Election Day Eve, STILL undecided on who I am going to vote for tomorrow. Honestly, I'm a moderate. There's things I agree with and disagree with for every candidate. What's a girl to do? Jesus is going to have to strike me with some firm convictions tomorrow for me to even be motivated enough to drag myself to the polls before work.

While sitting in the English workroom during free periods, certain conversations tend to distract me from whatever book I find myself entranced (today it was East of Eden by John Steinbeck...highly recommended, but besides the point). Just as Cathy was about to shoot Adam, I heard my name. "Cassie, you're voting tomorrow, right?!" It was the department head - an older, distinguished woman with the hint of a British accent who is as proper as they come until politics is on her tongue. I didn't know what I was getting myself into by answering the question honestly.

"Well," I said, "I still don't know who I'm voting for, if I were to vote."

Books were slammed shut, laptops were closed abruptly, chairs were swiveled towards me, glasses were taken off and doors were flung open as a mob of angry English teachers seemed to simultaneously direct towards me an "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" This mutinous group of once quiet spirited individuals completely ignored any form of "taking turns" and "not raising your voice" that I'm sure they strictly enforce in their classrooms, and began to tell me all the reasons why I need to vote for one candidate, and why it would be idiotic to vote for the other candidate.

After about a minute of unsuccessfully comprehending or retaining a word that was thrown at me from every direction, I threw my hands up in the air, waved them over my head and yelled, ensuring that this certain school district will never hire me as a member of the full time staff (That's probably not true. They love me there. Not only am I an alum to that school, but a cat sitter as well). After the storm quieted and the attacks were redirected towards banter among themselves, I did have a nice chat with one teacher about her beliefs. Nevertheless, this "advice" has left me in the same spot, if not more confused than when I walked in the building that day.

I have come to a conclusion, and it is this: Whoever wins tomorrow, despite my vote, I will pray throughout his term as president. We can't really change the world with one little vote. And honestly, my one little opinion isn't going to change any president's mind. What will change the world is the prayers of the saints. That's what's going to make history.

"if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land" (2 Chronicles 7:14, NIV).

Wowzers...first post!

2008-11-03T15:13:00.002-05:00

After years of not really wanting other people to read what I wrote, I am hoping and praying that starting this blog will boost my confidence in my expression and communication skills, especially in the written word.

If I am aspiring to be an English teacher, I need to know my stuff, don't I? I will not follow the old adage, "Those who can't do, teach." That's dumb. Why would you want to be taught by someone who doesn't know what they're doing? Yes, through the help of this very blog, by the time I teach, I WILL be an expert writer and therefore, I WILL motivate my students to desire to be expert writers and critics of literature as well, and they WILL wait anxiously through the mundane periods of the school-day until they enter my classroom where they WILL be filled with the joys of the written word. Yes, that is exactly how it is going to play out.

I suppose some ground rules need to be laid out. Although I've probably broken them already in the 100 words you see above, as well as the ones you are about to read...

(1) I will not use this space as a journal. I have my journal, and my journal is full of the most random, disconnected, helter-skelter (yes, I used a thesaurus for this) ideas anyone could ever put on paper. I laugh at myself when I reflect on the years gone past and how I perceived them. I am also amazed at how much I have grown in the past five years, and what an idiot I was during the majority of that time. I do not want you to think I am an idiot (trust me, I already know), so therefore, there shall be no rambling. Moving on before I ramble...

(2) I will be specific and to the point to the best of my ability. One topic per post. Oh, come Lord Jesus!

(3) Personal struggles will be kept to a minimum...also very connected to my previous thoughts...also what my mental case of a journal is for...and also some things just need to be kept to that exclusive audience. Although my own opinions will be expressed, I will attempt (keyword here) to pick topics based on society, literature, what it means to follow Christ, things I observe etc. that will hopefully interest you.

(4) Umm...number 4....hmm...how about...I will be open to constructive criticism. That's a good number 4. Once again, I want to become a better writer, so criticize away!

(5) I will stop at number 4.

Welcome to my brain. Come with me as I take this journey in healing the haphazard that occupies my mind.