The Plans of a Year

Thinking about the happenings of a year, "A man plans his ways, but the Lord directs his steps," always seems so very true. How many plans I had for this year, so many things I wanted to accomplish, and did not. Or did to some degree, but not as I wanted to.

This post is a little late this year; after writing that first paragraph, it took me a rather busy week or so before I got around to attempting to finish it. 

And it's a little easier to do now.

Because, Lord willing, I know a few things I will be doing this year.

A few things I never would have imagined doing a year ago. A few things I never wanted to do before. And a lot of things I've been waiting to do for a long time.

A year ago, I took a walk to see the first sunrise of the year with my sisters and a friend and we carved our initials-PJAM-in the lookout.

Hours before that, a group gathered at our house to ring in the new year by almost missing when the ball dropped and when it turned midnight, with singing Auld Lang Syne, and sharing our resolutions and ways that God had blessed us that year. Two of my siblings were looking forward to getting married.

In that group, close as it was, I did not voice what I really wanted to happen that year.

And when a friend near where I sat on the gray-blue couch said, with more meaning than I knew, he hoped that he would not die as he moved away, I thought little.

I did not know what his moving would mean to me, nor that a year later, we would be sitting in almost the exact same spot at the exact same time.

And that this time, we'd know that this year, we're getting married.

Our first picture after engagement

I never imagined that the boy who read every post I wrote on my blog-even The Day Outside one-would be the subject of one of them. Or that there was any meaning behind that casual Facebook message last May, "Are you still working on that blogging thing?"

And for a month or so, I still thought nothing of it. Because it was just Parker. Just Parker, our family friend, our brother. 

Parker, my friend.

My beloved.

Didn't expect to say that of him this year, or any other.

This year, as I learn every year, I learn that God's plans are so much better than ours. So different from what we wanted...and yet, somehow exactly what we wanted all along.

This year for the first time in a long time, I have made no sort of list of resolutions or goals. But I have perhaps more plans than ever I have had before. Probably none of them will look exactly as I imagine. But that's okay, because His plans for my year are "far beyond anything I could ask or imagine."

Rejecting the Mask

I thought my last post might need some clarification. Or perhaps could use some elaboration. I wanted to be careful to not offend anyone (by offend, I don't mean offend in the usual sense) by telling them what they could figure out. That is a no-no of writing-you don't want to talk down to your readers. You want to give them enough information to draw the conclusions you intend for them to draw (this is something I need to work on...), and yet not explain to them what is quite clear as if they are stupid ignoramuses.

I have discovered I enjoy allegorical writing. I think the meaning of my last one is discernable, but I wanted to say some things that did not fit into the story. And I also didn't want anyone to think I am crazy, depressed, never really happy, or anything like that. It is an allegory.

Yet, in accordance with the warning of this particular allegory, I did not want to share it, because it is true, nevertheless.

Recently I attended a Cru meeting where the speaker, a counselor, discussed this. He started by reading Genesis, where it says, "the man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed."

Can you imagine having nothing to hide? Not being ashamed of anything? No secrets. No ugly parts. No thoughts you won't share.

You can't imagine it. It's like heaven.

If you're married, you might have some idea of what it's like. But even then, you still have fear, shame, things you wish you could hide. Last Sunday, the Sunday school teacher said when he was little, he asked his mom if she wished that they could read each others' minds. When she said no, he thought, "My mom has no imagination!" When he became a teenager, he realized his mom was wise.

What happened as soon as Adam and Eve sinned?

They didn't point fingers. They didn't hide from God. They didn't become angry.

The first thing they did was cover up. The first thing they felt was shame.

Shame, the counselor said, leads to fear. And fear leads to control. When we are ashamed of who we are, we fear someone finding out or rejecting us, and when we fear, that fear controls us.

The teacher turned next to 1 John. I love 1 John. I have read it dozens and dozens of times. Perhaps I will write about my discovery about the verse "He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins" some time. He read chapter 1:5-7.

This is the message which we have heard from Him and declare to you, that God is light and in Him is no darkness at all.  If we say that we have fellowship with Him, and walk in darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth.  But if we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses us from all sin.

Normally this is interpreted, as I have done, as darkness/light standing for sin. But that means it says, "If we do not sin as He does not sin...Jesus cleanses us from all sin," which seems odd. He maintained that light stood for truth: "If we walk in the truth as He is in the truth, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses us from all sin."

When we hide the truth from each other, we are kept from fellowship.

He talked about how we all have these masks that we wear. How we put them on, afraid of someone seeing the real us and rejecting it. With these masks on, they can't reject us.

On the other hand, they can't love us either.

At the end of the day, you take off that mask, that mask that others have loved or perhaps rejected, and there you are in your original state. Unrejected. And unloved.

The truth shall set you free.

When something is brought out into the light, its true characteristics are revealed. That's why being open is so hard and frightening and necessary. The first step to correcting a problem is acknowledging that you have it. And sin's foolishness has a way of becoming very clear when you tell-or even consider telling-it in detail to a friend.

Fight the control that fear has over you by choosing not to be ashamed. That is, by walking in the truth, in fellowship.

And the joy of this all?

You have searched me and known me. God knows all. There is nothing about us--no fear, no sin, no sorrow--that He does not know. Though I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there. We have no mask before Him.

And He loves us still, and utterly.

Why Writing Matters

I didn't post anything last month. I haven't written in so long, I'll have to write about writing.

I have a draft on my blog that consists of quotations. Being known as I am to collect quotes, I must clarify. These aren't amusing things I heard someone I know say, but quotations I found that impressed me in some way. Most of them regard writing.

I like reading Jeff Goins. I just added his blog to the ones I follow. He can feel rather self-promoting and redundant. But he always makes me want to write. The majority of his articles can be summed up simply: write what you're passionate about and be confident-admit you're a writer!

Of course, reading about writing always makes me want to write. Which is why I am writing rather than writing a summary of an article. That is not writing. I do not like writing things I am not interested in writing. In other words, something academic. As I am fond of saying, if it needs citations and research, I don't want to write it. Until I get into it, at least, and then if I can grasp some importance in the subject (i.e. relation to real life), I sometimes sort of like it. 

One of my favorite quotes says, 

"Perhaps it would be better not to be a writer, but if you must, then write." - J. B. Priestly

It's a favorite (though admittedly when I use the word "favorite" it's used loosely) because it describes me well. Similarly, 

"You become a writer because you need to become a writer - nothing else." - Grace Paley

Thinking overmuch always makes me need to write. As another of my favorite quotes about writing says, 

"I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker."  - Gwendolyn Brooks

That also describes me well.

You might strongly agree that I am not a talker if you don't know me well. You probably strongly disagree if I know you well. Or perhaps you know me well enough to understand.

I think that is why I like reading Jeff Goins. He recognizes something important. I am a writer. I have things to say. But, speaking takes courage.

And that is something I want. I want to have the courage to say what I really think. The confidence to believe that it's worth saying. As my poetry professor says, a good poet must have a sense of (as my brother would say) hubris. Of self-respect and pride. He takes it a bit farther than I would, saying you must believe that what you have written is the best thing ever written. But there is truth to it.

"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." - Thomas Mann

Although non-writers would mostly disagree, there is something true about that. And maybe it's because the non-writer doesn't care much about what he writes. The reason anything is hard is because you care about it. If you didn't, it wouldn't be hard.

The best things I have written I can enjoy as if someone else had written them. In some cases, I know they are good. And the reason they are is that I was honest. And they were about something I considered important.

To say something you think is important and--even more so--to let other people see that you think it is important--is to be vulnerable.

I'm writing about my writing, and my need to write, but it matters because what I'm really writing about is fear. Fear and love and identity--which means I'm writing about Christ.

The Mind and the Pen

For Christmas I and two of my sisters were given The Young Ladies' Course for Proper Writing by Becky Moorecraft. Each lesson has a lecture, questions, and, perhaps our favorite, writing exercises. So far we've only done two lessons.

The last exercise was interesting: take some publication (I used the workbook) and find at least ten interesting words or phrases in four categories. Then write a short story, poem, three-paragraph essay, blog post, etc. Needless to say, blog post appealed to me.

Gathering the words was fun:

NOUNS:
status quo
innocence
shiver
frailty
oddity
disgust
woe
loveliness
image
vehicle
refinement

VERBS:
tantalize
diminish
infest
distort
pour out
crush
gasp
swell
journey
hone
glean
gambol

MODIFIERS:
graceful
barefaced
ramshackle
poetic
adequate
thick
mere
trippingly
untutored
exceedingly
exact

The last category was the most interesting: phrases or quotations.

"I'm conscious of many people as I write."
"into the jaws of death"
"a reminder of all the choices"
"the mind travels faster than the pen"
"careful interpretation and application"
"putting into it the squirrel as well as the mountain"
"spoken words are slippery"
"I haven't had time to make it shorter" (This was a quote from Blase Pascal, who apologized for writing a long letter, saying he didn't have time to make it shorter. I immediately delighted in this quote. I often when writing-such as this very post-feel that it'd be better shorter, but how to explain myself in such a short time? It'd take a lot of thought.)
"compensating merit"
"fashioned as for the palace" (a quote from Solomon, I believe)
"my portion, rich and full" (another Bible quotation)

After scanning these words, what is your overall impression or thought? Mine was clear, and I knew I would be writing about writing and posting it here. This is what I wrote.


The Mind and The Pen

The mind travels faster than the pen. At least the unfiltered images that swell in my mind press against the tip of my dull pencil as they attempt to pour out onto the lines of my notebook. It's the vehicle for refining my thoughts, for crafting untutored ideas into exact and graceful flow, for honing the oddities into acceptable propositions. 

I'm conscious of many people as I write. Mere need to express is tantalizing to me, but words are slippery. Which have compensating merit to be taken from the barefaced frailty that infests my mind and tutored into poetic loveliness? What is adequate and worthy of being fashioned in the palace style? Considering the unfiltered impulses that gambol through my thoughts, unique and far from status quo, I am reminded of all the choices, of the exceedingly vast journeys that I might probe with my pen. Which is one from which others might glean some benefit, to find our time profitably spent? This requires careful interpretation. 

Mostly my musings remain rather ramshackle; though I attempt to put in the squirrel as well as the mountain, yet not distort my thought or disgust the reader, the journey is often too tedious for others to take after me. So I sometimes gambol alone, for I haven't had time to make it shorter.

This reminds me of an assignment for the poetry writing class I am taking this semester. We had to write an "Ars Poetica," a poem about poetry. By "had" I mean that that was what we learned about that week. Poetry being what it is, we aren't really required to follow the assignments given each week.

I almost didn't, because I knew what I wanted to write about (the drive to write poetry in order to understand my own thoughts), and I had some ideas of what to write (for example, explicitly what I meant, something like the essay above, and some ideas for a metaphor), but nothing was inspiring.

Then the idea of a pit of snakes came to mind, and I decided to pursue it. I wasn't excited about it until I was well into it.

Organizing Thoughts by Poem

The rocky dirt cuts at my hands
as I scoot close to the sharp edge
like an army-crawling soldier.
Peering down at the neon colors
weaving in and out like a living rug,
I realize I’ve avoided my task for too long.
I must get these serpents in order
before they multiply enough
to escape the dark hole they inhabit.
Struggling to lift my cold iron tongs,
I extend my arm deep into the abyss.
The muscles in my calves tighten
and my toes, digging into the ground, ache.
My eyes squeeze shut
as with both hands I close the tong’s jaws
around the closest snake,
waving its head at me like an enemy flag.
Pushing up digs my elbows into the sandy gravel,
driving stones into my skin like a million BBs.

I shudder at the almond-shaped pupil,
reminding me of Quasimodo, my yellow-eyed cat.
I shrink from its squarish face,
reminding me of a Chinese dragon.
Moving the tongs to one hand, with the other
I grasp the clear plastic storage box,
Pulling it towards me and stuffing in the vibrating snake.
I slap down the lid and latch on both handles
lest it nose its way out.
The hissing creature squirms,
but now I clearly see its body through the plastic:
Jonny green and taxi yellow,
White scales along its back like lightning bolts,
holes like gills above its bloody red dragon mouth.
I glance from the caged creature
to the tangled mass below.
One set,
twenty-one thousand to go.

Again extending my arm against the rough wall,
I am startled by a face rising
like a gray Loch Ness monster.
With eyes darting about as if searching
for flesh in which to sink its thick round teeth,
it is already tasting the air with its tongue,
both shiny black like oil.
With tongs quivering in my hand,
I nudge the smooth head towards the plastic walls
waiting like an empty cell.
Silently the creature dives in,
rippling over the box’s edge
and coiling at the bottom as if it belonged there.
Tongs clattering to the ground, I slap down the lid,
click on the handles, and swivel against the box,
heart pounding, fingers resting in the dust.
Two done,
twenty-one thousand to go.

What do you think? Can you tell what I'm doing with it? Some people can and some people have to have it explained.

Sorry for the length, but "I hadn't time to make it shorter."

Planning My Time

I have made it my practice since starting this blog to write a New Year's Eve post. I am a little late this year, but here it is. There are many ways that I could write this, many different things that I could focus on, many ideas running through my mind. The summary of any one month this past year could have material enough for several posts.

Early on New Year's Day morning in another of our 3:30 am conversations, Rebekah and I were discussing how a year ago we never would have imagined things being as they are now and wondering what it will be like a year from now. This year has been full of changes for the Beerbower family. A year ago, none of us had been in a relationship, and next year, we'll have two weddings. That alone is change a' plenty. Six months ago when my siblings started dating seems like a long time ago. Something I've thought about frequently the past year is that although time seems to go increasingly fast, a great many things can happen in a short time.

There are many things that I want to accomplish this year. I made a long list of things I want to do and learn. Not all shall be accomplished, but as we said early on New Year's Day when we went around, sharing a New Year's Resolution (or something we wanted to do this year), "without a plan the people perish," and as Ben is fond of saying, "Anything worth doing is worth doing badly."

We had an enjoyable group of my immediate family and some delightful friends, and some almost-family. Before we did resolutions, everyone was compelled to say something that they did last year that was big or they really enjoyed. There was quite a variety from our group, ranging from four "got engaged" to lost a tooth and growing a new one (Kristen :-) to an epic vacation to got a book published. Then I suggested we share resolutions. These were also varied, ranging from getting married to not dying to graduating from college to becoming more musical to writing another book to accomplishing everyone else's resolutions (we made Chris change that...) to buying new socks to reading more books.

That was mine, one of my 30-some goals for the year. I started a list on which I will write any book I think of that I desire to read, and I will also keep a list of books I have completed. Thus I hopefully shall get more read. In addition, I hope to keep a reading journal about the books I read to aid in remembering and pondering what I read.

Once again, I have several goals regarding prayer. For a number of years the Holy Spirit has been drawing me to become faithful in this. I have gone through phases, but in general I haven't been very consistent or faithful. One way I am planning to accomplish this is by studying A Call to Spiritual Reformation: Priorities from Paul and His Prayers by D. A. Carson, a book that I started last year and have found very helpful, and Wrestling Prayer, by Eric Ludy, of which I can say the same. I reread the first several chapters of the first one, and my goal for this month is to apply one suggestion he has, which is to read the prayers of Paul (printed in the book) every day and see how that transforms my prayers.

There are a number of accomplishments on my list, such as finish writing a book, do a sewing project, finish Ryan and Grace's scrapbook, get my driver's license, find a way to get income (taking pictures or something like that or get a job), learn to cook different things, begin a letter-writing correspondence, complete the proper writing course that we got for Christmas.

Some are a little less definitive and concrete, such as building relationships with some younger girls, learn to study the Bible on my own (using How to Study the Bible by Kay Arthur, another leftover project from last year), memorize more, learn to take more initiative, develop photography skills, organize my clothes and desk, control computer time and free time.

Actually, learning to make the most of the time is a main reason that I made this list. It's something that I've considered this year. It's something that you think about when you have the last Christmas night and morning as a family with all its members you will probably ever have. It's something you think about when you realize that in just over four months, for the first time one of your siblings will not live at home. That in a year, two will not be around in the day-to-day happenings but rather come for visits. When you realize that what has occupied a good portion of many evenings, a visit from your sister's boyfriend or fiancee late into the evening, soon won't be so regular, when your little sister says about the eldest, "but it was fun having her here, right?", when you realize that this could be the last ride you and your brother have to school together.

None of these things are bad things, and I think I have begun to learn that change is often good. But nothing stays the same; each day progresses a little, and some do a lot. What matters is people, and thus every moment should be treasured and delighted in. To everything there is a season. I realized this past year that I have had time that many people do not have, being very free from much responsibility. Someone told me that he wished he had that time, and to use it and not take it for granted.

Making the most of the time is something that you think about when you lose someone you love. I had forgotten that I started the year thinking about that. It was almost a year ago when I wrote my post after my friend died. 

There isn't time to waste. I don't want to watch movies by myself when I've got a little sister who wants to play a game. Or check Facebook again, when there are books to be read. Or let my thoughts wander, when there are friends who need prayer. Or indulge in sleep when there are words to be written. Or engage in meaningless chatter when there are people who can teach me and people who need encouragement.

The most important thing I have learned--but only begun learning--this year is that Christ is more than sufficient, that I need trust Him, that everything means nothing without Him. It is good to find yourself saying these things, and realize that what you are saying is a cliche, but you didn't say it because it was; rather, you understand why it became one: because it is true. And in a small way, I have experienced it. No, not in a small way. God did it, so it isn't small. But it is beginning

That is what gives me hope for the next year, knowing that the Lord of time is in control and though I will fail to accomplish in this next year all that I wish I would, I know that He will bless my time. A verse that I have been considering recently is, "A man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps."

Too Many Children

We were assigned to write a political narrative poem for my creative writing class. This isn't so bad as it sounds; categories for poetry are pretty flexible. One of the examples he gave of political narrative was a strange, thought-provoking poem about American consumerist culture, and another a poem I found really amusing about rap music, with very apt descriptions (doesn't "a thousand schizophrenic Shakespeares" describe rap perfectly?).

Still, I wasn't inspired. Then I thought doing one about how we always wanted Mom to have more kids might work for political. However, I had a hard time getting it to be narrative. So I started writing about a baby we wanted to adopt once. I liked the idea and incorporated much that I had written for my first idea.

Too Many Children

We called him Joel.

In our minds, he was perfect and adorable.

He was just the right fit for our family.

“Timmy is getting too old,” we complained to Mom.

“We need another baby.”

“Too old?” she asked. “I’m too old.”

“No,” we said. “People have babies even in their 50’s sometimes.

You should have twins. There’ll be more baby to go around.

It’ll be easy now. We can help.”

“You can’t just order twins,” Mom said.

“Or a baby, for that matter.”

We didn’t care.

At church, we jabbered to our friends,

All at least twice our barely double-digit ages,

About the babies.

“Ruth and Naomi will be their names,” my older sister declared,

Flipping her long brown locks behind her thin shoulders.

“Ruth Arlene and Naomi Annabelle,” she added.

Fifteen months older than I, Deanna was a name enthusiast.

“After our grandmothers,” I informed, grinning.

Our audience would smile at us,

And we were too young to notice the raised eyebrows.

The next week, Mom would be stopped by a hand on her shoulder.

“Congratulations! How many is this?”

The questioner would receive a blank look.

“You’re not pregnant?” they’d ask.

Mom would shake her graying head, smiling.

“Your daughters were talking about twins…”

“They’re just talking. Wistful thinking.”

“Oh,” was the reply.

Every birthday, no one told what they wished for.

There was no need—we knew.

Wait for the singing to end.

“Make a wish!” they’d cry.

Shut your eyes tight.

Whisper under your breath.

I wish Mom would have another baby.

Open your eyes.

Blow, long and steady, until you waver,

Forcing out the last bit of breath.

Sometimes all the flames went out, sometimes not.

Would the wish come true?

Babbling little Timmy couldn’t be called a baby any more,

But there was no sign of another one.

“The older you are,” Mom said,

“the more likely you’ll have complications with the pregnancy.”

“We should adopt,” Deanna suggested.

“Yeah!” we all clamored.

“Our house would never pass inspection,” said Mom.

“That’d be fun,” Dad said. “But adoption is expensive.”

They dismissed it, but late at night when we couldn’t hear, they talked.

I don’t know how we found him,

But we called him Joel,

Our choice from Deanna’s piles of library name books.

We gathered around the armoire,

Looking at his information on the computer screen.

He was going to be a little person when he was born.

We had never seen him, but we loved him.

She wasn’t married, but his mom chose to give him life.      

But not to us.

“Why?” we asked. “Why wouldn’t she let us have him?”

“We have too many kids,” Dad said.

“She thought he wouldn’t get enough attention.”

“Enough attention!” we laughed.

With six older siblings, what child would have more?

“That’s not how they think,” Dad explained.

“They think that he won’t have as much time with the parents.”

We did not understand. He would have plenty of attention.

We could help him.

We could reach things for him.

We would love him.

It was not to be. Some other family got him.

A perfect, 2.5 kid family, perhaps.

Or maybe he was an only child,

So that his parents could give him their full attention,

Without half-a-dozen other people to distract them from him.

Without half-a-dozen people to love him,

Or pray for him,

Or be extra hands and legs for his little body,

Or care for him and their parents when they are old.

Our wishes came true, twice more—

Though they weren’t twins,

So we did fight over getting to hold the baby.

We were happy to be blessed with two more siblings,

But sometimes,

We wish there were nine

And think of Joel.

I took some liberties with the story about Joel; I think it was actually after Paul was born when it happened, and of course none of the speech is exact quotation. Other things I also made more specific than I actually knew.

I was interested to hear people's responses when I read it in the workshop. Their remarks weren't entirely unexpected, but I was still somewhat surprised.

They didn't like my use in the second line of "perfect and adorable." They also wanted to know more about the family and what their interactions are like. Someone said it was like a children's book, and another agreed, saying, "Oh, yeah, it's fairy-tale like." A lot of people thought the use of dialogue was unique and worked.

The professor wrote, "It's tough to pull off a poem in 3rd person [I think he means first person plural?] without imposing a definable group voice, but you almost almost almost pull it off." I also found it hilarious when he marked by the part about what we did at birthdays and wrote childhood fertility/baby Ritual!

I originally called it, "The Perfect Family." Most of them didn't like that. One suggested I "reword the title because it is a little contradictory." Of course, I meant it sort of sarcastically, with a double meaning, a satire of what people consider a perfect family. But one guy said bluntly, "I have an aversion to the word perfect."

One girl said that she thought the conclusion was a little judgmental because it's difficult to predict whether Joel received the love he needed. "However, I do not think this was the narrator's intention. Consider revising these lines to help the reader." They are often, especially my professor, concerned about people sounding judgmental.

But the biggest thing, the main question was this: why do they want more kids? Why isn't what they have enough?

"Consider explaining why the family wants another child after six children already." My professor wrote, "big question: why do they want more kids?"

I didn't know how to explain. I didn't understand: why wouldn't you want more kids?

The most interesting and telling critique was from the guy who wrote that he had an aversion to the word perfect. He said:

I philosophically have a difficult time with this poem and it makes it hard for me to read it objectively, but the family in this poem seem to love each other, and you portray it rather eloquently. I think this poem is very well written and in the eyes of the right audience, will be appreciated.

In the eyes of the right audience. I philosophically have a difficult time with this poem.

That was my trouble with many of the critiques I did: philosophically I differed so much with the poem that it was hard to read objectively. (Especially since in my opinion, they ought not to have been read by any audience, nor written to begin with.)

Isn't that fascinating? I found it interesting that he would say that. It's amazing how your worldview affects your thoughts and opinions, even on things you wouldn't think it would (an idea I shall return to if I post my last poem).

It's not simply a Christian worldview, I have come to find out. Even many Christians, and not just marginalized Christians either, do not value children. Let me rephrase that. They value children, because you cannot be a Christian, read and believe Scripture, and not value children. But they do not love and delight in children. I am not saying that everyone should want more than six kids. The older I get, the more I understand why not everyone is wholly positive about having kids, something I didn't when I was younger. But that doesn't mean that you cannot understand that having many children is a joy.

I have discovered that, in this, my family is something of an anomaly. Even many children from big families do not embrace the idea. Perhaps, however, that has to do with the nature of the children they grew up with.

We've heard lots of comments like this:

"You liked having that many brothers and sisters? I can't deal with the ones I have."
"I wish my brother was like yours."
"Your sisters are so nice. My sister would never do that."
"One sister is more than enough for me!"

"You wanted more siblings?" people ask when we excitedly told Mom was pregnant or said something about wishing she'd had twins.

Do we want more? More best friends? More help around the house? More amusement? More babies? More birthday parties (dude, any excuse for more ice cream is good!)? More people to give Christmas presents to? More brothers- and sisters-in-law? More nieces and nephews? More cousins for our kids? Yes!

I've thought lately what it'll be like when most of us move out. Just imagine: the boys can have the big bedroom-they'll have so much space!-and Kristen can have the boys' room and a walk-in closet to herself! That sounds amazing. I would love it. I have never had the experience of having my own room.

But as I thought about it, I thought, no. I do not envy my youngest siblings. I don't want my own room. I would much rather have my siblings than space. As I am fond of saying, siblings are awesome.

I've thought about that as I've talked with my youngest sister. She doesn't like the idea of Deanna getting married because she doesn't want her to leave. When I tried to convince her that it was good, she said pitifully, "But it's been fun having her here, right?" It's sad and adorable that it affects her so much even at such a young age.

"It's been fun having her." That's a pretty good summary.

Not everyone is called to be in a family with lots of kids. But few relationships-perhaps none save my parents-have shaped me more than those with my siblings. I am thankful. I don't think you can have too many.

Okay, that's not true. My sister used to say she wanted to have 50 and adopt 50. That's a little excessive. I like to remember all of my siblings' names at least. Of course, if you named them all after the states and their capitals as she was going to, that might help.

A good ending ought to tie everything all together. It should never be something random that has nothing to do with the essay. However, nothing is coming to mind and I feel like posting this. Perhaps later I will think of a good ending and change this. Until then this will have to do.

On the other hand, since I write for my own enjoyment, I will probably never change this.

Siblings are awesome. Is that an acceptable ending?

Rejoicing in Blessings

Holidays, especially Thanksgiving, are wonderful times for considering where you are in your life. And convenient excuses to write blog posts! So this Thanksgiving I am doing both.

One thought has really impressed me: I am blessed.

I would fall into the cliche, "I don't know about you, but I am blessed," except I do know. You are blessed as well.

While writing, I said once that I must be content with God's love. Then I had to laugh. Content with God's love? As if someone dying of thirst must be content with oceans of water! Here we sit on the beach of a fresh-water Atlantic, picking at the grains of sand and considering attempting to quench our thirst from this muddy puddle beside us, totally unaware of the OCEAN at our feet!

What has this to do with thanksgiving?

If you realize what God has done for you, how can you not only not be displeased, and not only be satisfied, but further REJOICE in where He has you? And not only what He has done, but what He plans to do.

I have been struggling to wrap my prideful mind around such amazing promises:

"Because you have made the LORD, who is my refuge,
Even the Most High, your dwelling place,
No evil shall befall you,
Nor any plague come near your dwelling...
Because he has set his love upon Me, therefore I will deliver him;
I will set him on high, because he has known My name."
                - Psalm 91:9-10, 14

"I am the LORD your God,
Who brought you out of the land of Egypt;
Open your mouth wide, and I will fill it."
                - Psalm 81:10

"If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask Him!"
                 -Matthew 7:11

These are only a few verses this idea has struck me in. (I recommend reading all of Psalm 91. And there's a link for those too lazy to look it up, so you have no excuse not to!)

Let me explain what I mean by prideful. Ought we not to accept all that the Lord tells us? And yet, seeing our sin, we do not accept His love. How can He do this, when we are so unworthy? Of course, as good Christians, we would never say this. (I wonder how many times that sentence has been written...) But we believe it.

I could say that I am speaking for myself here, and I don't know about you. But I think that is overused. Yes, I am speaking for myself, and yes, not everyone has the same thoughts. But "no temptation has overtaken you except such as is common to man," and pride and resisting God's Word is a struggle we all encounter.

Now what does this have to do with being thankful?

It is good to see our sin and unworthiness. This realization is something that is essential for thankfulness. If you think that you deserve what God gives you, why should you be grateful? But if you do not deserve any good, how can you not be grateful for everything? 

(Because you're sinful and prideful...but you get my point. That's another phrase that I wonder how often it's been used.) 

And if your sin does not grieve your heart, pray that the Lord would open your eyes to it. He is faithful to answer. "You do not have, because you do not ask." The Lord did this for me. It is hard and not fun, and you may be surprised by the trials that come, but it will give you joy.

Realizing our sin does give us thankfulness. See on the one side your sin, and on the other God's blessings to you and His desire to bless you, and your thankfulness will be great. It puts everything into perspective.

God has been teaching me to rejoice in my own life. He knows each person, and He works in each life differently. Sometimes this is hard, because we cannot read hearts as God can. Thus, the grass is always greener on the other side. We see others' blessings that we do not have, and we are envious, forgetting their trials and the blessings we have that they do not.

And if we do see our blessings, we forget that's what they are and are prideful.

Recently after I had shared some things that God had been teaching me, a lady told me that she appreciated it. "You should be a teacher," she said. "Kids need to hear what you have to say."

It made me think of a time when Abraham had been brought up, and a girl asked if he was the one who had to sacrifice his son. It boggled my mind that a Christian could not know that story. Since then, I have been aware of how much I have been given. Indeed, what do I have that I have not been given? What separates me from a young believer who knows little more than Jesus and Noah's Ark?

Just this: where God has chosen to place me. 

I have not been more faithful, nor do I have a better memory or understanding. I have simply been situated in places where knowing God's Word was expected, and so I reaped the benefits.

At one of these places, the teacher asked, "What is your geneology?" He asked us to consider our spiritual genealogies. Who prayed for you? Who taught you? And don't stop there. Who prayed for them? Who mentored them?

What an incredible thought. You begin to see yourself as a small mechanism in a huge, interconnecting plan. I think of things such as the debt I owe to a lady I never knew who many years ago did a Kid's Club that was instrumental in bringing God's word to a woman who has been an inestimable blessing to my mother, and to me. Of people, some of whom I may have never met, whose influence led people to come to my church and thus became a blessing to me. Of the great men and women throughout history who wrote down so powerfully what God taught them so that lives were transformed to become my examples.

You have your own blessings. That Christ died is blessing enough. But God has freely with Him given us all things!

On second thought, there is another thing that separates me from some believers. I love God's Word and I long for holiness. My struggle to overcome sin grieves me. This is one of the greatest blessings God can give.

I knew that Scripture says that work in the heart is from God, but I didn't quite understand how that could be. I mean, it's my heart, my desires and thoughts. Yes, God has to bring to life someone dead in sin, but the sanctifying work seems like it must be ours. Once again, as a good Christian, I knew such thinking was wrong and never would have thought I believed it.

Remember how I mentioned that God had opened my eyes to my sin? One year, I realized my walk with God wasn't very good. I wanted it to be better-sort of. I tried and tried to be good, but I couldn't. Really, I wanted to want it. I read in the Psalms how David thirsted after God's Word, how he hated his sin and God's enemies, how he delighted in righteousness. "Lord," I said, "I want a love for You like that. I don't even want Your Word. I don't even hate my sin." And I realized I couldn't work it up and asked Him to give it to me.

About a year later I was struggling and frustrated. Why, I wondered, could I not defeat sin? Why were things difficult? A friend encouraged me at that time, not really knowing what I was thinking, saying how she rejoiced seeing God's work in my life, in my love for Him and His people. Suddenly I realized: this frustration with sin-that was because I hated it. It wasn't because I was any more sinful than I used to be, but that I could now see my sin as the offense it was against God.

I had tried and tried to become more holy, and I had failed. Yet suddenly I realized I had changed-without doing anything. What glory! I rejoiced in verses like, "He who began a good work in you is faithful to complete it," and "He has given you all things needed for life and godliness through the knowledge of Him." I could see how it was completely God's work, changing my heart. I really had done nothing. God had just given me a receptive heart.

Don't diminish God's glory by not acknowledging what He has given you. It is the humble person who is thankful, because they realize that no matter how "good" in the eyes of others they may be, every good gift comes from God. Do not fail to rejoice in His promises of blessing to you. If we trust His character, we must believe them. It is precisely because we are unworthy that we can be so grateful.

I do speak to myself, and as usual, write for my own benefit. But I do pray that as you read how I have been impressed by God's mercy, it will also cause you to rejoice in thankfulness.

Workshopping Fun

This semester has been filled with classes I really enjoy. My favorites are Visual Communication, which I took on a whim and loved; American Sign Language, and signing with people has been really fun, and I can't wait until we're beyond simple vocabulary; and Creative Writing.

Though there have been different issues with the class (a post on that soon, perhaps), I have loved doing workshops.

Workshopping consists of everyone bringing twelve copies of their work and giving one to everyone, including the professor. Then, one by one, the author reads his work aloud, and everyone discusses it. "What is this about?" the professor will ask, or, "What was your favorite line in this poem?" Grammar, diction (word choice), tone, imagery, line breaks, are discussed. At last the author is allowed to speak and give a reply or ask questions.

I thought this would be rather intimidating. Having a professor, who is an interesting, cynical kind of man and ten peers who think very differently than I saying whatever they think about something that I have written--I figured it would be rather unpleasant, even if profitable. The slightest criticism of your work can be hard to take, for good writing is personal.

The first poem we were assigned was to be about a place. Immediately, I knew what I wanted to do. As soon as I left class, I began to write. I set up the scene:

Too many people, too much mess

I slip out of the house and into the yard

Past the garden and barn

And the neighbors’ field

Into the covering of trees

But it was to be 20 lines long. Writing like that, I wouldn't be able to do it within those limits. (Turns out that 20 lines was the minimum, not the limit, but I along with the rest of the class didn't know that at the time.) Besides I didn't really like it. So I started another one.

My Retreat

Swish, swish, shoes through the grass

Snap, snap, twigs underfoot

Twist, twist, snake through the trees

Slowing, slowing, the world and me.

Chirping cicadas all around

Soothe my mind with comforting sound.

Up ahead I see the log

Where once I sat and wept aloud.

Then it was high,

Now broken down.

Still damp and green with moss,

A place to sit and mourn a loss.

Yet I go on as setting sun

Slides through layer and layer of leaves

Quickening again, driven by pain of thought

Towards the place I know I ought

Not intrude, those industrial mounds.

Yet I go to gaze in the pools

And there in the silence my passion cools

In companionable solitude.

It wasn't quite what I wanted, however. The tone wasn't right. So I went there, to my "thinking spot" in the woods behind our house. There I was inspired to write again.

Heavy, so heavy

The thoughts in my head

I escape the walls

Pass the wild garden, full of green,

tall weeds. Pass the inviting swings

Into tangled opening.

Once again, treading the pathless path.

Familiar the place, familiar the solitude,

familiar the feeling.

Over there, that fallen log

Huge with open seat before its tangled roots

where I once sat and wept

Feeling alone.

Once too tall to swing my legs over,

Now broken down.

Beyond, mown path, yet tall, itchy growth.

Comforting, its silence

Comforting, the sounds from far away.

Damp, damp, is every seat

So I stand alone.

Then, while I was there, I wondered what I would have written should I have finished my first poem. So, I finished it.

Too many people, too much mess

I slip out of the house and into the yard

Past the garden and barn

And the neighbors’ field

Into the covering of trees

Where at last I yield

Voice to my yearning

Sound to my pain

Here where I come

Again and again.

I don’t want to leave

But time slides past

And I know they are calling

And will miss me at last.

The silence comforts my restless soul

The sounds are a balm, yet I must go.

A quick moment of panic when I think I’ve turned wrong

And do not remember the lay of that log.

I right myself, and it brings a smile.

I must depart, but just for a while.

Lovely, I realized: I now have three poems for the same assignment. How was I to decide which one to do?

I consulted my sister, and she liked the second one best. I dubbed it Isolation, printed twelve copies, and took it to class.

This first workshop, I rather cringed for some of the authors as people said what they thought. Even though it was all said in friendly critique, I imagined what I would feel if someone said it about what I had written. But to my surprise, I was excited and grinning as I left class and headed towards my brother and two of our friends, who are often studying outside of my class when I get out. I had loved it.

I like reading poems aloud. Both my creative writing professor and my American Poetry professor told me that I read well after I read a poem. It was fascinating indeed to hear what people said about my poem. I took notes.

There were some interesting comments: it reminded them of "a young lady marooned in a wilderness," "that scene in Forrest Gump" (which I now want to see) or "something from Alice in Wonderland." The tone was "sad" and "beaten-down."

One girl, who seems quiet but talks often because she is very literary-minded, talked about how it's someone who wants to belong but is struggling, and needs to find that one person who accepts her, a like-minded person.

They liked the imagery sense of the woods. Someone said you're not sure how to get there, but you know where you're going.

The professor said that the line "huge with open seat before its tangled roots" was "very interesting diction." That amused me.

He also asked what they thought about the last two lines, "Damp, damp, is every seat, so I stand alone."

One guy who is amusing in his comments, a communication major, but more of an article writer than a poet, said, "I liked it."

"I liked it, too," the professor replied. "But what does it imply?"

Someone said something like it wasn't the end. The professor sometimes speaks in a mimicking voice and he did now: "Get ready for part two! Isolation: the sequel!"

In one of the critiques we have to write for each person's poem (I love getting them too), one of the girls said that was her favorite line. She also said, "During the workshop, I could see you smiling to yourself because we were trying to analyze it, and you were originally writing about your backyard." That was true. It was so funny-I just wrote describing things, and they found them to mean all this profound stuff I never would have thought of.

The only thing that they really said I should change was elaborating on what "the sounds from far away" were. One guy said he would not change a thing. Another said, "I feel that it's complete and well written. The only thing is the comforting sounds aspect."

I find this often happens when I write under inspiration-I don't have as much that ought to be changed. When I am not writing under internal compulsion, it needs more revision.

The professor had a few more suggestions, such as the removal of two lines. Here's the revised, with changes in bold for those of you who don't like reading just for the sake of reading, which is probably most everyone, and for those of you who have better things to spend your time on that this lengthy whatever-you-call-it, not really an essay, which is all of you.

Isolation

Heavy, so heavy, my head                                     Professor said to remove "the thoughts in"

As I escape the walls,                                                                                                  and add as

Pass my wild garden, full of green,

tall weeds, pass the inviting swings

Amid manicured grass,

Into tangled opening.

Once again, treading the pathless path.

Familiar the place, familiar the solitude,

familiar the feeling.

Over there, that fallen log

Huge with open seat before its tangled roots         Removed the part about weeping alone 
Once too tall to swing my legs over,                                                at professor's suggestion

Now broken down.

Beyond, mown path, yet tall, itchy growth.

Comforting, its silence,

Comforting, the clanging and beeping of the backhoe     Elaboration on sounds as desired 
Invisible beyond the trees,

Comforting the murmur of cicadas all around
And faint voices calling my name.
Yet I go on as setting sun                                                                         Added these two lines 
Slides through layer and layer of leaves.                                   from one of my other poems

I do not return, not yet.                                                   After changes a transition was needed

Damp, damp, is every seat

So I walk on, alone.     Professor "liked the intention" of the last line, but "not sure about wording"

The second poem we workshopped was an ode or list poem. I wrote one about Kristen which I have already posted. This time, I wasn't inspired at first. Even though I was later with the idea, I still didn't get the execution quite right.

I knew they would have a lot more to say about this one. The first was just an anomaly since everyone happened to like it almost as it was. This time, workshopping would be less pleasant.

Once again, I was surprised to be leave with a grin because it was so much fun. Yes, they had suggestions on what should be changed, but I knew it needed them, and it was still fascinating to hear. My favorite things were two statements, surprising coming from my professor. One, he said, "I have a low tolerance for sappy [that is very true], and it wasn't raised until like the third stanza." The other was surprising because he usually wants people to give better imagery, more specific descriptions. "As far as descriptions and sounds, there is not a bad moment."

So I have been enjoying this class. But since my professor is always saying that nothing is completely good and they should touch on the less positive aspects of things, that shall be the topic of my next post.