Opposite A Mystery

I have come to think that to believe Christianity is often to believe two opposite things, and yet find them compatible.

Just think of the essential Christian doctrines.

God is man.
A virgin is with child.
The eternal God dies.
The dead live.
God hates sin, yet He loves man.
He is sovereign, yet He allows evil.
No one is good, yet we are holy.

God is forever turning our ideas of how things are upside down. Even when we think we understand something, we have only grasped the outer edges of His ways.

I once saw a pamphlet with an illustration that stuck with me. Imagine a paper on which is drawn a smiley face in profile - one eye over half a smile in a circle. You tell the little guy to look up. He turns counter-clockwise. "No," you say. "The other way." So he turns clockwise. "No!" you cry. "Look up!"

But his two-dimensional mind cannot understand a third dimension.

So you take a ball, and you push it through his paper world. "Do you see the ball?" you ask.

"You mean that circle that gets bigger and then smaller?" he asks. "I've heard of balls. I don't know if I believe they exist." Looking right at the ball, he sees only a cross-section, and he doesn't really understand how a whole 3D ball can exist.

This, I think, is how we are with God. Even if we believe that there is a ball, we cannot truly understand what one is really like. Our idea of a circle that is somehow continuous, bigger than just a circle, is close, but not like actually holding a ball in your hands. Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then, face to face!

Now, don't misunderstand me. The Holy Spirit reveals things to us, and we can truly say that we know God. Nor are there contradictions with God. Opposites aren't really opposites with God.

I guess that's really my point. Things seem to be opposite, when they aren't, really.

This came to mind when considering the debate between what, for sake of simplicity, I shall call Calvinism and Arminianism, between election and free will. In case anyone is reading this seriously (I mean, I guess if you're reading this, you're probably doing it seriously, otherwise you're probably bored and already stopped, in which case, you aren't reading this and it doesn't apply to you-although you may be reading it seriously and thus are still reading it and therefore are bored-so maybe I should say in case anyone reads this), this is not a theological thesis, and I haven't studied Scripture in depth on this. I'm actually kind of thinking out loud. So don't worry too much if you think I'm wrong. But don't be afraid to tell me, either.

First, what I do know is what Scripture says: God is sovereign. We are dead in our sins. Dead normally means that the one who is dead can do absolutely nothing. God makes us alive, and He has chosen us from before the foundations of the earth. While we were still sinners in rebellion, God loved us.

It is also true that God gives us commands. That we are called to repent, believe, take up our cross, and follow Him. That when the people ask Peter, "What must we do to be saved?" he does not say, "Nothing. God does all the work."

I've listened to a lot of Calvinist thought, and I can't think of much in particular that I've heard that I disagree with. I've also listened to people on the other side of the election debate, and most of them (as long as they agree with God's sovereignty and other Biblical principles) also seem right. What I have wanted to disagree with usually is when one says the other is wrong.

Again, an illustration helps me.

God is called the author of our salvation. Think of life as a story, God as the author, and us as characters. Being a writer myself, I can relate. The author has complete authority over the story. What he decides goes. The characters have no say.

But if you create good characters, a story will almost write itself. Sometimes, I as the author do not want something to happen, but the characters do it anyway.

For example, I was writing a story in which my sister told me the main character, Nell, should marry the main guy in the story, Daniel. I told her no. I had no intention of writing such a story. I fought it, but as the story progressed, it became clear. Daniel liked Nell, and there was nothing I could do about it. That is simply what he would do. He insisted on it. I repeatedly told him not to, but he would regardless. Although I could have, to have refused to let him would have made him a stilted character in a forced world.

This idea and personal experience with the author being completely in control, and yet the characters still making decisions in accord with their desires, helped me to understand how it could be that God is sovereign, and yet we are held responsible for our actions.

This is no theological thesis, as mentioned before, but in regards to the election/free will debate, I have come to think that they are both more true than even those who believe them think they are, and that they're a mystery that we cannot really comprehend. Like every other thought we have about God, our ideas and visions are too small. They're a two-dimensional man trying to look up.

What I'm trying to say is that while God's role is far more determining and our utter depravity is far worse than the staunchest Calvinist ever imagined, we are also more culpable and responsible for our actions than any Arminian ever thought.

With God being who He is, it doesn't really make sense to me to be any other way. He's a mystery, complex beyond what we understand. And so there is going to be debate and misunderstanding and blurred sight, as there always is when you come opposite such a mystery.

Perhaps I should study and make a more informed decision-of course, we all should. There is always more to learn. But I am okay with holding these seemingly opposing views in my mind. Because, I think, Christianity means learning to embrace and delight in mystery until all is revealed.

Important Work

Before you rests a pile of dark, heavy dirt. You sigh, looking from it to the shovel with a split wooden handle grasped in your hand. You know your task.

Slowly, you jab your shovel into the dirt. When you remove it, you deposit the part that doesn't fall off into a new pile. Complaining of the crack pinching your palm, you press on, knowing your duty.

You know you need to move this dirt. But you don't know why. So you toil on.

But then Joe bounds towards you. "Hurry up!" he cries, jabbing his thin trowel into the pile. "Come on!" In a few moments, with his small tool he has doubled the pile you've been toiling over.

Raising your eyebrows, you press your shovel into the dirt. "What's the hurry?" you ask.

"What's the hurry?!" Joe cries, without turning from his work. "Don't you know he'll suffocate if we don't get him out?"

Suddenly, you don't notice the pinching on your palms, the weight of the dirt, the sweat marking trails down your neck.

Your only focus is to get him out. To save his life.

Now, the obstacles don't matter. You only wish you had known before the importance of the task, that you might have done better. Why hadn't someone told you? Why hadn't you realized, so that you would have known to work diligently?

I think this is often how we approach all of life. There is gravity and purpose for our lives -- but we live as if we know we need to live but don't know why. We grow weary living, we act lackadaisical, we live without a plan:

We don't remember that there is a reason we are living.

But there is.

Ephesians 2:10: For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.

Revelation 4:11: You are worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power; for You created all things, and by Your will they exist and were created.

If we remembered this, could we live lives of such unintentionality? If we really believe that Christ gives  meaning to life, that God sees all that we do, why do we think it doesn't matter?

And if we know that what we do with our lives is important, why don't we act like it?

 Do you not know that those who run in a race all run, but one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may obtain it. ...Now they do it to obtain a perishable crown, but we for an imperishable crown. Therefore I run thus: not with uncertainty. Thus I fight: not as one who beats the air. But I discipline my body and bring it into subjection, lest, when I have preached to others, I myself should become disqualified.   I Corinthians 9:24-27

A Person of Passion

You could miss it by just looking, but I am a passionate person.

You might miss lots of people's passion by just looking.

Passion is part of being human, I think. When I think of a passionless person, certain people come first to mind. And guess what? They have passion.

Perhaps I should define my terms. When I say passion, I mean simply a strong feeling. This generally means excitement, but  you can also be passionate about negative things.

There's a certain type of person who doesn't seem passionate. They don't seem to care about much; they dislike school; they seem pretty low-key and go-with-the-flow. But ask them about cars--and then watch their eyes light up and their volume rise and a little smile turn their lips up.

Everyone is passionate about something. I challenge you to find someone without passion. If you do, try to force them to do something, and I bet you'll find them passionately seeking rest or solitude!

Someone told me a while ago that I seemed really excited about a movie I was telling him about. "I like hearing you talk about things you're excited about," he said.

It made me wonder - what am I excited about? And why don't I always show my excitement?

There is something difficult about showing passion. It makes you vulnerable.

A wise man I know told me about a trip he had taken with his wife. He showed her a spot that was special to him, and as they came to it, the beautiful sunset struck it. As she saw the glistening light, his wife stepped back in awe. She told him she understood why he loved the place.

He asked me if I knew that feeling when you tell someone something that means a lot to you and they don't understand, when they don't care about it or get why you do. Then something in you feels like it dies and you wish you hadn't shared it. On the other hand, when you share something with someone that you love and they get it too--then you have this connection and joy, your relationship is strengthened, and you feel closer.

And that is why it is hard to show passion -- because when you show passion, you are taking a risk. A risk that others will think you are foolish for delighting in that thing, or that they simply won't care or understand.

That rejection, that sense of solitude, is hard to bear.

When I shared this with a friend, I said something inside you dies a little when your joy in something is not shared. She looked at me and exclaimed, "But that is so wrong!"

It's natural. When that part of you has died before, you don't want to risk it happening again. But she is right. If we realize that all good gifts come from God, no matter how small, and that we are to give thanks in everything, our passion should be no less because others do not understand. If something gives us joy, we should not be ashamed to admit it.

Think of something that you were exceedingly joyful about, that others did not understand. I think of Ryan and Grace's engagement.

Surely, that was not the weird thing. The weird thing is that we do not have that joy and passion about everything!

We deserve death. Yet all around us is life and joy and blessing. We need correction and discipline. Yet continually God uses joy and beauty and love to draw us to obedience.

God gives all things meaning. Why aren't we more passionate? Why do we look on people who are as if they are the strange ones?

Concealing that we care about something is really selfish. As in my example earlier, we enjoy seeing people who are passionate about things. Think of the secret smiles between adults at a child's unashamed, innocent excitement about something that is really insignificant. We love it. And we are called to become like little children.

Little children don't mind showing that they are people with passion. And neither should we.

Imperfect Metaphor

After quite a long hiatus, my sisters and I returned to our writing course. I've mentioned it here before, when I posted an essay I wrote for it.

This time we did an exercise in which you were to choose a personal metaphor or word picture that describes you, your personality, your circumstances, and so forth. This was to be written in a center circle. Then in other circles (or not, if you missed that part as I did) connected to that one, you were to write related words and then use them to write something.

This time I wrote a poem. For my metaphor I chose a wooded trail. Most of you probably don't care to read the words I chose after that, so I shall not put them up. They comprise most of the nouns in the poem.

I couldn't think of the right title for it, but this was the closest I could get to what I was trying to convey.

Imperfect

Across my life the soft breeze blows
The honeysuckle smell.
On a spongy fallen log I rest
Midst the bright green dell.
My muddied footprints on the trail
Lead back through the thorns,
Evidenced by trails of red
Traced upon my arms.
Through the whisp'ring leaves I hear
Some creature's grating caw.
Sunlight like a cheerful child
Brightens the mosquito on my jaw.
The twittering birds cease their songs
As I join mine to theirs
Till the distant backhoe's bang
Beats upon the ears.
The yellow flower my fingers twirl
Doesn't have a name
The phantom hand that pulls on mine
Seems to be the same.
Behind the roping vines I hide
To catch a glimpse of deer.
The thorns, the mud, the caws are worth
Smelling honeysuckle here.

Do you know what I'm trying to convey? If you need a hint, I almost called it "Life."

Perspective of Pain

Have you read The Hiding Place?

I know that many people say "every this type of person should do this" about many things, but I do believe that this is a book that every Christian should read. In fact, if the story of Corrie ten Boom and her family does not come readily and quickly to mind, you should read it again. If you're too lazy (and don't quickly say you're too busy-I bet you could spare at least ten minutes each day and finish it in a week or two), at least watch the movie.

My sister was listening to the Family Radio Theater production of it, and I started thinking. Honestly, I felt like crying as I pondered perspective.

Perspective. The word comes from Latin, literally meaning to see through.

Perspective is something that Betsy had.

Betsy, for those of you who had to put The Hiding Place next on your reading list, is Corrie's sister who was with her in the concentration camp. As I considered Corrie's anger and how Betsy corrected her sister, the weight of the difference between their lives and ours pressed deeply on me.

Are you struggling to forgive someone who has wronged you? Perhaps a sibling is mean to you intentionally. Perhaps someone you thought was your friend lied to you. Maybe it was even something as terrible as your parents divorcing.

Imagine someone betraying you, for money, causing your family to be torn apart, your innocent, beloved father and sister to die, and you to lose your family, your friends, and your freedom.

Then, imagine forgiving him. Praying that the Lord will bless him and his family. Having sympathy for his pain.

Makes you feel pretty selfish for remembering when that kid was mean to you at youth group years ago, doesn't it?

Are you struggling with loneliness? Perhaps you lost someone you loved. Perhaps you look with longing at your friends who are married. Perhaps you haven't been able to spend time with people as much as you wish. Perhaps no one understands what you're going through.

Imagine leaving your home--not for a new one, but for a concentration camp, leaving behind everyone you care for, many of whom are in serious danger, knowing that some of them have died, that many you will never see again--and all of this in the discomfort of a barren place.

Imagine your pain made harder by knowing your husband is enduring the same thing on the other side of the fence, while you are unable to comfort or even be with him, and that each time you see him, it is likely that it may be the last time.

Imagine hearing shots nearby, not knowing if it is someone you love that was killed.

Makes you appreciate your comfort more, doesn't it?

Are you struggling with physical pain? Are you tired? Is your work hard?

Imagine being weak with lack of food, beaten, with no physical comforts, medicine, or doctors--and yet getting no sympathy, but being continually forced to more difficult manual labor than you have probably ever experienced?

Make your weariness easier to bear?

I could go on. My point in this is not at all to diminish what you are enduring. Who knows the things of a man except the spirit of the man? God remembers that we are but dust. A bruised reed He will not break. "No one knows the trouble I've seen," is true, aside from God. One thing that I think our culture, perhaps, gets wrong is thinking that because x goes to a greater degree than y, y doesn't have any significance. Just because someone does something better or endures more than you doesn't invalidate your experience. But that is a topic for another post.

What is my point, then? Maybe it's for I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed.

Then again, maybe I am diminishing what you're enduring.

"Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace."

That's perspective.

It's amazing how Christianity makes everything matter-and nothing. Nothing earthly. And yet, suddenly everything does matter. Are the barracks full of fleas? That doesn't matter. And yet, they matter immensely--for how we respond to them has eternal, profound significance.

And that was why I felt like crying myself as I heard Corrie weep as she prayed for the man who by our perspective destroyed her family and begged God to forgive her for harboring bitterness against him. Because my perspective, our perspective, is so much shallower than that.

Betsy showed Corrie that if she loved God, not only did she have to accept her father's death, but being betrayed--and having fleas. Things difficult and enormous, and things relatively small and just annoying. She saw through the appearances of this physical world to what truly mattered behind it.

O what joy we would have if we could have this heavenly perspective continually in our lives!

A Matter of Love

Imagine something that you've always known would happen. Something that you imagined over and over again what it would be like.

If it happened already, was it just like you imagined it would be?

And if not, be prepared. It probably won't be. Reality is harder and much more glorious than our imaginations.

My oldest sister got married a week ago Saturday. It was happy and beautiful and went by so quickly.

We used to talk about what it would be like when Deanna got married sometimes, about me being the maid of honor, about what her husband would be like, about her kids. More about that than anything else, though. We were the type of people who played orphanage and skipped over playing weddings.

As I stood at the top of the green-carpeted stairs, looking at Deanna and Stephen standing there (looking like a couple out of a magazine, so perfectly complementing each other), I thought of things that we had been worried about getting ready for the wedding.

It doesn't matter now, I thought. I was glad we didn't worry about details any more than we did. It didn't matter. They were getting married, whether we had the tables placed correctly or not. Whether I succeeded in doing lace on the cake or not. Whether the flowers were exactly what we wanted or not. Whether I succeeded in getting pictures of Deanna getting ready or not. Whether we would run out of cupcakes or live on them for the next eight days. Whether anyone got a picture of the marriage certificate or not.

We worry about details too much. If you won't remember something in a year, it's not worth getting upset about. And even if you will.

Who has time to worry about colors when there are wrongs to right? When there are relationships to build? When there is Scripture to read? When there are words to write? When there are little girls to hold? When there are prayers to say?

I love how weddings make you think about what is important in life.

Standing up there near to my sister, I realized it didn't matter if I arranged her train properly (I didn't) or if I was standing opposite Eric correctly (I couldn't tell) or if Kristen whispered, asking if Deanna had remembered to clean her glasses (she did). Or if Deanna had forgotten (I told Kristen she didn't, but I'm actually not sure).

No. What mattered was Deanna and Stephen's relationship and God and our relationship with them and the witness of the guests and the rest of their lives.

Details do matter. They matter immensely-when they affect relationships. When your dealing with details shows how you honor God or love your brother. When it gives joy and beauty, as the alternating soft purple and green napkins, stacks of old books, the perfect song for the slideshow, and the Chantilly lace cake did, then the details are worth it. When moving the tables closer, disposing of the cake pillars, inviting fewer people, deciding what color nail polish to use by yourself, or letting an awesome idea you had for a picture go pleases your sister or friend or brother-in-law, then it matters. (It also matters whether your mother gets to the wedding or not. It does not matter if you have to wait a while.)

What matters isn't your ideas being materialized. It's showing in every detail your love for Christ through your love for others. It's finding your own delight in what truly matters.

Acting

It's like death,
this watching a muted movie,
this asking why
and what the actors are saying.
This repeating
over and over and over
as if you are praying,
the Author has a plot
this pain is not for naught.
This hoping
and knowing
and trusting
that the climax is needed
for the conclusion,
and that when the credits roll
(with the author's name
listed after every part)
we'll know then
the meaning of the script.
This knowing the story is good
because He's a published author
with satisfying subplots
but still letting the tears fall
because it's death
becoming an actor
to a plot not your own.

The Hidden War

The world is a battlefield.

All around you, there's a war. The woman you passed, thinking she was a grump? She was just mortally wounded, and her blood quietly seeped out on the parking lot.

But you didn't see it. You just saw a woman scowling as she whipped grocery bags into her SUV. And when you said, "Well, that's a pleasant woman," you didn't know.

You didn't know her hope has died. That today she knew for sure that she could not believe in a God who would let her husband leave her, just like her father did. That the reason she glared at you was because she was demanding of God why.

Why do you look so happy, herding your little kids into your car?

Yes, they're disobedient children, and your voice sounded irritated and weary, and your van has scratches and that big dent you were so upset by. But you take your children home so your husband can discipline them, and she'd give away her shiny car for a little taste of the joy you have and take your weariness if she could get rid of her heartache.

Yes, in the world there's a war. But the war's not just outside.

Your daughter complains that she gained five pounds and her face is all broken out, and her friend isn't talking to her. You tell her everyone gets pimples, don't worry what other people think, and by the way, she needs to clean the bathroom.

You don't see the soldier aiming his machine gun at your daughter's heart; you suggest a stroll through the countryside, unaware of the snipers and the deep fear she cannot explain.

Then you wonder why she seems angry with you and how you have failed her.

The war's for you, too.

Yes, that person has just cancelled on you again, leaving you scrambling for a fill-in and wasting those two hours you meant to use to make a nice dinner for your family. Yes, she always does it.

But, though you imagine her shooting her poisoned arrows into your back as you wish, she isn't your enemy.

The enemy is deeper. He's put his weapon inside you. The poison that is killing you isn't from her arrows.

It's sin.

It's a powerful force, an unrelenting enemy.

You live in your little village in the mountains, far away from the booming cannons and explosions of war. But you are not safe. Your enemy has signed the contract for military law, but the enemy is a thief and a liar, and he will not obey them.

The neutral party is not safe. In fact, the neutral party is not neutral.

If you remain unaware of the war, living in your little out-of-the-way village, the marauders will come though, burn your helpless home, and shoot you through your unprepared heart.

You cannot afford to not prepare. The enemy is a burglar, searching the lonely places where there are quiet people whose inoffensive nicety keeps them from building fences and oiling guns, where the enemy can knock on the door with his gun slung over his shoulder and be welcomed in as if he were the owner of the house.

But really, the enemy has already infiltrated. He is the owner of the house. You cannot resist his thieving rule unless you join the defeating Army that is coming.

But even if you do, you'll lose battle after battle if you don't see the war.

Be on the alert.

Trust

Last Thursday was the last day of Kid's Club. It was sad, knowing that I would probably not see these kids again until next fall, and maybe some of them never again.

Several weeks ago I had to write a poem for my poetry class including something about rain. I was thinking about Kid's Club, so I wrote this.

Trust

Some days when I looked up at the two-story brick building,

waiting for someone to notice me and open the door,

it was raining.

Sometimes I was late, and when I entered the basement,

six kindergarteners yelled my name and tried to hug me at once.

The curly-haired woman smiled, calling the kids back to their bold blue seats.

Some lessons I held Markell as he slept,

running my fingers through his long brown locks.

Sometimes when my mother’s friend, with the mic

pressing down her silvery hair, said, “God has a good plan for you,”

my heart beat fast. I traced Aubrey’s soft brown cheek with my finger,

wondering what the plan for my little friend held,

praying it didn’t include slammed doors and ex-husbands and sitting home alone.

Some days it was still raining when I let the door slam against the cedar doorstop,

and I avoided stepping in the streams running down the sloped drive.

Every time I opened the car door, I could still feel the last long squeeze

from Maria’s chubby arms and her whispering in my ear like a caressing prayer:

“I don’t want to ever let go.”

The title of trust is double in meaning. It is the overwhelming and sweet burden of feeling the utter trust a child has in you. And it is loving someone you cannot protect. Sometimes, it seems harder to trust God for the people you love than for yourself. Then we turn to prayer and cry out to the Lord, and we learn to delight in God's sovereignty.

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."

Another Happy Story

It happened again.

Last Wednesday was a busy day, but nothing terribly notable. I babysat in the morning, had a wonderful lunch with a sweet friend, came home and talked with Mom and Eric about different plans, went Christmas shopping with Mom, came home to potato soup and muffins, spent time with the family including Stephen, and watched Elf.

Half of Elf, that is. I think the scene when he breaks a poptart over his spaghetti will always make me think of this evening. The door opened, and Eric and Ruthie came back from going to the lights at the zoo. I got up and stood by the fire. Eric said, "You're watching Elf without us?" Deanna looked at Ruthie, and Ruthie was laughing.

This way they're coming in, smiling, with all of us here, kind of feels like...something familiar....

It couldn't be. She had told him he had to wait until after she graduated...I looked for the ring. She had on three. One on the left hand's ring finger.

Ruthie was laughing: "Deanna is staring at me like she thinks something happened."

Someone asked if Eric had asked her a question.

Ruthie laughed. "Maybe."

(Note: to avoid repetitive, boring "someone said something like this," statements, I am writing as if this were exactly how it happened, but some is paraphrase and could easily have been remembered incorrectly.)

"He asked you if you liked the lights?" Mom asked.

"Yes," Ruthie chuckled.

I went and stood by her and hugged her.

"What did you say?" someone asked.

"I might have said yes."

"You did like the lights?" Mom asked.

I looked more closely at the ring. Eric showed it to me online a few weeks ago, and I immediately thought it was perfect for her, with a twist around a little flower. It looked a little different than it had online.

We hugged them both and told Eric good job. Then we made them come in and sit. "You guys both have to tell us the story!" we cried. "You know how this goes."

"I know," Ruthie agreed. "I was here last time."

This time, Deanna and Stephen had already been sitting on the love seat. "You guys don't have to move," Ruthie said. "We don't have to sit there."












We all objected. Remembering how I had refused to let Eric sit there last time, I said, "We made you guys move last time," smiling at the amusing irony. "It's your turn now." So they took their seats and we gathered around.

Ruthie went first, telling their awesome, pretty adorable story. He had brought her flowers, ostensibly because he was late. After dinner, they went to the Lights before Christmas at the Zoo.

At the synchronized lighted trees, they stopped when a Transiberian orchestra song came on. They had just gone to see them in Grand Rapids the previous Sunday. Eric decided it was time. He asked if she wanted to sit down in a more secluded spot. She objected to the cold seats, so he just asked her. She had no suspicions and was completely surprised. "Wait..is this for real?" she asked.

"I guess I should kneel," Eric said, kneeling, and asking again if she would marry him. Having time to process a bit, she said yes immediately. Then she suggested they sit down.

Before Eric even had a chance to put the ring on her, a man came up. "Excuse me, but my nosy wife informed me that you just got engaged. Do you have a camera and would you like me to take your picture?"

They didn't, so he pulled out his smart phone, took it, and emailed it to Eric. A message said it was using data. "This is totally worth it!" he said, pushing send. They had two kids with them and were the first to tell them congratulations.

The picture isn't of great quality, but the story is adorable and it's fun to have.

Eric had been unusually quiet as Ruthie told her side of the story. Then he told his side. He had been so nervous, but managed to act normal. He was late because the people at the store couldn't find the ring at first.

It was delightful and amusing. (It was also much more involved and special than I made it sound, but if you want their whole story, you'll have to ask to hear it unless I later feel like telling the whole thing properly.)

"Now we can't tell anyone," Kristen said seriously when they had finished the story.

We all laughed. "She knows how this goes!" I said. "She'll be an expert by the time it gets to her."

 Paulie had made some mint chocolate chip cookies.

At one point, Eric said something about how he wanted to do it that day. "Wait..." I said, suddenly realizing, "today is the 18th, isn't it?" Eric smiled and nodded. It was exactly five months after their first date. I smiled. He had done a good job.

Conversation died down for a minute. "We should watch the movie now," Kristen said.

"More important things are going on right now," Stephen said.

"All right, that's done. Back to the movie!" Dad teased.

After we had discussed the proposal story, there was a pause in conversation, and Dad spoke from the couch. "Jeannette..."

Everyone laughed.

"I can only handle two at a time."

I laughed. "What, you don't want three weddings at once?"

"No more engagements this year," Mom joked, and Amy and Ruthie noted that there were only two weeks left in the year.

Conversation turned to Melody, and this time Dad put a number on it: "You're not liking anyone until you're 30."

"Every time the number keeps going up! When Jeannette gets engaged I won't be allowed to like anyone until I'm 40!" Melody exclaimed.

"Melody, if you come live with us, we'll let you like someone whenever you want," Stephen offered generously. Melody is going to live with them and be their slave. However, he went on to say only if she chose the person he wants her to...

Eric gave a counter-offer: "If you come live with us, you don't have to wait and you can like whoever you want. Well, almost."

There were lots of phone calls to be made. Conveniently, Ruthie and I were already planning on meeting the next morning. It was sweet to be able to spend that time with her, and she said it was nice to be able to talk to someone who had been there so she didn't have to explain what had happened with her and Eric.

As usual, I was struck by the everydayness of things. As I told Ruthie, it's sort of weird-your sibling just got engaged!-and yet the world goes on as usual.

Ruthie says, "Truth!"

On Thursday, I saw some people and it was so hard not to tell anyone. In the evening we went to the Armentrouts'. We weren't sure if Eric and Ruthie could come or not, but then Lalita came in, saying, "Everyone calm down - Eric and Ruthie are here!"

They came in and greeted everyone, and while Ruthie hugged Merri, Audrey noticed her ring. "Wait...does everyone know this?!" Audrey asked.

"No!" cried Merri. "Know what?!"

Eric announced to everyone that they were engaged. After much excitement, once again, they sat on the couch, everyone gathered around, and they told their story.

It's kind of funny that a lot of the people who were well-acquainted with the state of their relationship were not expecting it to happen now, while others who were less informed were. I didn't expect it yet, since Ruthie had told him to wait until after she graduates in May, but I wasn't surprised.

In my last post about Ruthie, I would have been more direct about Eric and being part of our family if they had been engaged. I love having it official, to be able to talk about it freely, to say "Eric's fiancee" rather than his girlfriend, to not worry about saying too much to anyone who asks about their relationship. And it makes me smile.

Late Wednesday night when I went to bed with Kristen, she wanted to pray as usual, and she added a prayer to her list. "Pray what everyone will be excited what Eric and Ruthie got engaged." That is one prayer that will certainly be fulfilled.

Some of mine already have been. A few people have told me, "Congratulations!" Then they're unsure if they should. I say that I accept congratulations, as I did for Deanna and Stephen. I'm getting a sister, after all. I think that's worthy of congratulations. I've been considering how unpleasant it would be if your siblings married someone you didn't approve of or didn't like, and then feeling very blessed. I've always wanted to have a sister-in-law that wasn't a friend just because she's part of the family, but that I would have been friends with anyway. My other brothers will (hopefully!) marry someone significantly younger than I, so whoever Eric chose would be a unique relationship.

And I cannot imagine anyone better. As we've said, everyone loves Eric, and everyone loves Ruthie, so everyone loves them together. We feel quite blessed.

Dear Ruthie

I met you almost exactly two years ago.

We were going to a concert that our sister church in Bloomington apparently put on every year. We, not including you. Unaware that we were missing anything, we didn't know you existed.

None of us knew you except for Jonny. We heard he was bringing his friend from college to the concert. When I discovered that his friend wasn't a guy, I was surprised. Naturally we assumed you were interested in each other, unaware of the Bloomington connection.

There was much confusion about rides, which I shall not attempt to recall or describe. Suffice it to say, though I hadn't planned on going, I wanted to and I was told there was room...and we discovered when we got there that there was not. As we confirmed this year, we all know that something will be confusing and complicated, or it's just not right. Ironically, my gentlemanly brother let me go, briefly met you in the church office parking lot, and left.

So, suddenly you were on a long drive with six people, knowing only one. We didn't know you hardly even knew Jonny.

I wondered what you thought of us. We were very comfortable together, and acted no differently with this friend of Jonny's. That was all we knew, really, though perhaps we knew you were in engineering. And I found your name fascinating--I wonder if we talked about it. We wanted to name the twins we always wanted Mom to have Ruth and Naomi, and I always liked the name Ruth. But now, it sounds kind of incomplete, and I prefer Ruthie. I wonder if you told us your name was Ruthanne, or if I just wondered if Ruthie or Ruth was your real name.

I don't really remember telling you about Ryan and Grace's wedding, but since Mercy and I were both there and at that time it was never too far from my mind, it doesn't surprise me that we did. You must have told us that you were going to do a co-op in Bloomington and that was why Jonny invited you, so you had connection to a church.

I can picture a place along the highway where we were having a conversation. I know Rebekah and I were talking with you, but I cannot remember what exactly it was about. I think you might have told us about one of the many places you've visited or that your sister lived in Japan. It's interesting to think that these vague things I scarcely remember were probably about your mission trips to China and Romania, living in the Dominican, your family's travels, your tree story, and so forth. I don't remember much. Though I liked this friendly, quiet girl (as I think I had thought), I didn't expect to see her again.

The most vivid memory I have of you on that trip was on the way back. You had volunteered to sit in the front (somehow discerning that I didn't want to, already able to read me well). They had been joking and warning you about how Rebekah and Jonny's brother Ben drove slowly, never above the speed limit. When we stopped for gas, after Ben shut the door, you turned around, with that wide-eyed, very expressive look that I love, and said, "He does drive slowly!" And of course, as always, nothing that you say can be properly written down, for the words cannot relay your indescribably wonderful voice. At that point, I picture you as I know you now. Other than that, I cannot quite see you as yourself.

I saw you once again soon after that. You visited college group at Nick and Heidi's apartment once. I remember which wall you sat against and that Joy was there that night too. Other than that, I remember more about sitting on the couch by Ryan and Grace and joking about Gerald with them than anything about you that night.

I met you again one year ago. After discovering the Bloomington concert, we went back. As we sat in the pews, I recognized someone in the choir. "There's Ruthie!" I told Rebekah, pointing you out.

Afterwards, we talked to you. You were surprised to see us, I think, and that I remembered you, and I think I may have gotten my first Ruthie hug. I remember you saying that you were coming back in January and that you would come to our church.

After the rest of a stuffed-full, delightful December and a bit of January, I had forgotten that you might come until one Sunday I saw you. "Ruthie's here!" I said to whoever was beside me--Melody, perhaps. "Who's Ruthie?" she asked. "She went to the concert with us last year. I forgot she said she was coming here." I believe I went over and said hi to you.

I don't remember much of the beginning of that year. I remember when you were going to be in the Student Union at UT doing some sort of presentation, so I decided to go see if you were there. I think I may have startled you. Eric had just filled out a form and got a water bottle. You started telling me that your time was about done, but I could talk to this other guy--but I said good, I wasn't really interested in computers but in talking with you.

Then I walked out to the car with you. I don't remember a lot of what we discussed, but I remember pretty clearly where we walked and thinking that I really liked this Ruthie. We went past this fence and into this parking lot in an area I did not know on the side of campus closest to Engineering--now a quite familiar area.

We discussed school, and I think that I told you then why I had decided to go to school, and for the first time perhaps I went away smiling because of your encouragement. And also for perhaps the first time I noted your sweet gray-green Explorer. I like your car. The color is cool, and it always makes me excited when I recognize people's vehicles. Mostly, though, I get excited when I see it because I expect to see you.

Even though I don't remember much before then, I considered you a good friend by the time you agreed to come to our women's summer Bible study. That was about the time you decided to stay in the apartment at the Armentrouts'. Both of those things made me happy. I found it amusing when you and Mrs. Armentrout both appeared at Bible study unbeknownst to the other. "I could have told you that," I said.

Probably the reason I don't remember becoming friends with you is that, as you have sometimes kind of complained (or as close to complaining as you get), you just fit in so well so quickly, that everyone assumes you know things you haven't been told. Because we just can't--or don't want to--imagine life without Ruthie. That's the worst. 

Then there was Backyard Bible club--two of them, actually. You added so much fun to BYBC, and there you got more taste of the craziness that is the Beerbower family, the "vortex that once you're sucked in you cannot escape from," as Uncle Al said.

Although that might have been more at the Exaltation concert in May, where you said you fell in love with my family. I loved how you fit in so well, how you appreciate my parents, how Mom (and later Aunt T) makes you die laughing, how the kids love you. Although, "everyone loves Ruthie."

As you would say, True, that. No, but really.

Your calm, peace-loving and always sweet disposition is the perfect complement to our family's exuberant, dry-humored and always sarcastic nature. As is your realistic discipline to our free-spirited, that-sounds-fun impulsive tendencies, and your unbending calm confidence that won't stoop to indulge our love of a good argument and the way we "state [our] opinions as commonly accepted fact."

I delight in your adorable voice and your way of speaking. I often remember once when you said, "Jeannettie, you're coming with!" I know that's silly, but you were happy I was coming and your voice and way of speaking are so delightful. Plus I especially enjoy how you say my name. And it makes me happy that you always call me Jeannettie, as only a few certain people who really love me do.

I love the goofy, eyebrow-raising, wide-eyed face you put on for my pictures. (The first time I noticed that at the camping trip, I thought, That just happened! Okay, maybe that was before I used that phrase...)Your height, perfect for giving real hugs, makes me happy. You don't know how much I appreciate your company, your interest in me, your indulgence when I want to verbally organize my thoughts, and your reliably practical and calm responses to my idealistic, flighty ramblings.

There are some people that when you think of them, you must simply marvel at God's graciousness to you that He put them in your life. You're one of them. Thinking of how God has worked in your life and connected it with ours, I can't help but rejoice. (I hope you do too, because you know we're never going to let you get away from us. :-)

As you would say, You're the best thing ever.

Truth.

I am so glad God blessed the world with you, Ruthie. Happy birthday. You're the best.

I love you, Ruthanne.

True story.


*Words in italics are copyrighted by the Ruthie-Jeannette phrase-stealing club and should be read in Ruthie's voice.

Seeing What I Said

I found a quote a while ago that I immediately loved. Quotes are delightful when they say something that you realized you had always thought but had never had the words to say before.

There's some debate as to who really said it and what they really meant, but I don't really care, and I take it at face value like this:

How can I know what I think unless I see what I've said?

I think the first time I saw it, it said, "How can I know what I think unless I read what I've written?"

It was one of those quotes that is so perfect it makes you smile. It exactly describes what I thought. Often, when I am confused I will write, and then I will realize, "Oh, that is why I feel like that. I didn't realize that was what I was thinking." Somehow, having concrete words put to feelings makes them much more objective. Most of the time it shows me how silly my thinking is. For example, in a recent post I told how I had written that I needed to be content with God's love. Then I realized how ridiculous that was. How could I think something so ridiculous?

That is why I write, and why I write whether others read it or not.

If I could have one (frivolous) wish, it'd be for another lifetime. One would be for living life, and the other devoted exclusively to reading and writing. There is simply not enough time to do all the reading and writing needed.

Actually, as we did when we were kids, my wish would be for three wishes. Then I would wish for a life for reading and for a life for writing. I haven't figured out what I would use the third wish for. I would have written that I would wish for two more wishes, but we always wished for three wishes, and two just doesn't seem right.

I remember very distinctly when we started the first orphanage we played, my younger brother and sister had been thrown into a maze, where they met a man who gave them three wishes. One was for horses. When I met, them, however, they were walking. "We should have wished with those wishes that they wouldn't run away!" they said.

There are a lot of things I would wish for with an extra wish...big things for my family, spiritual things...but there is a reason we aren't granted a wish for whatever we want. Really, if I was offered a free wish, I would probably decline it, or ask for something really quite small and silly.  Unless it was something like God's offer to Solomon....) Because we are very finite in our wisdom and it's often good we don't get what we ask for.

And, thinking of Solomon, I realize that I have that anyway. What I would really use a free wish for, if I were really offered the chance, I can ask for and receive. Because I'd ask for a heart that longs for Christ over all. Or that He will give that to my siblings or family or friends. I don't need free wishes. I have a God who knows what I need.

That was quite the tangent, wasn't it? But there you have it: the reason I write. Those thoughts just came from thinking as I wrote. Writing can transform your thoughts. It is a way of meditation.

The other reason I write is because I forget. Every once in a while, I get lost for a few hours in my old blog posts, journals, or other writings. It's good to be reminded about what the Lord taught me.

And sometimes, I write because I'm compelled. Sometimes I have thoughts and feelings that must be expressed. Some of my favorite poems come from these times. This one, for example. Poetry is good for expressing thoughts that are hard to express. Writing randomly is too. This is why I enjoy writing randomly. I never know what I'll discover.