My Life in Layers

All These Things

2011-09-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." (Matthew 6:33 KJV).

I have a confession. I haven't been seeking first the kingdom of God lately. I've been seeking "all these things." That verse from Matthew 6:33 can roll off my tongue in no time, but I can't seem to get the message to penetrate my heart.

Lately, "all these things" have wrapped their burdensome weight around my mind and have bid stress to course through my veins like a toxic wash. It's not that "all these things" are bad in and of themselves. Instead, it's that I find myself needlessly focused on them, causing unwelcome foes to seep into my bones... worries, fears, questions, doubts. I feel frustrated by their intrusion. And then, I remember.

"Seek ye first." I hear those words whispered in my ear, cutting through the panic that sets in when "all these things" turn traitorous and cause my mind such unrest. "Seek ye first."

I hear myself say, "Yes, Lord. For then 'all these things' will fall into place...if I seek Your kingdom first." That remembrance floods my heart with peace. All I have to do is keep my eyes on Christ. All He asks is that I follow Him and listen for His voice. When I do, like a dissipating storm, "all these things" will shrivel from the gluttonous power I was granting them before and will no longer dominate my very being.

I find that the truths of Scripture seem to instruct me little nuggets at a time. Right now, "Seek Ye First" as well as "All These Things" are two three-word phrases that have continually rung in my heart, reminding me that there really is a godly way to prioritize living.

Lord, teach me to get this right. Teach me to seek You and Your kingdom first. Then, as "all these things" fall into their proper place, may I be quick to give You praise.

The Teacher Learns

2011-09-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

As I prepared for my time with children in Ukraine, the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 kept coming to mind. It was one of those times in life when I truly felt God leading me. The more I thought about it, the better it seemed. There were multiple truths to pull from the story, many of which would probably strike a chord with the children I would be seeing. The event takes place near a lake. Ukrainians live near the Black Sea. The event involves fish and bread. Ukrainians love fish and bread. The story involves a little boy. I would be working with children. Most importantly, the story beautifully portrays the compassion and power of Christ, making it the perfect segue into sharing the good news of Christ's sacrifice for mankind. It seemed to be the perfect fit.

As it turns out, it was the perfect fit for my own heart while I was in Ukraine. I pray that some of the precious kids who came to our programs were impacted by what they heard. I may never see that harvest, but I do know that Christ used that story to teach me new and deeper truths. Allow me to explain.

The story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 (which can be found in John 6 in addition to the other gospels) showcases a little boy. When a huge crowd of followers flocked to Jesus at the end of a long day, they were a hungry and exhausted group. Jesus' disciples, coming off as either annoyed or alarmed, pleaded with Jesus to send them away so they could find food and get some rest. However, Jesus had compassion on the crowd and saw that they were not only physically hungry, but spiritually and emotionally hungry as well. He told his disciples to feed them, knowing full-well that the disciples would find that suggestion outrageous and impossible.

Then entered some sweet little boy who happened to have five loaves of bread and two fish. Though that would hardly make a dent in the crowd's hunger, the boy offered the food anyway, showing a level of faith and trust that the disciples themselves lacked. It would have been easy for the little boy to think, "Why bother?" Yet, for whatever reason, he put forth the minuscule portion he had, not worrying about what real difference his puny offering would make.

As it turned out, Jesus used that small offering to feed the whole crowd, miraculously turning an insignificant offering into an abundant feast. Amazing. Jesus Christ, God incarnate, used what might have seemed useless to bless a desperate crowd.

As I taught this story five days in a row, the truth of this ministered to me. Going into the trip, I wondered if there were any way God would use me in Ukraine. After all, I didn't know the language, and thus it seemed silly for me to prepare and teach a Bible story when there were believers who knew the language who could do it more easily and perhaps more effectively. Yet, as the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 indicates, God doesn't always work in ways that are obvious. Sometimes, he chooses to use weak and strange means of shedding his grace.

Every time those doubts invaded, I would remember to forget my questions and to offer my measly bread-and-fish service to the people of Ukraine. After all, it doesn't matter who I am. It matters Whom I serve. My Lord is Jesus Christ and He holds more power than I can imagine. He can use whatever I offer him in pure and simple faith. So, though I often felt underqualified and a bit out of my comfort zone while in Ukraine, I know that I learned a valuable lesson there from the lesson I taught the children: I serve an all-powerful Savior and He works in wondrous ways.

How do you say "Yum" in Russian?

2011-08-13T06:18:00.000-07:00

Sunflower fields in full bloom are magnificent. In Ukraine, they're everywhere. Graceful stalks of green crowned by yellow-fringed brown orbs wave gently in the breeze, turning their luminous faces toward the light. I never realized Ukraine grew so many sunflowers, but, apparently, sunflower seeds are considered the national snack. The pants are also used for producing sunflower oil.

Ukraine is often considered the bread basket of Europe. Rich soil readily grows all kinds of produce. I wasn't in the country long before I knew this first-hand. Farmer's markets were everywhere. Fresh produce was abundant. I tasted some of the best tomatoes, watermelons, cucumbers, potatoes, apricots, corn, plums, and melons while there.

In the last village we visited, multiple apricot trees graced the grounds near the church (which was a bright pink color :)). The little orange fruits were fully ripe and were falling from the trees, creating a mushy carpet beneath the sprawling limbs.

Luba, one of the translators, immediately went about collecting in-tact fruit from the ground. Such an activity seemed automatic for these people. It was not the first time I had seen one of our translators reach for fruit from a random village tree. A few days earlier, my translator, Anna, plucked a petite pair from a tree and handed it to me to enjoy. It should be the most natural thing in the world to eat fruit right from any ol' tree, but for some reason, I felt hesitant. It was just a bit foreign to me.

One of the apricots that had ripened near the pink church was offered to me. Brushing the dirt off of the fuzzy skin, I sank my teeth into its flesh and was greeted with a burst of flavor. I had never eaten an apricot that was so tasty! If you look closely at the photo to the right, you'll see hundreds of apricots in this tree in addition to a village boy who had climbed up high to harvest them.

A couple of the Ukrainian woman with us gathered a huge pail of fruit from the tree and paid the man who owned it. I was so intrigued! How fun to be on a little day trip, and, on a whim, harvest enough apricots to make a gallon of apricot jam! These Ukrainians know how to live!

Another very common sight were grapevines. Often, there would be a carport-like structure next to a village house. Growing on the iron skeleton would be luscious grape vines. Picture-perfect clumps of grapes served not only as a means of food but of decoration as well. I never had the pleasure of trying these grapes as they were only just beginning to ripen. That's not to say that I wasn't tempted to reach up and pull them from their shady home.

Not suprisingly, we had no shortage of amazing food to eat while in Ukraine. In addition to a wide variety of fresh produce, Ukraine is known for its love affair with borscht, a soup that has many varieties but usually contains beets and other vegetables. On the three village days that we were fed by local Ukrainian women, we were fed borscht. I loved it!

One day, our hostess served us huge bowls of the steaming soup. After putting a dollop of homemade sour cream on top and grabbing a slice of homemade bread, I devoured the goodness. It tasted even better as we sat outside under the shade of a huge tree and listened to the testimony of the village pastor. Thinking that was all we would be served, I chowed down on the soup and helped myself to more homemade bread.

When I had finished my bowl, the sweet hostess pulled it from in front of me and returned with a steaming bowl of potatoes and chicken. The bowl was filled to the top and it was a papa-bear-sized dish. I felt a bit overwhelmed. I was nearly full, but I didn't want to disappoint my hostess or give her the wrong impression, so I ate as much as I could. The food was so fresh and so delicious that I wished for a second stomach. After eating half the portion, I knew I had to stop the feasting. Turning to my translator, I asked her to apologize profusely for my inability to finish the portion, but to tell the hostess how much I loved the food.

I'm pretty sure I gained a few pounds over the week in Ukraine. The food was so plentiful and mouth-watering and both our Ukrainian and American hosts and hostesses lavished it on us at each meal. I can give personal testimony to the fact that this land really is the bread basket of Europe. Yum!

A Day in Ukraine

2011-08-11T04:35:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you what a typical day was like for me while I was in Ukraine.

Waking to a small alarm provided by my wonderful hostess, Holly Friesen, I would pull myself out of bed to the smell of delicious coffee. Holly, a full-time missionary who is a trained nurse practitioner, made me feel so at home. Our mutual love of coffee was an instant bond, I think. Knowing a fresh cup of joe was available for me upon awaking fueled my morning routine.

As I readied for the day, I would stop at a window to behold the breathtaking views of Odessa afforded by a tenth-floor apartment spot. Relishing the foreign cityscape and unique sounds of the hubbub far below, I would eventually move to the kitchen where Holly would have a yummy breakfast prepared. Fresh fruit purchased from nearby farmers' markets was a highlight as were scrumptious squares of homemade baked oatmeal.

We would linger at the table, sipping coffee and enjoying rich conversation. Then, as the time for departing to a nearby village drew near, I would pull on my backpack full of craft supplies and grab the poster I had depicting Jesus feeding the five thousand. Slinging my green purse over my shoulder on the way out, Holly and I would ride the elevator down the shaft, stroll past one of the old guard ladies at the apartment entrance, and sit down on a bench outside to wait for my ride.

Shortly thereafter, a vehicle would pull up, usually driven by one of two Ukrainian men who were believers and who helped out with the ministry. My dad, who was staying with another missionary couple (Bruce and Carol Bagley) would already be in the car as would Carol Bagley. Carol, a seasoned missionary to Ukraine, came along to help me run Bible programs for the village children each afternoon.

I would load my things into the car and say goodbye to Holly, whose nearly full-time task right now is to study the Russian language. Then, we would take off, meandering through the streets of Odessa. Driving within inches of other cars and bold pedestrians who dared to cross the buzzing streets, the van would pull off here and there to pick up our remaining team: two translators and two pharmacy/lab assistants. These women, all Ukrainians and all believers, were wonderful and helped to make the week incredibly fun.

After stopping at a church to pick up the materials for the traveling pharmacy, we would be off to the village destination of the day. Some villages were about 40 minutes away from Odessa. Some took over two hours to reach. Some roads were nice and provided for a smooth ride. Some were incredibly bumpy or were simple dirt tire tracks cut through a field.

Always eager for new experiences, I would feel excitement bubble within me as we pulled into a village at the beginning of the day. Enchanting, colorful houses, livestock tethered by the side of the road, and man-made piles of hay dotted the sides of the street. When we reached the church or meeting center where the clinics would be held, we would unload from the van and be greeted by the sereneness of a country day.

Sometimes, when we arrived, the patients would already be lined up, ready to see Dad, the doctor for the day. At a few of the locations, a little service would be held with these gathered patients where a pastor would give a testimony about the Lord and then pray. At a couple of the clinics, my dad got to share some of his testimony (with his fun translator, Luba, by his side).

After the ceremony, the pharmacy would be assembled and my dad and his translator would set up shop in whatever room was provided as the examining room. Some rooms were better equipped for this task than others, but they all accomplished the said task: to minister to and share the love of Christ with the people of the village via medical care.

During the morning hours, I would sit and chat with Carol and my translator Anna. These times were precious. I learned so much about the Ukrainian culture and the Russian language in these sessions while soaking up the scenes of the village. A few times, I took walks in the village to explore the area and capture a few photos.

After lunch, which in of itself is a blog topic, Carol, Anna, and I would prepare to hold our Bible program for the children in the village who chose to come. We would have anywhere from 10 to 30-some children come for these programs. Singing, a Bible story, the Gospel message, a snack, a craft, and games were all included. Interacting with these children was like a dream. They were precious and sweet and funny and ornery and intuitive and creative and basically everything kids are. In spite of the language difference, I was blessed by them each day.

Once the Bible program was over and my dad finished with all of the patients and home visits on his schedule, we would load back up, drive home, drop the pharmacy and folks off at their respective locations, and head for dinner at one of the missionary's homes. We usually didn't eat until between 7 and 8. By the time we finished dinner and found our way home, it was nearly time for bed.

Now you are aquainted with a typical day for us while we were in Ukraine. They were long days, but fun and rewarding days too. They are days I won't soon forget.

"Ootka, Ootka, Goose!"

2011-08-09T07:12:00.000-07:00

Early this morning, the bright green numbers of my alarm clock mockingly declared me a jet-lag victim: 4:44. With an annoyed groan, I flipped over, pulled the covers tighter, and tried to shake the awakeness I felt. I had gone to bed only five hours ago. My body surely wasn't done resting.

As I snuggled deeper under my sheets, I recalled the deep nap I had taken the afternoon before. I had been reading when I suddenly felt an extreme exhaustion unusual for the late-afternoon hour. As soon as I had given in and stretched out on my couch, I was ushered into a sound sleep. Hmmm. No wonder sleep was eluding me now. After fifteen more minutes of feigned snoozing, I threw the covers off and marched into the living room, flipping lights on as I went. Five hours of sleep it is. I didn't want to waste any more time lying in my room.

Whatever jet lag I may be experiencing right now is a small price to pay for the rich opportunity I had to accompany my dad to Ukraine last week. I feel blessed beyond measure by the people I met there, the beautiful countryside I saw, and the paradigm-shaking culture I encountered. Enchanting, overwhelming, mystical, foreign, dark, profound, beautiful, convicting, eye-opening. These are a few of the words that describe my view of that far-away land.

Stories are plentiful. Musings are varied. Processing is needed. Encounters are imprinted in my mind like selective loops, short and repetitive. One such memory is an adorable village boy who attended one of our little day camps on the first day of the trip. Unaware that I really couldn't understand the Russian he was prattling, he kept peering at me, wringing his hands, and crying, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Over and over. Enchanted by his foreign tongue and amused by his enthusiasm, I smiled at him and eventually glanced at my translator. "What's he saying?"

My translator chatted with him. Within his explanation, he would occasionally repeat his chant, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Accompanying the chant was that wringing hand motion. Turns out, he was begging me to play a form of "Duck, duck, goose" that he had recently learned at a Christian camp. The wringing hand motion represented a wet rag that the player who was "it" would wring over the chosen "goose", dousing them in water under the warm Ukrainian sun.

I laughed from deep within, so enthralled by the boy's excitement and further intrigued that "ootka" meant "duck" while "goose" was basically the same as our English "goose". I wished so much I could burst from the few Russian phrases I knew to interact with the boy myself, but I could only hope that my laugh and smile communicated something of my heart to him.

That's just one snapshot of my time in Ukraine. Perhaps the most profound thing is how faith in Christ unites people of every culture. Meeting those who knew the Lord there created an almost instant bond, even if our communication was limited. That's amazing to me and speaks to the power of the Holy Spirit.

Jet lag will pass. The impressions and experiences Ukraine afforded me will remain. I pray that I will be faithful to learn the things God would have me to from my experience there.

The Wonder of Paris

2011-07-18T13:02:00.000-07:00

I can still feel his hand grip my elbow in a grateful squeeze. The sweet French man who waited on me for dinner. I think we bonded after I stumbled over the few French words I could muster, pointed awkwardly at the menu to indicate what I'd like, and giggled relentlessly at how foolish I felt in my ill attempts to translate English thoughts into beautiful French sounds. While perched on a petite sidewalk chair, I feasted on croque monsieur and reveled in storybook French atmosphere. When it was time to leave, my friend and I laid our tips on the table and slipped between tightly-packed tables to the sidewalk. The gentle waiter gripped my arm as we left and sang his French thanks, "Merci!"

I can still see the curly dark hair swirling round to crown his young and attentive French eyes. The alluring boy-man who pointed out his favorite chocolates and named rich delicacies with his heavily-accented English. Tucked away in a quaint, small Paris street, the sweets shop where he worked was impeccable and decorated in deep purple and black. When I stepped inside, I clasped my hands and lavished words of praise and exclamation over the dainty chocolates and cookies that rested under the glass counter. Each moment seemed enchanted as his life and mine intersected over the purchasing of Paris-landed chocolate.

I can still see the lines crisscrossing up the marble mass, etching out the muscle details that artist Auguste Rodin meticulously crafted a century ago. Sculpture after sculpture rested in frozen action, displaying a wide array of emotion. Lifeless forms posed amidst beautiful greenery on the grounds outside as well as in spacious old rooms within the museum building. How a slab of marble can move one's soul is a mystery. I can almost feel the artist's breath, aired warm and heavy onto the masterpiece before me. The breath that exhaled while the soul crafted intangible qualities into the tangible mass. It reminds me of Creator God, the ultimate Artist, sculpting uniqueness out of dust. It speaks to me.

I can still taste it. Wonder. The wonder I feel ooze through my being as I stroll the streets of a place so intoxicating, I can barely describe it to those who haven't been. Am I too dramatic? No. Not really. My mind reels to put into words what captures my heart when I am in the city of Paris, France. When there, I feel entranced. History seems to groan and stretch in that place. I can almost touch it, taste it, see it, hear it. I see stone that those hundreds of years before saw too. I strain to experience their lives. Human pain, fear, excitement, toil, joy, heartache, love, laughter, and every possible thought and feeling that we know today wrapped in the facade of a different era. I want to know what it was like then. I find times long ago tantalizingly close. The past mingled with now.

Is that why it is unspeakably rich to Wyoming-girl me? To a kid who grew up in an area with hardly any old history tangibly intact? I am really not sure. What I do know is that I want to go back. I can't seem to get enough. I pray that Paris and I can once again greet each other and that I can walk her magical streets once again.

For Love of Touch

2011-06-27T12:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I wish our United States culture were a bit more touchy...in a good way.

While in El Salvador, I looked forward to the 4:00 hour each afternoon. At that time, the Salvadorian students would be done with homework time and would appear on the grounds of the children's home, ripe and ready for fun. Playing and interacting with them was as enchanting as it is with any energetic kid. Yet, there was something uniquely rich about being with these Spanish-speaking sweethearts: they were unashamedly loving.

I was perhaps most touched (no pun intended...seriously) by their constant hugs. Without hesitation, arms would extend and wrap around me and in an instant, my heart would be warmed. I hugged them back, but somehow I feel they gave more than I could repay. Not as though love is quantifiable. It's not. But if it were, and if I were a betting woman, I would bet a Starbucks or ten that I lost in the effort of love-giving while in El Salvador. The sweet smiles and love and the pure interest they had in interacting with me enriched my life.

Love can be shown in so many ways, but I sometimes wish folks in the States were more affectionate with each other. There is something about touch that communicates love in a way words cannot. A hug, a pat on the back, a reassuring grip on the arm...these are all gestures that speak richer meaning than a well-spoken word.

I wonder if those children in El Salvador know how much it means for we Americans to receive love from them. To me, it meant more than I can say.

We're All Broken

2011-06-23T09:52:00.000-07:00

It's a blissfully sunny day here in Colorado. As this week has progressed, I have found it a hard discipline to sit and reflect on the happenings of last week in El Salvador. This particular struggle reminds me of a trip I took as a sophomore in college with my good friend Rebekah. Over a long weekend, we traveled with a group of college students to the inner city of Chicago to be exposed to the grim realities of inner-city life.

One night on the trip, Rebekah and I stayed up for some time, propped up in our sleeping bags, discussing the things we had experienced and hoping that the things that were gripping our consciences at that moment would not escape into oblivion when we returned to "normal" life. Yet, when I was back on campus, flooded by all the demands of college life, it was hard to keep those images and needs and heart-wrenching feelings vivid.  I recall my frustration that my sense of urgency was fading. I think this is normal, but I wish with my whole being it weren't.

I guess this is why journaling is so valuable. Reviewing the thoughts that struck me about my recent trip will aid me in holding onto the things that impacted me most while I was there. I pulled my journal out today and found a big topic that impressed me while in El Salvador: "We're All Broken." These were my mother's words that she expressed during one of our team devotionals last week.

She spoke them during our debrief about the destitute community we had visited the day before. We were all batting around the ideas of poverty and riches and happiness and sadness and how all of those factors are correlated. It's an age-old tension of thought.  How much does material and financial security contribute to happiness? Though most people would say that material needs aren't necessary for true joy, there is still heartache and deprivation that is caused by poverty that those who are wealthy don't experience in the same way. Yet, as is also common knowledge, some people who have extravagant material possessions are strikingly sad and full of despair.

There is some sort of balance to be struck, but I think my mom's words were perfectly poignant: "We're all broken."  When gauging a measure of fulfillment, material possessions are truly a smaller factor than we often realize. Of course there is sadness in poverty. Of course there is emptiness in extreme wealth. Yet, the bottom line is that we all live in a broken world that is constantly screaming in pain because of the unfair pendulum swing of life. Rarely is that pendulum perfectly in the middle. Every human in every situation feels a stinging consequence of some aspect of the tilted pendulum. One man's sorrows are not another's, but we all face the brokenness of our human heart and the shrapnel of the world around us.

I am not at all downplaying the hardships that those in true poverty experience. I understand that they need love, support, prayer, and help. I am cognizant that there are people who live horrific lives that I cannot comprehend. My point is simply that comparing sufferings perhaps ignores a more fundamental truth. On some level, we all feel the shards of a broken world tearing at our flesh. The only relief from this pain is to turn to Christ. He alone "heals the brokenhearted" (Psalm 147:3). He alone can truly remedy the deep soul ache that every human in every circumstance faces.

It was hard to see deep poverty in El Salvador. If I could, I would fix it someway, somehow. I felt so fortunate in comparison to the people I saw in that poor community. Yet, those people and I aren't so different. We're all broken people in need of a compassionate Savior. Perhaps solving worldwide poverty is impossible. Maybe solving spiritual poverty is not. It just takes one heart at a time turning toward Christ. What a marvelous, comforting truth! There is a balm for every broken heart. Jesus Christ is His name.

Nothing Beats Experience

2011-06-21T07:53:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, I strolled onto a big jet, tucked myself into my cozy little airline seat, and contemplated the days I had just experienced in El Salvador. I pulled out my simple black journal in the hopes of capturing the abstract and scattered thoughts that were surfacing. During the seven days I was in Central America, I struggled to really debrief with myself. I felt caught up in the moments and found my day-to-day routine a bit surreal. I think that's normal, but as I was given time to just sit during the flight back to the U.S., I was determined to pull some deeper thoughts into clearer view. As I jotted down the aspects of the trip I wanted to focus on in the coming days, one of the phrases I penned was: "Nothing beats Experience."

How true this is. As great as technology and story-telling can be and as compassionate and sympathetic as humans generally are, absolutely nothing can beat first-hand experience in its ability to instruct the heart. My experience in El Salvador highlighted this truth to me yet again. In my lifetime, I've seen a lot of pictures of children around the world who are not so fortunate. I've heard many a story of them as well.

Yet, for the first time, I was touched and loved by such children this last week. I was up close to their stories and their personalities. I watched tears stream down the face of a teenage boy during a prayer service. I heard kids joke and laughed at their sharp wit. I saw their passion for life. I worked on my Spanish via their patient tutoring. I received more hugs from them than I can count. I found out what they like and what they don't. I watched them play soccer and basketball. I sang with them and heard their hauntingly pure voices. I sat next to them and held them close. These children are fortunate because they live in a safe and loving place where they are taught about the love of Christ. Yet, most of them still suffer the heartache of a broken family and some of them have been through things I cannot imagine. Suddenly, stories and pictures of hurting children were a crisp, 3D image that would not have been possible had I not interacted with such children myself.

So, in the coming days, I hope to process a few aspects of my time in El Salvador. God has a lot to teach me. No doubt, my experience in El Salvador will afford me the opportunity to learn more about His kingdom and His redemptive plan. I don't want to miss such a rare gift.

All in a Year

2011-06-09T20:22:00.000-07:00

My coffee pot is chirping and gurgling, preparing some delicious decaf coffee for me to sip on as I enjoy this summer evening. Tonight and tomorrow, I will be busy readying myself for a trip I'm taking with most of my family to El Salvador. We'll be working with a children's home there. To state the obvious, I am excited, though I am sure I will be more so once I am completely packed and ready to board a big jet out of the country.

Today, I had time to reflect on what has happened in my life in one short year. Remembering that I was home in Wyoming for one week at this time last year, I looked up a blog post I wrote last June and was immediately flooded with the emotions I felt surrounding that post. Trust me when I say that they weren't the happiest of feelings. Last summer was hard. Very hard. It was a summer of learning to trust Jesus when many things in my life seemed confusing. Though I am thankful for what that time taught me, I am even more thankful that the Lord has healed my heart and has dramatically changed my circumstances for the better. He did it in one quick and action-packed year. Amazing.

So, as I stare into the horizon, I feel myself straining for a glimpse of the adventures coming my way. No doubt there will be exhilarating, life-giving adventures as well as adventures that may throw me for an unwanted loop or two. That's okay. It's bound to happen, but there is no use dwelling on all the "what-could-happen"s. What I do know for sure is better than any other knowledge I could gain---that I serve a Savior who will never let me fall. I serve a Savior who is in the business of redeeming a fallen world and He has my ultimate good in mind. Amazing.

Time to make some banana bread with the over-ripe bananas piled on my kitchen counter. Over and out for now.

Freedom from Numbers

2011-03-29T19:54:00.000-07:00

After sweating up a storm at the gym tonight, I walked out into the crisp air with numbers swirling in my head. After all, I had just been fed a healthy stream of them on the treadmill from which I had finally escaped. In addition to treadmill numbers, I somehow began contemplating my age and wondered if I could ever trick myself into thinking I wasn't getting older. Of course, I immediately told myself I know better. We humans are all too good at tracking numbers.

As I was mulling this over, I suddenly realized how much I'm driven by, worried about, and just plain dominated by numbers in my life. Numbers like my age and my weight. Numbers like how much money I make, how much I want to make, and how much everything costs these days. Numbers like how many days are left in the school year, how many minutes I have until bedtime or how many calories I should consume in a day. Numbers like how many miles I should run, how many hours I should sleep or how many times a year I should see the dentist. Numbers like how many friends I have, how many phone calls I get, or how many posts I get on Facebook. Numbers like how many miles are on my car, how many new blemishes I can see on my face or how many trips I can take this year.

To be honest, I'm a bit sick of numbers. I know God created them. I know they're pretty cool and can be used for many great purposes (I don't want to offend math people or cause Albert Einstein to roll over in his grave). I understand that God created numbers and that they are not evil. In fact, I loved math in school and have nothing against numbers or the whole system of mathematics.

Yet, I long for the day when numbers of all kinds will worry me no longer. Will that ever happen while in this earthly, fallen body of mine? I doubt it, but I know that whatever heaven is, it will be glorious and wonderful and a place where numbers won't cause me stress. That sounds great right about now.

The Psalmist says, "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom" (Psalm 90:12). God wants us to steward our time and be aware of the passing moments. I know He doesn't want me to live in ignorant oblivion regarding the various aspects of my life. Yet, God also teaches us to cast our worries on Him because He cares about us (1Peter 5:7). There is a balance there that I need, but right now I feel more of a need to let go of all the counting and numbering that I'm doing these days.

Lord, give me a healthy freedom from numbers. Show me what that means, and help me keep my eyes on You.

I Know Who Holds My Hand

2011-02-04T23:00:00.000-08:00

It's scary to write what's on my heart sometimes. Somehow, we humans are trained to put up strong exteriors. Somehow, even when people say it's okay to be real and to cry, it still doesn't seem like it is. Somehow, the walls that we so swiftly construct are easier to build than they are to tear down.

That's why, sometimes, I don't like what I write in my blog nearly as much as what I write in my personal journal. When I take up a pen to let my thoughts flow onto my journal, I have no filter. I let my thoughts and the deepest crevices of my heart bubble to the surface. Sometimes, I barely know what I'm writing as I do, but when I look back, I am moved.

Tonight might be different because tonight, my heart is overwhelmed by the strongest bittersweet emotion. Time passes and each day closes as quickly as it began and I feel caught in an endless cycle of sameness. But when I see the world around me, nothing looks familiar. Everything is morphing and I recognize that my own sameness has fooled me. Suddenly, nothing seems certain. I feel so alone.

In the midst of it, I wonder if my years have taught me anything because I feel vulnerable and like I'm a little kid all over again. I hate feeling vulnerable. I like feeling strong. I despise feeling out of control. I want the reins. I want to set the course. I want to be in charge.

And then, I realize that I must be clay in God's hands. This fighting and struggling and bickering and fearing won't do. It won't make the unfamiliar known or slow the cycle of the days. Nothing I try in my own strength will calm the flood of days that are passing swiftly before me. Nothing but surrender.

I know Who holds my hand. Christ Jesus is His name. He is enough. He is all I need. He can surround me with His love. He will never leave me. He will never abandon me. He will see me through.

I know Who holds my hand and that is all that matters.

The Joy of the Lord

2011-02-01T19:10:00.000-08:00

The temperature is frigid. That might be an understatement. Just possibly. School was canceled today and a two-hour delay is already planned for the morning. My fingers are laced in cold even now as I type.

I have been contemplating joy. Consider Nehemiah 8:10b: "Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength." Nehemiah asks the Israelites with him to not grieve. Though they had seen tremendously hard times and did not know the future, Nehemiah exhorts them to lay aside what pains their hearts. Yet, knowing that humans cannot simply ignore their grief, he goes on to state that "the joy of the Lord is your strength."

The joy of the Lord. Joy is something that is lacking in the raw human heart. There is no natural joy but rather a natural pessimism, fear, and longing that resides in our souls. The happiness we feel upon the arrival of good times lasts but briefly and we are once again left with the grim reality of broken earthly life. It is a sad fact that what ails us gets more attention than those other aspects in life that might actually be in line. We feel the prick of every shard of glass that has broken away from what we know should be.

Yet, there is joy that is supernatural. There is joy offered to us through the grace of God. That joy is not only illuminating and refreshing, it is strengthening as well. "The joy of the Lord is your strength." Anyone who has experienced grief knows how exhausting it is. Pain and heartache saps us of energy, motivation, and the will to live well. We shrivel under such sorrow. Praise God, then, for the joy that He offers and for the strength that it bestows!

Are you in a state of exhaustion or grief? Turn to the Lord. Surrender to Him. Lay your griefs at His feet and watch His joy strengthen your life. You need not wait until times are good. He is asking you to give Him your heart now and to allow His joy to encompass you. His joy will imbue you with life and vitality once again. May this truth permeate you and me today!

Dynamic Life

2011-01-24T20:20:00.000-08:00

When I was a first-year teacher, I cried. A lot. Not necessarily in front of my students. In fact, I usually was able to bar the tears from falling until my planning period when the tears would explode like a sudden avalanche. Sometimes I would cry in the privacy of my classroom. Sometimes I would seek out the comfort of the drama teacher who has been a close friend and mentor of mine ever since.

I would cry about nearly anything that didn't go right. For anyone who has taught for very long, you know how often things don't go quite right in this profession. After all, we work with tons of humans, and for middle school teachers, adolescent humans nonetheless. It's a volatile business, this job, and it takes a tough mind. I was far too sensitive and far too unaware that most of the students' misbehavior had nothing to do with their thoughts or reactions to me at all. It was just their unfiltered, immature reactions to whatever was chapping them that day.

It's interesting to me how certain memories are emblazoned in my mind with very specific details. For example, I can remember the outfit I was wearing when I had one of these breakdowns that first year. Perhaps I recall the gold, white and black skirt and black blouse I was sporting because one of the assistant principals had found me in my vulnerable state and had to sit with me and chat about what was going on. I have distinct visions of looking down at my necklace and noticing my clothing because I was ashamed to be so weak. I'm not sure why, but I remember those articles of clothing and the painful gold shoes I was wearing like it were yesterday.

By the grace of God, I made it through that first year and am now in my fifth year of teaching. These days, I feel like I am turning into a boot-camp instructor. I am tough on my students and tough-minded about my approach in the classroom. Yet, at the same time, I feel that I am more compassionate and more able to see the true needs of students than I used to be. I am not bragging. That would be ridiculous. I have so much yet to learn about this crazy ride called teaching.

Instead, I am simply gratified by seeing the growth I've undergone in these last few years. It's similar to the growth I see in students that I teach. I love watching them come in as kids in 6th grade and mature into teenagers approaching adulthood in 8th grade. They grow in every way possible---physically, mentally, emotionally, etc. There is rarely any aspect of their lives that is not affected within those three years. It is incredible to observe.

As I was walking up the stairs to my apartment tonight, I was contemplating how dynamic life is. It is ever-changing and is always affording new opportunities. God has been gracious to me and has loved me through so many stages in my life. He has bolstered me in rough times and has kept by me in good times. He has helped me to change from an overwhelmed, naive teacher to the slightly-more-confident teacher I am today. I feel full of gratitude and of praise to Him for His hand in this and in all areas of my life. I am thankful for His gift of dynamic life.

Woodhead: Small Town Boy. Big Time Success.

2011-01-15T14:10:00.000-08:00

My Grandpa has always been a fantastic story teller. He can retell even the most mundane happenings in the most charming and hilarious way. So, a few years ago, when he began telling stories about a phenomenal athlete at the local North Platte, NE high school, I didn't over-think it. Sure, Grandpa made this kid sound like Superman himself. But then, Grandpa had that way of making everything in life fun, exhilarating, and interesting. So, there was no need to get too hyper about this reported high school Hercules.

Yet, the stories about this kid kept coming. I quickly realized that my Grandpa truly believed this guy was unusual. He wasn't wrong. Thanks to Grandpa's foresight, the name Danny Woodhead became a household name for me years before it did for football-crazed fans around the country.

I am speaking of the New England Patriot's budding star, Danny Woodhead. That Mr. Woodhead is the same Mr. Woodhead that my Grandpa would proclaim as a sensation when he was playing his heart out in high school. That Mr. Woodhead is the small-town-raised, small-sized machine of a man that my Grandpa often spoke of with admiration and an awestruck shake of his head.

My brother recently brought my attention to the fact that Danny had not only made it into the NFL but that he was becoming downright popular as well. Wow. My Grandpa saw him play many times. He is now one of the wonder stories of the NFL. How fun is that?

Here is an article on Danny Woodhead done by ESPN that my brother shared with me a few days ago. If you want to see a colorful (and a bit exaggerated in spots) view of his North Platte, NE upbringing, it's an entertaining read. I just sort of think my Grandpa should get some credit. He knew this guy rocked from the start.
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/playoffs/2010/columns/story?page=hotread18/DannyWoodhead

It Can all Change so Quickly

2011-01-08T13:48:00.000-08:00

I am sitting in Barnes and Noble, sipping green tea and gazing out at the parking lot. The weather this morning was glorious. I went for a jog in the warm sun and then sat on my porch to read Great Expectations by Charles Dickens while soaking in as many rays as the January sun would allow. It was almost too hot for me, and I had to break to find some sunscreen. I slathered it on my face and the classic summery smell gave me visions of being in a different place at a different time.

I'm glad that I took advantage of the unusual warmth while I could. Winter storms and severely cold temperatures are supposed to invade tomorrow, and the gathering gray and low-hanging clouds that I spy in the sky give warning that such predictions are true. Perhaps a snow day is right around the corner.

It can all change so quickly. Weather. Life. Scary and comforting too. Scary because present bliss may be snatched away in a moment. Comforting because oppressive misery might quickly be relieved.

No matter what, Jesus never changes. One of the most comforting verses for me this last year was Hebrews 13:8: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." I love that truth so much that I've been working on crafting a song based on it. Knowing that Jesus is never inconstant is an understanding that wraps my heart in peace.

The clouds have dimmed the sunlight even more since I first began typing. That's okay. I've had my sun for the day. Let the snow fall.

No Unimportant Person

2011-01-03T21:00:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since I've blogged. In attempting to add another entry, I may find myself overly ambitious. Lately, I've been reading C.S. Lewis, a true mastermind who had the incredible ability to make deep and perplexing matters seem logical and straight forward. I was impacted by a thought of his recently. Writing about it will not be a mindless task.

My good friend, whom I have now known for over 20 years, gave me The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis for Christmas. It is a compilation of short addresses that C.S. Lewis had given at various points in his life. In perhaps his most famous address, "The Weight of Glory", Lewis speaks to the deep and unmet longings that all men experience in the fallen world and suggests how those longings point to the hope and reality of Heaven.

Toward the end of the piece, Lewis talks about how believers ought to seriously consider the plight of the souls they interact with every day. He says that though there may be danger of a believer dwelling too much on his own glorified life to come after death, "...it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour" (Lewis, pg. 45, Harper Collins Publishers).

In other words, every person whom we encounter is an eternal soul that is on a trajectory headed toward a glorious overflowing of life or a dreadful and unspeakable anguish of death upon the end of his/her temporal life. Indeed, there are no unimportant or insignificant people. Lewis begs his audience to remember that "the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you say it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare" (Lewis 45).

It is such strong language, but it conveys his point well. As humans, we are drawn to apathy. We struggle to keep the strong scent of urgency fresh on the nostrils of our spiritual senses. It reminds me of Ephesians 5:16 which urges us to "make the most of every opportunity". Apathy must be barred from my life and yours if we are to be effective ambassadors for the kingdom of God.

This theme is timely with the entrance of the New Year as well. I've heard a few sermons of late that have reinforced this idea of seizing the day and recognizing the opportunities directly in our path. As Toby Mac croons in his song "City on our Knees": "If you gotta start somewhere, why not here? If you gotta start sometime, why not now?"

My prayer for you and for me is that we will take note of even the most uninteresting person we meet. Let us not lose sight of the most important mission God has given us on earth. Let us be diligent fishers of men.

An Outdoor Classroom

2010-09-17T21:18:00.000-07:00

After this week, I don't know how I'm going to work inside anymore.

I try with all my being to not complain too much about the classroom in which I teach. The room is small and contains no windows. After my first year of teaching, I coated the gray walls with a bright yellow color (Honey Butter, to be exact) and that seems to give the room a cheery tone anyway. However, if I had my say, I would have visual access to the outdoors from my choral-director's hangout.

This week was different. This week, I got to spend most all day every day outside. It was glorious. At a camp called High Trails up near Florissant, CO, I spent the last few days roaming the wooded hills and rolling meadows with fellow teachers, high school counselors, 6th graders, and High Trails staffers. I love this experience and look forward to it every year.

This year was the best so far. The weather was absolutely pristine. The aspen trees were beginning to turn and the blazing yellow leaves danced happily against the backdrop of rich green pine trees. The air was warm but a cool breeze was often present as well. Wildlife was active and made our daily hikes adventurous. Perhaps the most unique thing I saw was a huge, unusual-looking grasshopper with a large, white egg sack billowing out its backside.

I love the role playing that goes on at High Trails. This year, I was assigned to the Prospectors discovery group. This track is dedicated to helping students learn about rocks and minerals and about the history of prospecting in Colorado. Every day, the High Trails staffer and high school students in charge of this discovery group dressed as old-timey prospectors in overalls, plaid shirts, and beat up hats. They put on little skits and made students search and dig for rocks and minerals as we made our way around the wilderness. Almost everywhere we were, we could clearly see the west side of Pikes Peak, looming large over the yellow and green hills below.

The food, fun, and fellowship at High Trails was also delightful. Every morning, the best homemade granola I've ever had was set out along with a ton of other yummy items. We all ate family style and were served by 6th graders who took turns being "able waiters".

I'm rambling at this point. The point is, I had an amazing week and wish I never had to work inside after getting to spend so much time outdoors. There is something calming, refreshing, and life-giving about being outside in nature. There is something even more powerful about getting to share nature with others, especially 6th graders who are eager learners and provide a unique perspective to the experience.

Before I sign off, I must also mention the stars. The stars were so incredibly magnificent in the clear autumn sky away from all the pollution and lighting of the city. When I saw the stars this week, it was all I could do to not thank God out loud for the amazing display. I at least prasied Him in my heart.

So, that's all for now. I am quite tired and need to ready for bed. I'm glad I have a job and my classroom at school, but I just might have to figure out how to transport my music classes outside...at least until the first signs of winter arrive.

Tears

2010-09-06T20:36:00.000-07:00

I've been incredibly weepy lately. Everything makes me want to cry, even if I'm not sad. The weekend I just spent in Wyoming was no exception.

I'm not sure what's going on, but it feels like my brain has decided to court my emotions. Today, while watching Emma with my family, I wanted to cry over the hurt that Emma caused Miss Bates even though I have seen the film multiple times before and was not in the least surprised by the turns in the plot. Yesterday in church, I sat in the pew tensely for a full ten minutes, ready to flee to the bathroom in the event that the emotional well brewing just under the surface decided to overflow. The sermon was powerful, but there was nothing overly evocative about it.

Yesterday afternoon, tears blurred my vision over and over as I sat across the table from a dear elderly friend who had taken me out for dessert and coffee. As she told stories from her past, goosebumps and tears overwhelmed me. My feelings were acutely hyper. I wondered what the other folks in the restaurant were thinking of teary-eyed me.

The same thing occurred today as I spent precious time with my mom and dad before leaving Wyoming. I sat at a loss on the couch in our family room as tears flowed and flowed for what seemed like an eternity. My parents sat there and listened as I tried to ramble about why, their presence creating a balm for my heart.

And those are not all the incidents of that kind that I could relate. From this weekend alone.

The truth is, I am not completely sure why this is or what is happening with me. It's especially hard to decipher since I don't always feel like I'm crying out of sadness. It seems instead like I am crying out of intense feeling...feeling for my own hurts, excitements, fears, anticipations...but, more interestingly, feeling for those aspects in the lives of others as well.

Somehow, in some way, the Lord is waking me up to other people in completely new ways. It's like He's peeling back a new layer of my emotions and asking me to feel on a new level. It's a bit crazy. I'm a bit unsure. It's frighteningly and amazingly new.

This is the raw reality of me right now. I have unspeakable joy in the midst of the emotion. I can honestly say that I trust God, even in this unfamiliar territory. I just pray that, if God is doing surgery on me, that I will truly allow Him to cut what needs to be cut and to reveal what needs to be revealed. I pray that all the tears, for whatever cause they are being shed, will somehow be useful for God's kingdom.

Here's to You, Chopin

2010-08-18T19:01:00.000-07:00

I have begun to learn one of my favorite Chopin ballades, Ballade #1 in G minor. Click on the following link to hear one of piano's greatest, Vladimir Horowitz, perform this masterpiece in Carnegie Hall.   It is lengthy, but it is worth the time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhnRIuGZ_dc

This is an incredibly difficult piece so it could take some serious time for me to learn it. I will never play it like Horowitz. Yet, when I sit down to practice it, I thrill at the challenge and am transported by the dissonance and gritty harmony of the work. It's one of those experiences that defies description.

I first fell in love with this piece one weekend night when I was a senior in college. My roommate Jolee and I had decided that we weren't in the mood to participate in the party that was happening in our townhouse that evening and opted instead to curl up on the floor in our room and watch a flick.  I don't remember how we decided on the Pianist or where we even got it, but I do remember that we made comfy beds on the floor, propped Jolee's laptop on a chair so that the screen was angled just right, connected my computer speakers to the thing, and settled in for what we hoped would be an inspirational film.

We were not at all disappointed but had no idea beforehand what we were getting ourselves into. The movie was incredibly sad. It followed the life of a Polish Jew who was a renowned pianist during the late 1930s. Once the Nazi deportation of the Jews began, the Pianist fled and hid over and over again until he nearly came to the end of his sanity, becoming completely hungry, frigid, and all but hopeless.

At that point, he stumbled into a deserted, tattered house that boasted a grand piano. There, a Nazi soldier ran him down, presumably in order to deport or kill him until he discovered the Pianist's unbelievable piano talent. When he heard the battered man play, the soldier was moved by the performance and showed mercy to the Pianist.

The first part of this clip shows the front end of this scene before cutting to a different video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEuWoa4bwLw&feature=related The full scene used to be available on YouTube but I couldn't find it today.  It's too bad.

One thing I remember for sure: that scene rocked my world. Jolee and I were both a mess of tears watching that movie, especially at that point. The amount of emotion in Chopin's music by itself is significant, but when it was coupled with a heartbreaking true story, the experience was overpowering. The ballade stuck with me and I remember searching to find out what it was some time after watching that movie. I had to hear it again.

It's been six years since I was introduced to this Ballade in G minor. It's time I tried my hand at it.  And so it is that I will tackle it the best I can. It's my musical goal for this semester. I'm both excited and curious about this venture. Excited to learn an enchanting piece of music; curious to see if I'm capable. No matter the outcome, the challenge of the experience alone will be worth the time and effort. Of that I'm sure.

Happy New School Year!

2010-08-15T15:02:00.000-07:00

I don't like semi-colons. I never have. They are a confusing punctuation mark for me. Though I know I learned about how to appropriately use them over and over growing up, I still feel like the semi-colon and I just don't click very well. Plus, I think it's an unbecoming and cluttery-looking thing. I'm just not a fan.

I do, however, really like parentheses. Parentheses allow for both random and informal side notes. They grace writing with flexibility and flamboyance. Where would the world be without them? I think the semi-colon could be archived in a heartbeat. The parentheses, on the other hand, would be sorely missed if they were to disappear.

On the way up to Denver yesterday to meet up with a college pal of ours, my friend Lindsay and I bantered back and forth for a good twenty minutes about punctuation marks. It was a riveting conversation. Seriously! Discussing such an unusual subject proved to be a fascinating stimulant for my brain and, I'm pretty sure, also worked to grease up some rusty synapses.

Speaking of rusty synapses and punctuation marks, school starts tomorrow. Actually, only 6th graders come tomorrow, but it is school nonetheless. I am always thankful for the easier load the first day. It definitely helps me to ease back into the school schedule.

I also love the first day with just 6th graders because it gives me time to pour into the students who are scared beyond belief to be facing a new situation. My heart goes out to them each year. Middle school is terrifying, especially at a place as big as where I teach. Tomorrow, I will have to open numerous lockers, pat many backs, croon soothing words of comfort, and give clear directions multiple times throughout the day. There will be both tears and hyper excitement in the eyes of the sweet little pumpkins.

Though I honestly never thought I would have been teaching for this many years and sometimes wonder why the Lord keeps me at this job, I am ready. I am ready to face the new year. I am ready to pour into students and to learn new and better ways to approach my job. I hope I always remember what both a privilege and responsibility my job is. I hope I treat it with the integrity and seriousness that it deserves.

Here's to a new school year! May God give me the grace and strength to live each day to the fullest!

Mom's 24-hour Theory

2010-08-09T11:50:00.000-07:00

Toting as many bags and items from my car as I possibly could, I unlocked the door to my condo last night and stepped into a place I had not seen for a few months. The crisscrossing vacuum tracks on the carpet and the crisp edge to the air told me that my roommate Heather had thoroughly cleaned the place before departing on her vacation. The place seemed welcoming but vacant, as it was.

I wasn't too productive last night and ended up inviting a friend over to watch a movie. I was exhausted from traveling and told myself I would unpack in the morning. Plus, without anyone in the place, I knew having someone come over would help me transition back to my Colorado Springs world.

This morning dawned with cloudy skies and a coolness I have not experienced for some time. I felt invigorated and immediately went about my day, brewing some thick coffee to add a little kick to my step. After reading for a bit, I tore into the huge stack of mail that had accumulated while I was away (sadly, only two or three pieces were of a personal nature). That alone took a significant chunk of time. I then turned my attention to a million little things...paid a bill, wrote an email, made a phone call, checked on this, checked on that...and thus accomplished a copious number of mundane but necessary tasks.

Through this all, I have been thinking about how surreal life in transition is. Of course, this is nothing new and I am reminded of my mother's famous 24-hour theory. She always says it takes at least 24 hours after a vacation or any significant event to feel like things are back to "normal". This theory of hers also contains some addendems such as her suggestion that if one travels across time zones, it may take 24 hours per time zone to recover. She always refers to her theories with a slight tongue-in-cheek approach, but I think there's definitely truth to this theory. I'm claiming it because I'm feeling the 24-hour funk.

I just bought a bunch of fruits and veggies at the store that I'm going to spend some time washing, chopping, etc. That will be a good, mindless activity for me. Oh, and I just heard the rumble of some thunder. Ahhh. Love it. Maybe I can read a bit later to the sound of rain. That sounds fantastic! The perfect way to spend such a day.

Yours truly from the 24-hour recovery zone,

Jessica

Coffee Should Stay in a Cup

2010-08-06T21:25:00.000-07:00

This may be a record for me: two posts in one day. I'm cozied up in bed at my grandparents' house. I've already checked under the sheets for spiders (a long-held and ridiculous ritual of mine) and so have the all-clear to lounge and type a few things before giving in to sleep.

Earlier today, as I left Omaha, I was experiencing Food-Choice Indecisiveness, a condition that causes me to be confused about what I want to feed myself. It began when I filled my car up with gas. I decided it would be fun to have some soda to drink while I cruised down the highway. So, I popped into the convenience store and got some toxic Diet Pepsi mixed with Diet Mountain Dew from the fountain drink station. Check.

As I strolled to the checkout counter, I felt a slight rumble in my stomach. Hmm...a bit early for dinner, but I am quite hungry. I passed a little case of deli sandwiches and decided to buy a dainty turkey sandwich on wheat bread. It appeared decently healthy and I thought it would save me from taking time to get something later. I grabbed it. Check.

Diet soda and sandwich in hand, I got into my loaded Taurus and went on my way. I was soon reminded why gas station sandwiches are not touted as fine dining. The one I had carefully selected was a disaster. The bread was stale on one side and soggy on the other. Yum. I choked it down though because I wasn't going to let it go to waste. Really, Jessica?

So, being small and unpalatable, the sandwich just didn't satiate me. As I drew closer to the interstate, I decided I should get something else. Hmm...but what? It was a struggle, let me tell you. I wasted a good five or ten minutes in deciding, even parking and going into a convenience store only to walk back out because I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what I should eat.

Finally, I decided that something sweet would be perfect. At the same time, I concluded that my diet soda concoction would have to go to make room for my first beverage love: coffee. There was a McDonald's next to the interstate. Mmm...a hot fudge sundae with black coffee. That sounded heavenly and like it would slide down nice and easy. I figured I deserved something fun to eat to celebrate the end of my summer (I won't tell you how many other times I've celebrated with food this week.)

I whipped Miss Ruby, Jr. into the drive-thru. Though the line was long, I didn't have to be too patient. That's one thing about McDonald's. Their food may be a bit simulated, but they rock at drive-thrus. I was so impressed that I smiled at the braces-laden teenage girl who handed me my food. "You guys are slick!" I exclaimed, full of chipper good-will toward all. Who wouldn't be when about to indulge in ice-cream and hot-fudge goodness? The girl grinned back at me.

As I pulled forward, I paused by the trashcans to dump my toxic soda (sorry to be wasteful, but I did eat the sandwich.) as well as some old coffee that was sitting in my car. As I reached to put the old coffee in the trash, it slipped from my hands, did an acrobatic flip, and splashed unceremoniously all over my shorts, legs, and door. The good news is that it was room temperature, but it was still WET! I just had to laugh at myself for being so clumsy. Ridiculous.

Three and a half hours later, when I arrived in NP, I was still wet. I was too lazy to change along the way and really didn't notice the damp too much. I still had a grand time singing and dancing to music, talking on the phone, and dreaming about whatever as I crusied down the road. My coffee-stained legs combined with the murky-brown wet spots on my shorts were not becoming, but it was no big deal. I was riding solo.

That is all I will take the time to relate tonight. I love sleeping at my grandparents' house, and it's time to give in to my drooping eyelids. Over and out.

A Chapter Ends

2010-08-06T08:41:00.000-07:00

I just hugged my cousin Abbie goodbye. She was the last family member for me to say farewell to here in Omaha. Sad.

Now, I have one more day with the girls I nanny. We're going to lunch with their mom in an hour or two. I'm excited about that. But, when 5:00 rolls around, I'll hug the girls goodbye, drive on past the townhouse I've called home all summer, and point my car west on the interstate. I'll probably have some inspiring tunes rocking my Taurus, but I'm sure I'll glance in the rear-view mirror on my way out of town in recognition that I'm driving away from a place that's worked its way into my heart. It's surreal now, but I can bank on emotions showing up sooner or later.

I'll be driving toward Colorado. I'll stop for a day in North Platte to spend precious time with my grandparents. I'll be experiencing that strange no-man's land of life between chapters. One will have closed but the next one will still be mysterious. Anticipation, curiosity, and a touch of uncertainty will line the thoughts of the future while sentimentality, fondness, and a touch of sadness will flood the thoughts of the past. Yep, that's where I will be in a few short hours.

God has been exceedingly good to me in giving me this summer in Nebraska. I am thankful. I have more precious memories from my time here than I can digest at once. My cup overflows and I'm drinking from my saucer (I'd like to give a shout out to my Uncle Ken and Grandpa for that saying).

These kinds of days make me wish that everyone I love so dearly all lived in Colorado. I don't like having to say goodbye. Then I think of heaven and feel jazzed. There will be no farewells in heaven. It will be amazing, sweet fellowship with those most dear to me. Uninterrupted. Unpolluted. Perfect.

So, here's to cornfields, lakes, family, friends, music, laughter, crying, lounging, game-playing, movie-watching, cooking, baking, dancing, brainstorming, running, swimming, kayaking, storm-watching, town-exploring, and every other thing that has been a part of my summer in 2010. It will not be forgotten.

My Dream Led Me to Holland

2010-08-03T07:53:00.000-07:00

Last night, I dreamt that I was in Corrie Ten Boom's house in Holland. I've never been there, but I've seen pictures and diagrams of the house where she and her family hid Jews during World War II. In my dream, I drifted through the watch shop on the main floor and then walked up a small flight of stairs to the kitchen at the rear of the house. My dream ended shortly thereafter, but the experience up to that point was quite vivid in my mind as I can still picture how things were arranged in the house. I even remember trying to imagine in my dream what life was like for the Ten Boom's.

As is often the case with dreams, I am not sure why I dreamt about that house last night. I do know that The Hiding Place is one of my favorite books and that Corrie Ten Boom is someone whom I admire greatly. I think I like The Hiding Place so much because Corrie is so authentic in the way she retells the events of her life. She does not put on a religious or pious air. She is honest. She doesn't disguise her struggles with anger or even hatred when she and her family are brutally mistreated by the Nazis. She doesn't puff herself up when she tells how God breaks through the darkness in remarkable ways.

The beauty in her story lies in the fact that God used despair to reach both Corrie and the people in her life. Through every fear, He proved Himself a source of strength, comfort, and joy in her life. His work in her led those around her to want a relationship with Christ too. Her story is profound and completely blows me away.

Today, Corrie is famous and her story is an inspiration to many. Hmm. Did she have any inkling that she would be famous when she was sharing a lice-ridden wooden bunk with far too many other women? Did she know that her faith in Christ would comfort strangers years later when she had to stand in freezing conditions without proper nourishment or clothing for hours before the break of day? Did she know that Christ's work in her life would eventually be used to minister to others at the moment she heard the news that her dear sister Betsy had died in the camp? Did she know any of that when the darkness of her life was suffocating?

No. All she had to carry her through those moments was Jesus Christ. All she had was His hand, His comfort, His promises. All she had was the hope of His salvation and the joy of His ultimate victory. That was all she had and it was enough. Though her situation was grim, she and her sister Betsy made use of each moment to share the love of Christ. They did not languish in the dark. They had Jesus Christ. They lived for Him still.

Her life reminds me of Joseph and David in the Bible. Both of these men spent years being treated unfairly in obscurity before the Lord made them great rulers. Even so, these men did not react in human indignation. They knew not what great tasks the Lord had for them in the future, but that didn't stop them from living with integrity in the "now" of their lives. They were diligent and faithful and the Lord never left their side.

If these stories don't prove to those in Christ that human circumstances are no reason for fear or doubt, than what would? "Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and today, and forever." (Hebrews 13:8). He is always the same and He never leaves or forsakes us (Hebrews 13:5). Amazing truth.

A Loose Hold

2010-07-27T13:48:00.000-07:00

I can't commit. I can't commit to a blog post, that is. I have started numerous posts recently only to discard them, frustrated with their lack of relevance, excitement, authenticity, or pizazz. Ugh.

Besides my blog, I keep a hand-written journal that is never consistent unless I'm worked up about something. In fact, my personal journals are very telling regarding what motivates me to write. More often than not, I turn to my journal as a therapy when I am upset and my thoughts need somewhere to run instead of in the circular pattern they seem to find in my brain.

Sometimes, I let my thoughts flow unfiltered from my mind to the journal page with little thought as I go as to what I am writing. As I scribble, I think "This will probably make no sense, but who cares? Nobody is reading this anyway." Oftentimes, those passionate outpourings are some of the most powerful sections I pen. The content is nothing but raw human thought. No pretense. No proofreading. No polishing. No need.

When I write on my blog, I am instantly aware that what I "publish" might be viewed by people besides me. I feel the need to craft my words and I fuss over the formation of my thoughts. That frustrates me. If my dad were here, I am sure he would love to compare such a situation to golf. My dad always finds a way to compare life to golf.

According to my dad (and every other golf guru out there), when playing a round of golf, the best way to succeed is to relax into the game and to hold loosely to the outcome. As a junior high girl who went out to play with my dad often, I had to be reminded of this frequently. I would put a death grip on my clubs and swing as though I were fighting for my life. In such a state, I would only end up expending needless energy and runing my game. There were many times I felt angry on the course. I was too intense. I cared too much. I thought that's how the game was to be played. I paid for it every time.

Thanks, dad. Thanks for the advice on golf and life. How can I hold loosely? How can I write without expectations and the desire for perfection ruining my chances for success? How can I do anything well in life when the desire to appear awesome to any onlookers trips me up? Hmmm. That's some good food for thought.

One thing about it, I didn't go into this post with any specific goal. That's probably a good start for now. Who knows? In the name of holding more loosely (for now), I am not going to rework this thing. I don't have time to anyway. My sister's in town and it's time to sign off and get ready for an evening of fun with the relatives. The end.

A Place of Abundance

2010-07-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

It's overcast in Omaha today. Though it's still a bit muggy outside, the air is definitely cooler. It's a nice break from the crazy heat we've been experiencing. The rich cup of coffee I'm sipping is keeping me company for the moment since nobody else is yet awake in the house.

Recently, I've been struck by Psalm 66:10-12:

For you, O God, tested us;

you refined us like silver.

You brought us into prison

and laid burdens on our backs.

You let men ride over our heads;

we went through fire and water,

but you brought us to a place of abundance.

God tests us. God allows difficulty to overwhelm those whom He loves. How many times have I felt like I've been in prison? How many times have I felt the weight of a burden? How many times have I thought that everyone else is succeeding in life while I am somehow behind, lying limp on the ground like a wounded spectator? How many times has my soul felt burned or my spirit floundered in the flood of life's troubles? Can it all lead to a place of abundance?

Yes. It reminds me of a video of John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress that my brother and I used to watch as kids. It was one of those films that takes a picture book and scans along different depictions of the story while some intriguing voice reads the narrative. I can now see the image of Christian walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, something he had to do in order to reach the Celestial City. The Valley is a dark, dank, dangerous place. It is filled to the brim with every kind of discouragement, confusion, and evil. At every turn, it seems that Christian will plummet off some slippery ledge and lose his way forever. Honestly, the scene in the movie is frightening.

Though the odds seem that he will fail, Christian makes it through to the other side of the valley where morning has dawned and glorious light fills his vision. It is inexplicable that he should have escaped the dangers of the pit except for the supernatural hand of Christ on his life. Filled with relief and joy, Christian sings:

O world of wonders! (I can say no less),

That I should be preserved in that distress

That I have met with here! O blessed be

That hand that from it hath deliver'd me!

Dangers in darkness, devils, hell, and sin

Did compass me, while I this vale was in:

Yea, snares, and pits, and traps, and nets, did lie

My path about, that worthless, silly I

Might have been catch'd, entangled, and cast down;

But since I live, let JESUS wear the crown.*

When my heart is raw from the tortures of the valley, will I still have faith? Will I believe that Christ will see me through and that He will guard my path? Will I choose to trust Him in thick darkness when I cannot be sure of the right direction but for His leading? Will I listen for His voice when voices of confusion and lies are whispering around me? Will I believe that He will lead me to abundance? Will I be sure to give Him the glory when He does?

I must. If I believe that God is who He says He is, I have no other option than to trust Him. I must give my heart into His care and must trust that He, in His timing, will lead me to a place of rest and replenishment. I don't need to know when. It is enough to know that.

Isaiah 43:2: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze."

~Image taken from: http://www.galaxy.bedfordshire.gov.uk/webingres/bedfordshire/vlib/0.information_reference/art_gall_fant_bunyan_vall_sh_d.htm
*Taken from Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress out of Part 1, Stage 4. http://acacia.pair.com/Acacia.Vignettes/Valley.Shadow.Death.html

Water is a Girl's Best Friend

2010-07-14T07:39:00.000-07:00

Weighed down with my laptop bag, my purse, and my swimming bag, I pushed open the front door this morning and stepped into a sauna. Immediately, my sunglasses were shrouded by steamy fog. Yep, it's going to be a hot one. The clock had not yet struck 8 a.m. and yet my summery outfit felt oppressive.

This just in: a text from my cousin sent from her nanny post five miles away. "Welcome to Nebraska!" That's all it says, but I know exactly what she's talking about. Heat, heat, heat! Humidity, humidity, humidity! Where's some Colorado weather when I need it?

Weather aside, I can't complain. I can't really even complain about the weather either since it makes all the fun water activities available to me even more refreshing. I now more fully appreciate the beauty and necessity of lakes and pools. Here I am, just a girl from the West getting a brutal schooling on living the dog days of summer in a humidity trap. I've developed a simple equation for the matter. Heat + Humidity = A Pool or Lake Day. The fact that this equation works in my life right now attests to how fortunate I've been to experience this nannying job this summer.

The older I get, the more amazed I grow at how God orchestrates my life. He knew that I needed to be in Omaha this summer long before I did. There have been many aspects of this situation that have perfectly ministered to me in ways I would have never been able to predict beforehand. The blessings range from simple to profound. Simple blessings include getting the chance to experience a different city for multiple weeks, getting to lounge on a lake or at the pool often, and being able to do more unique and fun activities than I can here name. On a more profound level, I have been blessed by getting to spend in-depth time with my wonderful cousins, getting to pour into and be blessed in return by young girls who are navigating pivotal stages in their lives, and getting to interact with old and new friends.

So, on a vague level, that is the story of my summer thus far. Perhaps I will recount more specific experiences later. Yet, duty calls. I have girls to attend to, heat to escape, and life to fully enjoy! God is good, even in humidity.

Reflections in the Rain

2010-07-04T06:20:00.000-07:00

I have a feeling this is going to be a different sort of 4th of July. It's a Sunday and it's incredibly rainy here in Omaha. Those two factors alone will change things up a bit. The normal action-packed, outdoor-events sort of holiday will not be the story today. Yet, being able to sit and read and reflect before church is much-needed for me at this moment, so I am by no means complaining.

Over the past week, I've had so many blog ideas filter through my mind. I've sat down to write them out a few different times, but I just haven't had the vision to finish them. Stories from nannying are plentiful as are topic ideas from my observations about life here in Nebraska versus life in Colorado. There is so much about which a person could write.

Yet, this morning as I wake up to the day, all I can do is stare at the rain pattering on the porch outside the sliding glass doors. As I've gazed at the hundreds of rippling circles created by each drop of rain on the wooden slats, I have realized that I can see the porch railing reflected on the porch floor. This is not necessarily a novel discovery, but the sudden, conscious recognition of the mirror effect gives me pause.

On a sunny day, such a reflection isn't possible. The bright rays of the sun wipe away the reflection and the swirling grains of wood are all that the eye can see. No rain means no mirror. How then, would the porch railing ever get to see itself if not for the rain?

Rain is often used as a metaphor for hard times in life. I sometimes question that analogy since rain can be seen as a blessing in the Bible and is a refreshing occurrence for many humans. Even so, I understand the comparison, and it just so happens that this comparison deepens my rumination today.

If it never rained in my life, would I ever be able to see a true reflection of myself? If trouble and sorrow and pain never gripped my heart, would I ever pause to deeply evaluate my standing with the Lord? Would I ever stop to gaze into a mirror of my soul and see what lies in the recesses? I'm not sure.

I don't envision myself as a heartless fool when times are good. At the same time, I know for a fact that I am not as completely contemplative or intensely introspective when life is smooth. Throughout Scripture, we are taught that trials are what develop character. Though we know it, we seldom joyfully embrace the troubles that give us pain.

To be honest, I have experienced a lot of rain in my life recently. At times it's been a drizzle. At times it's been a driving downpour. The sky has been cloudy and the stormy winds chilly. Yet, I am learning to take joy in the chance I have to look into the reflection that the rain is providing. The storm has driven me closer to Christ. The tempest has given me pause. I've had no choice but to stop and wait for the storm to lift in order to see what direction the Lord has for me. Within the waiting, my own reflection has been peering at me through the rain with piercing force.

The reflection I see in the watery mirror is not so attractive. I have caught a glimpse of areas within myself that are faulty, unbecoming, or just plain ugly. It's been hard to face the realities that continually rise to the surface. Yet, I think I would have proceeded to trudge along bearing burdensome dross if the rain had not rolled in and bid me stop. The cry of my heart is that Christ will do surgery and remove all that is sinful and unlovely about me. What a painful process that is and will contine to be! Yet, I know it is needed. It will be needed throughout my life.

So, thanks be to God! Thanks be to Him for trials and sorrows that needle my heart and refine my soul! May the Lord keep me in the path of pain if it will make me more like Christ. May I never cease to see how reflection is often clearest in the rain.

Fireflies

2010-06-28T21:31:00.000-07:00

I really should be in bed. The day has been packed with activities and sleep is beckoning me. Yet, I have to pause to reflect on how amazing God is.

Abbie and I went for an evening jog after eating birthday cake and homemade ice cream at a birthday party (not so smart, right?). But, the climate was pristine and the running schedule we're on called for us to kick ourselves into gear, birthday cake or no. The air was balmy but cool, the twilight-covered landscape was glowing, and the stars were blinking in the sky. With my iPod crooning and my legs pumping, I soaked it all in and let the beauty captivate me.

For a Western girl like me, the most mesmerizing aspect of the evening runs we've been taking are the fireflies. The flashes of light in the midst of cornfields and lush trees wow me. Tonight, Abbie and I pretended they were crazed fans stumbling over each other to snap photos of us, Olympic runners extraordinaire (if you read this Abbie, sorry to admit our antics. I'm not ashamed.). Yet, I don't think these little bugs care the least about us. Instead, I envision them praising God with their light show. It must bring pleasure and glory to Him to see the handiwork of His creation.

I marvel at the goodness of God not only in His creation, but in His provision. Seeing the ways He has provided for me in every way encourages my heart. Lately, I've been particularly struck by how God uses people's pain to bless and challenge other believers and to be a distinct witness to those without Christ. It seems that this is a hard season in life for many of the people I care about the most. Yet, in seeing how they have faced the reality of their pain, God has touched my heart in deep and rich ways. There is a distinct beauty and authenticity in pain when such pain is given to God and surrendered to Him for the sake of His glory. God shows His provision and unfailing love most in such circumstances. I want to be an apprentice of such surrender. I want to give God every ounce of who I am, pain and all, and watch how He will hold my heart and never fail me.

Rambling as it may be, that's a snapshot of what I'm thinking tonight. Life for me in Omaha is full. Full of fun, people, rest, newness, and challenges. I am so thankful for this unique opportunity and stage of my life and hope that I don't waste even a minute of it. I want to learn what God wants me to learn while I'm here.

God, thanks for the fireflies.

Oriental Excursion

2010-06-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

Who knew that a touch of China sits on the western edge of Iowa?

One of my aunts who lives in Omaha asked me to accompany her and her family on a little hiking venture last night. Loving to hike and having the evening free, I readily agreed. As we feasted on sandwiches and sweet corn (oh, Nebraska!) before we headed out, my uncle began telling me about our destination. Our adventure would take us to the Loess Hills State Forest which is situated right across the Missouri river in Iowa. He explained that the types of hills that reside in the forest are incredibly unique and are only found in this state forest and in certain spots in China. I was immediately fascinated and ready to explore.

The drive to the park was beautiful in and of itself and would have been a fine outing on its own. As I've said more than once, this area of the country is magnificent. The rolling hills and lush greenery complemented by quaint old houses and scenic pastureland made the drive enchanting. We drove through Crescent, Iowa to get to the State Forest.

Once there, we were greeted by muggy warmth and a group of people with whom we would be hiking. With a camera to capture each scene and a Gatorade to combat the heat, I set out with high hopes. I was not disappointed.

The verdant ridges rolled along like plush camel backs resting on the earth. Birds, butterflies, and plants of all kinds were plentiful. I spotted this little bird to the left flitting through the air. He was delicate and retreated into a large tree, but with my aunt's help, I was able to see him within the branches and train my camera on him.

The hike wasn't vigorous nor long, but it offered a feast for my spirit. Nature never fails to remind me of what an amazing God I serve, and I am endlessly intrigued by how creation ministers to us. At the end of our hike, we went to an observation deck overlooking the Missouri river valley. With the setting sun and the haze of humidity hovering low over the landscape, the vista provided a dreamy end to the day.

Sometimes exotic getaways are just around the bend or across the river. I can't wait for the next surprising adventure that I have.

Trusting the Driver

2010-06-22T07:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had dinner with a friend from college whom I had not seen for over three years. We met at Pepperjax, a fun Omaha joint, and chatted away two and a half hours. As we discussed the course of our lives and contemplated what God is up to in us, my friend said, "I have realized that I may not know where I am going, but I know Who I am following."

Her words resonated with me and they were all the more poignant because she was speaking them from within the midst of hard trials in her life. Most of us like to have an understanding of the game plan of our future. We feel secure if we think we know what's coming in the next few months or years of our existence. We delight in life if we think we have a grasp of what's happening and if we can see a clear vision of the road out the front window.

Yet, as anyone with any experience in life knows, the front window gets foggy sometimes and the defrost just doesn't seem to work. Sometimes the road is filled with potholes and roadblocks and seemingly dangerous terrain. Sometimes the roadsigns are taken away and the GPS system is broken to boot. Sometimes, the Driver doesn't seem to know where He is going and we are forced to bite our tongues and swallow fear. Sometimes we want to take over the steering wheel and pull onto the highway next over that appears calm, safe, and much more comfortable.

As a believer, and in light of all that I understand about the way God created me and about what it means to have a new life in Christ, I want Christ to be in the driver's seat of my life. I know better than to think that taking over the course of my life will be the best plan of action for me. Is it even possible for me to wholly manage my life on my own?

My uncle was recently talking about the concept of "free will" at his church. He mentioned that such a concept is fallacious. We do have the ability to make choices, but we are not free to do absolutely anything we want. For example, we are not free to just go to the moon on a whim. There are some things we cannot do even if we so desire. It would be more accurate to say we have "limited will". Therefore, even from a logical standpoint (not to mention a Biblical one), I come back to the conclusion that surrendering my all to Christ is the only wise, life-giving, God-glorifying, joyful, peaceful, and fulfilling way to live.

That doesn't mean that surrender is not frightening or that trusting my future to Christ is always easy. There are times when the track of life down which Christ leads me becomes dark. Yet, with Christ by my side, darkness should not cause despair. As Corrie Ten Boom put it, "When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don't throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer.”

May I never desire to rush from under the shadow of Christ's wings. May I never scramble to move when the cloud has not lifted. May I never attempt to steer my own life. May I never run in front of my Shepherd. Instead, may I trust the Lord with my whole heart (Prov. 3:5) and believe that He will fulfill His purposes for me (Psalm 138:8).

Loved

2010-06-19T16:14:00.000-07:00

There is a quote by Zora Neale Hurston that goes as follows: "Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place." How true this is! People who know they are loved glow. There is no shell shrouding the light of their face. They beam with the knowledge that they are valued by someone else.

Even Nero and Genghis Khan desired to be loved. I'm sure of it.  No stony exterior can convince me that love is not needed in a life. Every human craves it and is born with a drive to find it.

The problem is that human love is imperfect. Human love sometimes shifts, falters, or fails. Even those with the best of intentions don't love others well all of the time.  How, then, would anyone be able to remain consistently exposed when there is a chance that the light of reflected love will be dimmed?

How? By accepting the love God offers through Jesus Christ. God is Love. He is perfect Love. He created us and loves us more than we can imagine. He loved us so much that He sent His Son to die a cruel death for our wrongdoings (John 3:16). I cannot completely fathom such love although I know that embracing such love nourishes the human soul and brings every part of it into its warm light.

I have been contemplating 1 Corinthians 13:4-7: "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." In a sermon I heard this year, it was pointed out that these attributes are speaking first and foremost about Christ's love. That is powerful. Who could hope for such a love to be lavished on one's soul? It is almost too good to be true. But, it's a marvelous reality for those who are justified through faith in Christ. Realizing how I sometimes fail to demonstrate this kind of love to others is endlessly convicting.

Another amazing aspect of God's love is that it casts out fear (1 John 4:18). Perfect love never leaves the loved one with the feeling that there is impending danger of the love being compromised.  Basking in God's love wraps our souls in a blanket of security. If we know Christ, nothing can separate us from His love (Romans 8:38-39). How much joy should come from such assurance!

So, if today you are hiding in fear of being loved or because you feel unloved, crawl out from your darkness. Christ offers the ultimate love for you. He is what every soul needs as well as the only thing a soul needs. His love is sufficient, unfailing, powerful, perfect, and healing.  I pray this truth will wash over you and me and will allow Christ's love to radiate from our faces.

Who is it About?

2010-06-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

Not me. This life is not about me. As much as I want it to be sometimes, my life is not meant to be a self-pleasing, self-serving venture. There is nothing good that comes of such a life, and God did not create us to live so.

Francis Chan, in his book Crazy Love, speaks on this idea. In Chapter Two of the book, he talks about the fact that God is what life is all about and that our whole purpose on earth is to bring Him glory. This is a fundamental truth to any Christ-follower, but applying this truth to everyday life is tricky business. We are naturally selfish people who are bred to be puffed up by cultural mantras like "believe in yourself", "go after your dreams", and "don't sell yourself short".

It is true that God deems each of us precious and expects us to be people who pursue excellence. It is also true that the Lord has many promises for us, such as the idea that He will never leave us or forsake us (Hebrews 13:5), He will not give us more than we can bear (1 Corinthians 10:13), and that nothing can separate us from the love of Christ (Romans 8:35-39). Yet, in spite of the amazing love Christ has for us and the promises He gives to His children, it doesn't change the fact that we are created for His glory, not the other way around.

I am grappling with this truth in profound ways. Am I really willing to do whatever the Lord bids? Am I really about His glory and not my own? How does one even accomplish this? It must be by a constant surrender and a daily cross-carrying and denial of self (Luke 9:23-24).

I pray that my life will not be about me. What a shallow vision that would be! Dying to self is painful, but I pray the pain will never prevent me from making my life about the glory of God.

Seven Dunks

2010-06-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

Sunbeams streaming through the blinds of my childhood bedroom awoke me this morning. Knowing that sleep was done with me for the night, I decided to roll out of bed and head to a local coffee shop called Brothers on Main Street. With free Wi-Fi (yes, Wyoming does offer current features like that), and big windows through which to gaze, it is a welcoming spot to read, journal, pray, type, and just soak in life.

I am not alone in the place this morning. The table next to me is hosting some men who seem to be regulars. They are leisurely sitting, laughing, and drinking coffee from their own personal coffee carafe. The sound of their laughter right now is music and speaks of comfortable friendship.

Sometimes, I crave to read stories from the Old Testament because, like any good story, they convey truths about God in powerful and creative ways. This morning, I read about Naaman in 2 Kings 5. I had forgotten the part of the story where Naaman got angry over the plan God put forth to heal him of his leprosy (v. 11 &12). He was indignant that God was asking him to dip in a river that he deemed unfit for such an experience.

When I read this, I was at once struck by the humorous aspect of God's plan and also by the childishness of Naaman's response. Yet, that childishness of Naaman reflects my own rebelliousness toward God at times. How many times have I asked God for something or even sought to be right with Him, only to cry and throw a fit when His requirements for that to be accomplished don't match my human solutions? I don't think God tries to make things difficult for us to torture us, but I do believe He sometimes asks for unique acts of obedience just to see if we will obey because it is God's will, not because the path of obedience makes sense to us.

I pray that I will be willing to do whatever the Lord asks of me, even if it seems crazy. I pray that I will abide in Him so that His plan is abundantly clear. I pray that hesitation will not exist in me. I pray that I will be bold and courageous to do what the Lord bids. Even if it requires seven dunks. For I know that no matter what He asks, if I obey, His best for me is in store.

Priceless Heritage

2010-06-06T14:55:00.000-07:00

There are certain experiences in life that are priceless. Those MasterCard ads really have it nailed. Money can't buy everything, especially memories that strike the deepest chords in a soul.

I had such an experience last weekend. It was Memorial Day weekend, and I was gathered with 30 of my extended family on my Mom's side, the Buttermores. Love these kin of mine. When we're gathered together, we are one loud, boisterous, and fun-loving group. My uncles and grandpa alone can entertain us all for hours with their ridiculous humor. It doesn't matter where we are or what we're doing. We'll have fun.

In fact, we all gathered in little Alma, NE, a small town in the south-central part of the state. We congregated there because it was the closest town to Woodston, KS (where my grandpa grew up) that had decent hotel and eating options. Even though the town was small, it was quaint and we had no problem passing the time by playing in the park, having a BBQ at the bed and breakfast where some were staying, or playing cards at night in the lobby of the Super 8.

We were in the area for a couple of days. On Sunday, a group of us traveled into Woodston to visit the church my grandpa attended growing up. I am a sucker for history in general, but it is even more poignant to me when entwined with my heritage. As a sad testament to dying rural life, our group easily doubled the congregation. The bulletin documented the attendance of the previous week as being just 17 folks.

After church, we went to a potluck dinner that was held in the building that used to be a general store. This dinner happens every year on Memorial Day weekend. Folks from the surrounding area come to reminisce over a sampling of old-fashioned potluck food (There were enough pies and meatballs to fill the grain silos outside).

I could probably ramble for awhile about many details, but I'll skip to the events of Monday which constituted the best part of the trip in my opinion. The day dawned with a promise of glorious weather. Though some disagree, I have always deemed Kansas and Nebraska to be amazingly beautiful states. The time I spent in the Kansas countryside on Monday only confirmed that feeling.

We said goodbye to Alma and caravanned with nine vehicles (a bit crazy, I know) for 50-some miles to Woodston. We headed for the farm where my grandpa grew up with many other siblings. I had seen the front side of the land before, but I had never gotten out to trek around on the property. Most signs of the farm are long-gone, but Grandpa drew us all some maps of how everything looked when he grew up, so with a bit of imagination, the place came to life.

I didn't exactly know what we were going to do so I didn't prepare well. I was wearing the wrong kind of shoes for one thing. I thought we were going to tromp around for twenty minutes. Little did I know we'd be taking a 2 and a half hour hike through the Kansas brush.

My 82-year-old Grandpa led our pack and he wasn't slow! At one point, my dad commented on how conditioned he was when he launched off from a small shady spot where we had all paused. Some of the rest of us weren't so quick to leave the shade and move on, but Grandpa seemed to feel no heat or fatigue. He is one tough man and being on his old stomping grounds seemed to transform him into a robust 20-somethings lad.

We saw a windmill he had helped to build, spied a cistern where three of his siblings had once gotten stuck, passed "Rock Hill" where Grandpa had engraved his initials, and trekked to a house where his folks lived before he was born. I was drooling in wonder at getting to enjoy a pristine day, time with family, an invigorating hike, and all on the land where my grandpa played as a child! Enchanting doesn't begin to capture it all.

At one point, we had to cross a creek. My grandpa started heaving logs in the river to make some sort of bridge (I seriously think he forgot his age completely at that point). I had sandal-like shoes on, so I ventured out to cross first since it didn't matter as much if my feet got wet. After a few cautious steps, I realized that the bridge wasn't too sturdy. One of my uncles told me to stop and come back so they could place some more logs down. I felt a bit stuck where I was though and unsure about what any movement would do to the shifting wood beneath my feet.

That's when my grandpa suddenly flew by me. To the horror of the rest of us, we watched while gasping and gawking as he teetered a bit on the shaky logs but spryly bounced to the other bank. We all laughed in disbelief. We knew Gramps was a tough guy and in good shape for his age, but this was no earthly 82-year-old. This was a man transported by the joy of sharing his childhood territory with those he loves most. It was a wonder to see. It was especially impressive to me when I tried following him and couldn't replicate what he had just done. My foot fell into the creek and I lost my sandal in the murky, muddy water (thanks, cousin Jettie, for fishing it out!).

With sun-kissed cheeks and hearts full of life, we finally left the farm and went to visit graves of our ancestors. My grandpa held little ceremonies at the graves complete with song sheets. When the Buttermores sing, there's no ignoring it. Many of them have some powerful voices, especially the men. Singing with them is one of my favorite things to do. Belting "How Great Thou Art" in a cemetery is a moving thing. Tears were not absent.

So, in reflecting on that time, I am blessed. I am blessed to think on the family I have and the godly, magnificent role models I have in my grandparents. My grandma has Parkinson's disease and traveling is not always the easiest thing for her. She had to forgo the countryside adventure, yet she didn't complain or feel sorry for herself. Not then, and not ever. She is the picture of resilience and she radiates the love of Christ. I am blessed and I am thankful that God gave me such a wonderful family. I pray that I will devotedly carry the torch of faith and character on to the next generation.

Time

2010-05-22T08:09:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what this post will be about. Usually, when blogging, I feel the need to have a specific purpose. I don't today. Just have the itch to feel the keys under my fingers and to watch my thoughts unfold on the screen. There is something richly therapeutic about that for me.

This morning, with the sun shining so brightly and the outdoor thermometer in the condo proclaiming a balmy temp, I sported some shorts, a t-shirt, and my Chacos and strolled to the nearby park. It was somewhat early for a Saturday morning...only 8:00 a.m....so there were only a few people out. However, the time of day had no affect on the warmth of the sun. I stretched out on a picnic table bench and let the relaxing rays envelop me.

As my thoughts twirled in my head, I began to contemplate time. Did God originally create us to understand time as we know it now? If we are to one day be in eternity where time will be irrelevant, does it not make sense that time is perhaps a result of the fall and only serves as a sinister monitor of the journey that each human is trekking toward inevitable physical death? From that standpoint, time is something that can cause panic in every soul. In fact, time is something that many people spend their lives trying to ignore.

Praise the Lord for His promises and truths of life after death for those who know Christ. As 1 Corinithians 2:9 foretells, eternal life with Christ will be more amazing than we can even contemplate in our limited, earthly minds. Such a glorious hope!

Yet, time remains a mysterious and intriguing concept to all of us. Time is a huge perspective-changer. For example, when I was participating in a little track meet in 1st grade, I remember glancing over at where some 4th graders were gathered and thinking, "Wow, they are so old!" How hilarious that notion seems to me now.

Similarily, I was thinking today about how I was just a teenager ten years ago, but how the memory of that age feels like eons ago. At the same time, when I think of ten years from now when I'll be 36, I feel like that will still be fairly young. That train of thought relieves my stress about feeling like my life is going uncontrollably fast. On the other hand, when I view life differently (for example, when I think about how I've already taught school for four years), I get that life-is-flying-by sensation all over again.

The bottom line is that I know Christ, and therefore time should not give me any reason to fear. Furthermore, none of us is guaranteed the next moment, so trying to analyze how much time we have left is useless. I saw a motorcycle wreck on I-25 this week where a man was sprawled out on the pavement surrounded by rescue workers. I don't know in what condition that man is, but I'm sure he didn't plan to experience such a disaster that day.

These sorts of thoughts spur me on to live life to the fullest each day. I pray that I am.

O Love That Will Not Let Me Go

2010-05-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

Thank you, George Matheson, for writing the magnificent hymn whose title I so selfishly borrowed to head this post. The story behind "O Love That Will Not Let Me Go" wrenches my heart each time I ponder it. The writing of this text was not inspired by abstract intellectualism but instead by raw experience. At one point in his life, Matheson discovered that he was growing blind. That alone would be troublesome, but the ache of his story ends not there. Matheson was engaged at the time of this discovery. Feeling she could not navigate life with a man who could not see, Matheson's fiance backed out of the relationship, leaving him understandably heartbroken.

What poignant and painfully rich writing came of his heartache! How deeply did he feel from being pushed through the shredding knives of suffering! His poem that was later set to music resonates with me in ways that words struggle to define. There is something almost cathartic about experiencing the art of those who have created out of immense hurt and angst.

Yesterday in church, I sang the words "O no, You never let go, through the calm and through the storm". As I did so, I was encouraged by that truth. There are times when I feel that I have not the strength nor the will to cling to Christ. It is unspeakably comforting to know that He is not letting go. He has His grip on me.

Similarily, as life continues to blaze along with days, weeks, and years picking up speed with each passing moment, I find comfort in the words "O Love That Will Not Let Me Go". One of my biggest fears in life is making mistakes regarding big life decisions. At times, worry wraps icy fingers around my heart and, like Peter, I feel the waves envelop me as my gaze is fixed on the tumult around me rather than on Christ. I am thankful at this moment that Jesus has me. He holds my heart, my future, even my fears. In an instant, I can be lifted to walk on water again if I but look to Him and rest in His omnipotent grace, mercy, and love.

Are you tired, weary, or upset tonight? Do you know Christ? If so, take heart. He will never let you go! Blessed, blessed truth! Use the links below to read the lyrics to this hymn and listen to its tune. May it encourage you as much as it has me.

http://www.igracemusic.com/hymnbook/hymns/o08.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAH1HuUqLZo

Lessons from the High Jump

2010-04-23T07:47:00.000-07:00

I have a new hobby of volunteering to work at my school's track meets. Well, it's not exactly a hobby because I get paid to help out, but it is a sacrifice of time and involves the risk of being caught in turbulant Colorado weather. Last week, I measured Shot Put throws. This week, I was manning the High Jump.

Having never been in charge of the High Jump and knowing that I was going to be the only adult in charge at that event, I was frankly a bit nervous going into it all. To combat the anxiety, I reminded myself that all I had to do was ask someone if I didn't know what I was doing. Therein lies the problem: I'm a bit proud...or a lot proud. I don't relish feeling ignorant or helpless, especially in front of students!

Before the meet officially began, I made sure I understood the rules and procedures for my event. Though I was given clear explanations, I still had to figure out little details on my own like, oh, the order in which students go, how to break a tie, how to adjust the mat under the pole, etc. For the most part, though, I was able to relax and enjoy the process once things got rolling.

As I stood watching the students compete, I compared my pride to the pride of the students. It's true that some of them were impressed with themselves and understandably so. A handful of boys and a couple of girls who had the ups of a cat. Yet, there were also a few students who performed terribly. I say that with the utmost respect to them.

With many people watching and those students probably knowing they were not gifted nor skilled in the High Jump, they still tackled the jump fearlessly. Even though their efforts lacked grace and they basically just plowed into the pole, I was touched by observing them. All of them handled their embarrassing attempts with dignity. They seemed to have a mature sense of being willing to fail, something I struggle with at times.

It made my fears about running the event itself seem a bit ridiculous. As I continue to gain experience in life, I hope that I purposefully push myself to do uncomfortable things, things where I may not stand as one of the best. Those times build rich humility and strength of character. I suspect those less-than-stellar high-jumpers are going to do well in life. Their willingness to graciously fail foretells it well.

Weave Me a Story

2010-04-21T19:34:00.000-07:00

There is a charming wooden rocker in my childhood home. It belongs to my father. I associate that rocker with stories. In fact, it is difficult to imagine my dad sitting in the rocker unless he is reading out loud to whomever is around, whether it be a passage of the Bible or an intriguing James Herriot tale. Such story times were not consistently frequent, but they have left a vivid mark in my mind nonetheless. I guess sitting and listening to a plot unfold captivates a mind, especially when a comforting and familiar voice is delivering the details.

To me, the most marvelous stories are those of real-life folks. When I consider how numerous such journies have inspired me, I am compelled to contemplate my own life. How can my life unfold in such a way as to glorify God and motivate others? Could my life look like that of Corrie Ten Boom's or Jim Elliot's?

I am currently reading Andrew Murray's Absolute Surrender. In the first chapter, Murray urges us (as believers)to be fully surrendered to Christ, for by so doing, God is able to bless us immensely and use us completely. He goes on to describe what that surrender entails, emphasizing God's work even in the ability to surrender.

A surrendered life creates a rich story. Leo Tolstoy could spin a fine yarn. Jane Austen could pen an entrancing saga. But nobody can weave a story like Christ. In the lives of those who are truly yielded, the Holy Spirit carefully and purposefully orchestrates profound story lines, none of which are duplicates of another.

Surrender is something I have been grappling with the past few months. When I ponder the possible outcomes of complete surrender versus partial surrender, my heart cries for a total, broken posture before Christ. Yet, my sinful desires often vie for my attention. May I have the foresight to see what Christ could do through me if I would submit to Him alone!

Galations 2:20 states: "I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." Dying to self implies absolute surrender. Lord, help me to live such a life! Please weave a story in me that glorifies You!

Kindergarten, Pavarotti, and Ringtones

2010-04-15T20:27:00.000-07:00

What do most five-year-old students do after kindergarten on any given day? Play with dolls or trucks? Play house? Eat a snack? Play with the cat? Listen to opera? Whoa...wait...what? What normal kid listens to opera unless living in Italy under the roof of an opera star? And, even then, what kid listens to it by choice?

Um...yes. Me. And, I didn't even grow up in Italy nor was I birthed by a prima donna. Nonetheless, the memory of these times lives vividly in the scrapbook of my mind. I can envision the massive record cover of Luciano Pavarotti, opera singer extraordinaire. It simply portrayed a dreamy cloud-filled sky. I can picture myself rushing in from school and petitioning my mom to get the record spinning as soon as possible. (Don't be fooled by the record reference. This did take place in the 80's. I guess my folks didn't care to upgrade the Pavarotti album to a cassette tape.)

Listening to opera is fun. Yet, any cool kindergarten child knows it's even more fun while jumping. So, being the with-it girl I was, I would bounce on our little mini-trampoline we had in the house while soaking in the tunes. Nothing like being exported to another realm by Pavarotti's rich voice while experiencing the sheer bliss of catipulting oneself into the air. My parents maintain that they thought this hobby of mine was cute. Thanks, Mom and Dad, though I hope you know you can be honest with me now...it's been a good 20-some years.

Fast forward to the year 2010 where record players have all but vanished. Last week, I graduated to a new cell phone. The fact that the mail-in rebate made it free will give you an indication as to how unexciting the new device is. The dismal selection of ringtones on the phone further confirms this. When I get a new phone, I treat myself to a new ringtone purchase. It's a small but fun indulgence.

My last ringtone purchase proved a bit ridiculous. "Sobbin Women" from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is a fun ditty on the screen but makes for a potentially embarrassing ringtone. Regardless, I stuck to that ringtone during the lifetime of my previous phone. With a new phone in hand, I determined to find a fabulous new ring that would make me proud.

To whom did I turn? Handel. Yes, ancient, Baroque-period Handel. (As a reminder, I am a slight music nerd.) I selected a beautiful piece from his oratorio Samson. For those of you who may not know, an oratorio is similar to operatic singing except it is not in a plot/acting format. Here's the thing: though I liked to jump to opera as a child and still think it's a fine art form today, I would never select a ringtone with operatic singing. At least, not intentionally.

I bought the ringtone I currently have under the assumption that it was just an instrumental portion of the piece. Trust me, it's magnificent. Yet, after I bought it, I listened to it on my phone, and...to my chagrine...an operatic soprano burst into passionate singing after the initial music for which I had purchased the ringtone. Ugh! Failure! I thought I had risen above my buying-embarrassing-ringtones proclivity. Nope.

Please don't misunderstand me. The ringtone singing is beautiful, but, for as much of a music geek as I can be, I feel there are certain limits to operatic expression. Answering the phone to high-pitched warbles is a bit extreme, even for me.

I suppose I could buy a different ringtone, use a lame ringtone already on the phone, or always keep my phone on vibrate or silent (a bad, bad idea for me). Or, I could just tough it out for the next year or two of my life and thereby inevitably experience humiliating ringtone moments. Hmmm. Not yet sure what I'll do.

The moral or two of this story: Music that's great for jumping may not fit the bill for cell phone features, and stressing so much over a ringtone is probably not worthwhile. Most importantly, please don't let this story stop you from calling me! Embarrassing ringtones are worth it all if I can hear the voice of a treasured friend or beloved family member on the other end. Plus, I think I've made Pavarotti proud.

Heavenly Chords

2010-04-06T17:29:00.000-07:00

I was on the brink of a meltdown this morning. My 8th grade choir class was absolutely pushing my patience. The lazy, chatty, unfocused behavior of some students was quickly eroding whatever protective coating my nerves generally possess. I was another slumped-posture away from storming out the door, resigning my job, and heading to the Bahamas for an indefinite period of time. A bit dramatic, but you feel my pain, do you not?

Thankfully, for those times when middle-school orneriness gets the better of me, I have learned that the best cure is to stop what I'm doing, sit the kids down, and have a heart-to-heart with them. These days, I'm rocking the heart-to-hearts. They seem to be needed often.

The soul searching I made those 8th graders do for the last few minutes of class today at least calmed them down. More importantly, it calmed me down. As they poured out of the class, I felt I had regained my composure and was ready to dive into my next class.

The next couple of classes passed uneventfully. Enter my 7th-grade choir class. This adolescent montage of 46 students has been one of the most trying experiences of my teaching career. The students themselves are wonderful (for the most part). However, they are almost all extroverted, interactive types who exude more energy than I can easily channel. They zoom to my class from lunch, high on sugar and gossip, and focusing their buzzing brains is often like herding cats.

Yet, today was magnificent. Truly. When teaching a choir class, I sometimes get swept up in a flow of brainstorms about how to create the sound I want. As I was working today, I decided to have the students sing an open-fifth chord (Part III on the bottom root, Part II on the fifth, and Part I on the root an octave above Part III, for anyone who's curious). When such a chord is sung in perfect tune, the room will fill with overtones, tones that are not being sung but can be heard above the chord. It's an awesome, chilling occurance that is all but absent in middle-school singing, at least in my experience.

Announcement: Overtones were heard in a middle school today. My 7th graders were suddenly singing pure tones, almost perfectly tuned. Sure, those overtone moments were only seconds long, but they happened, and it was glorious. Thank you, 7th-grade voices. Nothing can match a pristine early-adolescent voice. It is simply angelic.

Perhaps my 8th graders frustrated me today. Yet, my 7th graders more than made up for whatever agitation I felt earlier. It has taken three months, but those crazy bundles of energy made beautiful music today. And that is what makes my job unbelievably awesome.

God knows what I need in a day. He knows how to send rays of sunshine in days that are otherwise hard. Heavenly chords brought such much-craved sunshine into my life today.

Amazed

2010-03-30T20:56:00.000-07:00

The moon is ethereal tonight. Driving home after watching LOST with some friends, my gaze was constantly drawn to the brilliance of the glowing orb. I have a sneaking suspicion that the percentage of auto accidents rise drastically on full-moon evenings. That is, if all drivers are like me. The moon stole my attention for most of the trip and it's a small wonder I didn't plow into a tree, lamp post, racoon, or any other major object as a result.

I'm glad the moon isn't full every night or my amazement might wear off. Let me rephrase that. My amazement WOULD wear off. I live in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I hold a front row seat to a magnificent mountain display, but I will sadly admit that I don't consciously marvel at its beauty anymore like I once did. It's not that I am completely apathetic to its beauty, but I just don't drool over it as much as I did at first. Humans are like that. They simply get desensitized and familiarized.

As Easter approaches, I am contemplating my love for Christ. Have I allowed my heart to become too familiarized with my walk with Him? Has my adoration and appreciation of His saving grace in my life grown lacluster due to the passage of time? The answer is, at times, yes.

My prayer this Easter is that I would continue to cultivate a deeper sense of reverance, awe, and thankfulness regarding my Savior. My petition is that, unlike my wavering admiration of the moon and mountains, my heart would steadily grow into a deeper love for and worship of Him. He has conquered the grave and freely offers new life to those who believe. Unfathomable Love. May I never cease to be amazed.

Subtract the Abstract

2010-03-25T12:37:00.000-07:00

A few weekends ago, my brother and I trekked through treacherous snowy roads up to Steamboat Springs for a brief getaway. We met up with our folks as well as some extended family and were treated to a complimentary ski-in condo for the weekend. The skiing I experienced while there was nonpareil.

One of my favorite things to observe on ski slopes is the occasional little kid that is decked out in ski gear and can be seen cruising down the mountain or waddling around in the lodge. I'm referring to the tiny, tiny ones that probably just learned to walk last year. They are somewhat rare, but when they do appear, I always want to ooh and ahh over them.

Late in the afternoon during our ski day at Steamboat, our crew had to go back to the main lodge so my Dad could check on something. While my brother, cousin, and I hung out by the gondola waiting for Pop's return, I spotted a little toddler skier teetering after his father. After crooning about how cute he was to my brother (which I'm sure he appreciated), I then began to think about things on a deeper level.

Nobody can argue that learning to ski as an adult is difficult. Come to think of it, learning anything new as an adult is quite challenging when compared to learning that same thing as a child. Science can provide many research-backed answers as to why the adult brain resists taking on new skills. While those scientific studies are fascinating and true, I believe there is another reason why adults lose the ability to quickly soak in new things: abstract thinking.

Abstract thinking is foreign to children. This is why the adults in their life are so formative in their development. Children constantly appeal to the adults in their lives to make sense of their world. Though they may tirelessly ask the qustion "Why?", they easily absorb the answers to their questions without picking apart the answer in their brain. So-and-so said such-and-such and that is that. Thus makes up the beauty that is the childlike brain.

As my eyes followed the little guy at the lodge trailing behind his father, obviously a bit hindered by ski boots (who's not?) and a bulky coat, I contemplated how he must have a huge trust in his dad. Perhaps he had some fear of going down the slopes, but being the child that he was, he had not the capacity to over-analyze the situation. If Dad says I'm going down the slopes, I guess I'm going down the slopes. I could almost hear his thought process, not hard to imagine since I can remember having that childlike mode once too.

Though abstract reasoning is a gift and presents a more multi-colored pallette to life, it can often be a hindrance. An adult learning to ski will often kill the experience with hyper-awareness and vigilance. What if...? I don't think I can... This is dangerous... I can well hear those thoughts too. I experience them daily in one way or the other.

As I chewed on these ideas, I mentioned them to my brother. We discussed how abstract thought can ironically hinder progress. Do you ever discuss something that may not be revolutionary to the world in general but it is to you? This conversation was just such a brainstorm.

I went back to my own thoughts at that point and pondered how Jesus encouraged people to receive him as little children would (Luke 18:17). Why does He say this? Because He understands that higher-level thinking often prevents folks from coming to Him. He thus promotes childlike thinking and childlike faith. He asks people to trust Him as the little skier trusted his dad. Once again, not a new concept, but worth repeating for sure.

What sane adult would go to the top of a steep hill covered in snow, strap two long boards onto his feet, and point them downhill? What sane adult would surrender self, believe that there is a loving Creator who will forgive his sins, and then give his life to this unseen God in order to have a relationship with Him? Answer: the sane adult who takes on childlike faith.

I am not proposing that abstract thought is evil or should be thrown out. God has surely granted man the ability to think wonderfully deep and rich thoughts. God himself thinks higher than we can even imagine (Isaiah 55:9). Instead, I am suggesting that it is a powerful thing to learn to temper reasoning with childlike faith and trust.

Those who are in the death-grip of higher thinking will never experience some of life's greatest joys. Their reasoning abilities will gladly stifle it all. This is sad on an earthly level. This is tragic on a spiritual level. I hope that all will take on childlike faith and turn to Christ. I hope that all will have the courage to subtract the abstract.

A Risk Too Big?

2010-03-23T21:46:00.000-07:00

Fluffy snow is falling. Well, it falls only to get whipped around by the wind before finding a landing spot. Poor snow.

As the physical world is transforming into albino-land, the very cultural and social landscape of our country is undergoing its own makeover. Extreme emotion and even hysteria have surrounded the whole health-care narrative, as well they should have. No change so monumental ought to transpire with a mere shrug of the shoulders or yawn of complacency. History has witnessed one chapter of this saga draw to a close today, and the ending has left the readers deeply divided.

What will be the outcome of Chapter One? One can hardly predict. Critics from both sides proclaim with adroit conviction that they are sure of this or that about how the future will unfold based on the passing of this gargantuan bill. Do any of them know with certainty that what they prophesy is inerrant? No. There's no way any of us can know exactly what's coming next. The scope and muddled nature of the bill don't allow for it.

"Is she not taking a side on this issue?" If that be your thought right now, let me assure you that I have. I am not a fan of the health-care reform bill (or whatever it's technical name is now). I could give you many reasons why, but that is not the point of this soliloquy.

Here, instead, is the moral of this post: The bigger the change, the more unpredictable the outcome. Perhaps this maxim doesn't hold true in all of life, but I submit that it does in general.

Consider the follwing scenario: If I decide to move to a new location within Colorado Springs, that would be a change and would require transition. Yet, I could decently predict what the transition would entail and could therefore prepare myself well for said change. If, on the other hand, I decide to move to Africa, change my name, and switch from being a teacher to being a nurse...all at once...it would be hard for me to predict what kind of impact so many transitions at once would have on my life.

In the same way, I believe that this health-care bill is so weighted by changes to the status quo, be they small or large, that it makes the bill reckless simply because the outcome of it all will be that much more unpredictable. Leave arguments of ideology aside. On simple logistical terms, the move seems highly risky.

Let it be known that I understand the health-care crisis. I don't believe there is an easy answer and reform of some kind is needed. Yet, I fear that going to the races and gambling away a huge chunk of money in the name of being better off is not the way to lead a responsible life.

May God guide the leaders of this great country. I pray that if this bill stands, the outcome will be far different than what I now foresee. While I pray and consider my role in this all, I will continue to thank God for His continued blessings in my life. Tonight, I will thank Him for the snow.

To Be or Not To Be...Intense

2010-03-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

Here is a noteworthy fact about me: I am intense. In fact, my whole family is intense. Growing up, this truth often manifested itself in hilarious ways. For example, anytime the whole clan was in a vehicle together, the volume of conversation would continually rise until we were practically shouting...not because we were angry, but because we are all intense and verbose folks who usually feel the need to give our input and be heard.

We were that family that rarely had a quiet dinner table...someone always had something to say. To this day, I marvel at those families I see at restaurants sitting in complete silence for the whole meal. When observing such a thing, I am curious beyond belief. To me, such a minimal communication style is foreign.

There were also times when our intensity as a family ignited sparks. Sparks of frustration, anger, or turmoil with each other or with circumstances. Sparks of restlessness or passion or fear. Sparks of many kinds. Intensity can be exhausting and I've seen that first-hand many a time. Though I am often proud of my intense nature because I see it as a strong motivator, time has taught me that such a posture in life can be very debilitating.

As a Christ-follower, my intensity gets me into trouble. Too often, I try to manage things in my life on my own because I have not the patience nor the faith to trust God with what I deem necessary to figure out right now. What a mistake. When my disposition hinders my faith, that is serious for "without faith it is impossible to please God" (Heb. 11:6). Impossible is a strong word.

Lately, I have been contemplating the way my personality factors into how I approach my life. God created my intense nature and the drive I feel within, but He desires to use that nature for His glory. In times past, when I have felt the destructive nature of my passions while in my own grip, I have observed more laid-back people in my life and envied their disposition. Why can't I be more like her? She is trusting, relaxed, and relatively stress-free. That would be nice. Willing it to be so, I would then procede to muscle myself into being relaxed. What? Hello, Oxymoron Woman.

How about this? How about accepting and loving myself in a Biblical way? How about realizing that God wants to redeem even the broken aspects of my intensity and channel every ounce of my passion and drive into work for His Kingdom? What does that require? Surrender...and that is something with which an intense person struggles.

What a beautiful thing it is and will be when I surrender to Christ in full! No need to give my disposition a makeover. I need only to abide in Christ and allow Him to work through me. What a relief to know that I don't have to be someone I am naturally not! God even created intense people; may I then be intensely surrendered to Him.

Nostalgia

2010-02-19T22:07:00.000-08:00

As I was cleaning my room tonight, I rediscovered some random CDs when I peeked under my bed to scout out a cozy spot for a wandering backpack. Spotting a plastic tub, I pulled it out and perused its contents. The first item, a dull white CD with "Mozart" written in a plain maroon font across one side, almost escaped any special notice. However, after I had flipped through an odd assortment of discs, my eyes grazed the plain CD once again and gave me pause.

The deceivingly simple facade of the CD triggered the archives of my brain and the remote though pristine strains of beloved piano concertos cried out for recognition. Jumping from the floor, I hurried to silence the blaring tunes on my laptop in order to feed my new-found treasure into my roommate's Bose stereo.

Immediately, the delicate classical music began to waft into the condo, profoundly transforming my surroundings. Suddenly, sifting through piece after piece of piled-up mail and tending to dirty dishes was enjoyable with the genius of Mozart fueling my imagination and captivating my mind. The crisp tones of the piano flitting above the flowing orchestra could not be more angelic.

There is more to this little story of mine. For me, music holds a powerful nostalgic key rivaled only by the sense of smell. When I hear a certain song, I will instantly recall the time and place where strong mental attachments to that tune were forged.

For this particular piano concerto (I unfortunately do not know the concerto number at this moment), my mind is taken to my freshmen year at John Brown University. I can envision sitting in my friend Dorothy's room, typing feverishly on her computer to craft my fifteen-page ethnography for Honors English. This was no small feat for me at that time. The ONLY thing that encouraged me to plow on was listening to the third movement of this particular Mozart piano concerto over and over and over...the same concerto I am indulging in now. Its perplexing and driving melody still transfixes my mind.

Tonight, I taste the bittersweetness of those hours long ago. My anxiety about that paper was somehow soothed by Mozart. Though weaving my ethnographic tale of a couple's life on a horse farm taxed my energy, the kisses of the beautiful piano and orchestra on my ears spurred me on. Like a strange juxtaposition, I reveled in both the challenge and joy of writing that was so deeply reflected in the angst and peace heard in the music. Can words even describe the rapturous nature of it all?

And so it is, that cleaning and rummaging have this evening afforded me a rendezvous with my past. Here's to you, ethnographies, JBU, freshmen woes, and Mozart. A rare but fabulous combination.

And That's What Keeps a Teacher Going...

2010-02-10T16:11:00.000-08:00

There are days when I am not sure what I am doing with my life. It's so easy to get bogged down in the details of everyday obligations and tasks that I lose sight of the bigger picture. There are days when I ask myself how I became a middle school music teacher. I question if I just haphazardly landed where I am because I was swept away by a flood of chain-reaction circumstances or if I am where I am because I intentionally sought the will of God.

This is a topic with which all people, especially all believers, struggle. It's one of those concepts in life that provides no clear-cut answers. Of course, I trust that no matter where I am, if I am seeking God with my whole heart, He will use me in the midst of my circumstances and I can rest in His sovereign orchestration of my life. However, there have been many days, especially in previous years, where I could not swallow or accept that God wanted me to be a teacher...at least for longer than short term.

I don't know why I didn't want to embrace my job fully. Regardless, I can tell you that God has been revolutionizing my heart concerning what it means to be a teacher. I am beginning to not only love my job, but to more seriously consider what a privilege it is to impact so many precious lives.

With that intro, I bring you into my life today. This semester, my 8th grade choir got off to a sluggish start (I receive almost all new choir students at semester). I had a handful of students who were simply put into choir without choosing it. I knew this in advance and knew what this fact would mean for me: an uphill battle. It is no small task to prod 8th graders into enjoying choir if they enter the room with an established notion that they will not like the class. This is especially true of the boys.

Auditions for high school choir were today. The choral director from the high school came over to hear interested 8th graders. Of course, many girls eagerly signed up. The small miracle is how many boys decided to audition. And...two or three of them were boys that were not exactly overjoyed about being in choir this semester. That was enough to make my day.

Yet, it got even better. A bright-eyed 8th grade boy who behaves well for me in class but who I was worried wasn't sure about singing at the beginning of the semester, came to me this morning and asked to try out for the high school choir. Really?! My heart was thrilled...

After the audition, I saw him in the hall and asked him how it went. He told me it went well, then went on: "I'll be honest," he started. "When I was first put in choir, I wasn't at all sure about it. But, now that we are a few weeks into it, I am really enjoying it." His expression added to the truth and enthusiasm of his words. Of course, I was elated and told him so. I also praised him for the talent he truly displays.

As I moved onto my next class, I wanted to sing (how cheesy for a music teacher to say.:)). I felt blessed. Period. Those are the moments that make a teacher want to keep going. Wow. I cannot credit myself for making these moments happen. God is the only one to be praised.

So, God, thank You. Thank you for knowing what job is right for me and for providing me with enough encouraging moments to carry on. Please help me to continually know what it means to love students as a teacher in thier lives.

Sardines

2010-02-05T18:21:00.000-08:00

For those of you who are looking at the time of this writing, please don't worry. I realize it's a Friday night and a prime time to be out enjoying good company and/or quality entertainment of some kind. I assure you, I still have junior-high anxiety about being home alone on a Friday night because that's not the "cool" thing to do.

However, this evening I have forgone hanging out with friends so that I can get myself caught up on life and into bed at a decent hour. Tomorrow morning will greet me before I know it since I'm rising at an unearthly time to go skiing with my brother and perhaps some of his Denver posse.

While I have been successful at getting some mundane tasks done thus far tonight, I couldn't resist the lure of my blog. This week has been full, entertaining, and prime fodder for blog posting. For example...

Have you ever had sardines? They have to be the most frightfully hideous-looking food that is sold in the grocery store (pork rinds would be a close second). Thankfully, they are strategically packaged in cute little tins so that the naive shopper might take a fancy to buying the little critters. Otherwise, the sardine business would be broke. Even I would probably refuse to buy them if I were reminded of what they look like at the grocery store.

Well, for as medieval and mucky as they are, I am crazy about the little fish. I don't know where the disconnect is, but the disgusting look and smell of the creatures flee when I taste them. Yum. (Have I lost anyone? Are you stomaching this?). Here's to sardine-lovers out there! My grandpa is a sardine-lover and he tops the ranks of awesome men, so I have no shame in this.

Anyway, so yesterday I began to plot what delicacy I would pack for lunch while readying for the day. Being slightly low on supplies and creativity, I decided to grab a tin of sardines. Yes, I did contemplate how much they smell and that
I might offend someone at work, but I chose to brave the dangers and tote the little guys to work with me.

As the morning wore on, I grew hungry and decided to eat my lunch early (around 11:00). Disregarding the possible consequences of indulging in a fishy meal within my classroom, I pulled out the sardines and ripped open the can. Sardine odor engulfed my senses. No worries, there were no students in my room...yet. But, I had a guitar class coming in about ten minutes. Surely they won't smell this, I thought. They're middle schoolers...they're used to foul smells. That was denial if ever there was. I snarfed down the sandwich I made and then hurried to get rid of any signs that I had just eaten.

The bell rang and 7th graders poured into my room. "Ugh! What's that smell?" some kid cried. "It smells like sushi!" came a student's incredulous reply. I bit my lip and tried to ignore it all.

As I took attendance, I almost lost it when I spied two students with their noses in their shirts. "Miss Naramore, what's that smell?" Oh no, I couldn't ignore a question directed at me. As nonchalantly as possible, I shrugged my shoulders. "If it's a fishy smell, it was probably my lunch because I had fish in my lunch." The nonchalance wasn't erasing how red my face felt.

How is it that I can be embarrassed in front of 7th graders...over fish? Goodness. The comical look on one of the boy's faces as he looked at me in almost pity or amusement didn't help. Ugh!!! I hate it when they can read me so well.

Anyway, I don't care how much I like sardines or how awesome they are nutritionally (it's true...they are). I will never again pack sardines as a school lunch.

And...the next time you want to come see me, perhaps you should call in advance and make sure that I haven't opened a can of sardines in my place...unless you like sardines too. Anyone out there willing to admit your love of sardines?

Because My Laundry's Not Done...

2010-02-02T21:13:00.000-08:00

Here's how my evening went: I threw a load of laundry in around 6:45 pm. The load included sheets for my bed. I started watching LOST. I got lost in the show (no pun intended). The show ended at 10:00 pm. I realized I had forgotten about my laundry. I put my damp laundry in the dryer. It is now 10:17 and the dryer will be going for quite some time...until past my bedtime for a school night.

So, do I wait for the sheets in the dryer or dig up another set of sheets that won't be as great and go to bed now? A tough decision. Instead of making that decision, I have decided to jot down some random thoughts on my blog. Random they shall be.

First of all, LOST is crazy. As I was watching the first episode of the final season tonight, multiple thoughts flickered across my brain such as, "Do I really like this show?", "What in the world?", "I don't get it.", and the like. You tell me. Does that sound like a show worth watching? It makes one wonder.

Well, I think it is. You see, LOST hits a deep nerve with me. In watching the chaos and intense emotions that swell from each episode, I am reminded of how messy life is. The mind-bending plot mirrors the unreal twists and turns that real life take. Why is it that we expect a television show to make perfect sense when life itself rarely does?

Furthermore, LOST is continuing to cultivate the good vs. evil theme that always makes drama appealing. It is becoming more and more apparent that there will arise a clear force of good and an equally though frightening clear force of evil on the island. The conflict will be daunting. The battle will only be in a matter of time. This is my prediction. This is why LOST is compelling.

So, while I have no clue what is going on after watching a confusing sequence (if it can even be called a sequence) of events, I will definitely be watching the show next week.

While I wish to write something even more profound at this moment, I am afraid that my green gum is growing stale, my eyelids are drooping, and my unmade bed is calling my name. Teaching is never as smooth when I run on little sleep. I must pull myself away...

Synesthesia

2010-01-25T16:33:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, I rose early. Finishing the packing job I had begun the night before, I waddled down the stairs with my items for the weekend away, drove to the nearby Starbucks for a good jolt, and pointed my little Taurus north on I-25. Instead of teaching that morning, I was escaping to a music symposium in Longmont, CO where other music teachers in the state would be gathering as well. Though such days can sometimes feel long, they are a welcome relief from the stress of teaching.

Those of us in attendance at the symposium sat under a music educator brought in from Virginia Beach. In an example lesson she demonstrated, I was introduced to the concept of synesthesia. Perhaps you have heard of it, but I had not. Synesthesia is a fascinating medical condition in which a person has overlapping senses. When a certain sense is triggered, a different sense becomes active as well.

A short documentary about a man in the UK who has this condition opened to us the world of someone without typical boundaries between senses. When this man eats, he sees a sheet of color before him. For example, when tasting chicken, a blue color fills his vision. Such palettes of color also appear when he hears music. The french horn, in his opinion, is a miserable instrument, not because of its sound per se, but because he sees a dreary gray color when he hears it and the color ruins his experience of any other instrument playing at the time.

Truthfully, I found this concept of synesthesia riveting. It is estimated that 1% of the population experiences synesthesia in some form. It makes me wonder: who do I know who has this? As our clinician suggested, perhaps geniuses like Beethoven had synesthesia. Is synesthasia to credit for unearthly beauty in the work of some artists? My mind salivated at the thought.

There are times when the world seems almost too marvelous, mysterious, multi-faceted, and mind-blowingly fascinating for me to know what to do with my eagerness to soak it in. I felt this way Friday, as I do now, in thinking on this concept of synesthesia. As always, it points me back to my marvelous Creator. The world is a feast for all senses and is filled with more food for the mind and soul than I can fully experience in my lifetime. I am in awe.

"Like I Said..."

2010-01-13T19:08:00.000-08:00

As a middle school choir teacher, I would be independently wealthy if I had a dollar for every time I have said the following phrases in class:

"Check your posture."
"It's my turn to talk."
"Like I said..."
"Who's the teacher?"
"How many beats does a quarter note receive?"

I could list many more of these phrases and should probably have a Staples-esque button created for each of those so I can just slap something and have it speak for me instead of wasting my breath over and over again.

Yet, as I folded some neglected towels last night before bed, I pondered how many students I have encountered in my short teaching career of three and a half years. The total: hundreds and maybe thousands by now. Wow. No wonder I repeat things. Teaching is like having kids that never grow up. I get excited to see my 8th graders make progress throughout the year, only to lose them to high school. It's easy to assume the next batch of acne-ridden, braces-sporting 8th grade babies that step into my room the next fall will know what I've already told the 8th graders last year...but, wait! These aren't the same kids! I'm starting over!

Profound, I know. But remembering this little truth gives me so much more grace when I'm singing "B-A-Bay" with 6th graders for the uberanth time. I could play and sing that song while competing in a debate on the properties of aluminum. Maybe not. I don't even know one property of aluminum come to think of it. I'm just sayin', I've played that song more times than seems legal. If I continue teaching, I'll play it that much more. "Throw out the song!", you jeer. No way. "B-A-Bay" is every 6th grade student's favorite song of all time. It stays.

I just rabbit-trailed. The point is that even when I say the same phrases over and over, the ridiculousness of it all is eased by my realizing what a privilege my job is. I get paid to sing "Picking Up a Pepperoni Pizza" with students. I get paid to encourage students to stretch the confines of their comfort zones. I get paid to push students to develop outstanding character and to reach their community with the performing arts. I get paid to listen to angelic voices and to perch on a front row seat in this musical called "Middle School". Who gets paid for such joys? How blessed am I?

Do I always have this perspective? No. But, today I do. Thanks, God, for a great job!

Exploration

2010-01-10T15:31:00.001-08:00

There is nothing quite like finding a fun new place.

On Friday, my roommate Heather and I tortured ourselves by deciding to do a long run the next day. When Saturday morning dawned, I pulled myself out of bed, excited about the prospect of a run only because I could sport my new outdoor running tights. After snarfing down a bit of grub and giving it time to settle, we set out for the Santa Fe trail.

As we trotted down the trail, feeling the consequence of every unnecessary Christmas delicacy jiggling with each step (or at least I did), we chatted our hearts out. The sun wrapped its warmth around us and the mountains lounged nearby, making the run that much more refreshing. It was just what a soul in early January needed.

When we completed our sweat fest, we loaded into Heather's vehicle and headed home the back way. Heather suggested we stop at a little coffee place in Black Forest called the R&R Coffee Cafe before going home. Always up for an adventure, I agreed that we ought to check the place out.

It was wonderful! The folks working there were personable and the environment was cozy and rustic. Cups perched on hooks boasted the names of regulars, and beautiful pastries and muffins tempted me from under their glass homes. Heather and I split an omelet that was divine, and the coffee choices were plentiful and neatly arranged from mild to bold. I indulged in a dark roast, sipping from a mug so wide I was blinded when I pulled it up to savor the last few drops.

As we left, I purposed to go back. It was so fun to find a new place! There's some kind of adrenaline that accompanies such an experience...and that's addicting. If you're in Black Forest and need a little perk in your day, stop by the R&R Coffee Cafe and find yourself delighted!

Let me take a moment...

2010-01-06T17:53:00.000-08:00

...to talk about how much I love the Midwest. Right now, please humor me and attempt to count how many times you've heard someone crack a lame joke about how boring it is to drive across Kansas or about how flat Nebraska is. Yeah, uh-huh. That's what I thought. You can't. So little time for so great a task.

Now, I have nothing against those folks who have a true aversion to road-tripping between alternating wheat and corn fields. I harbor no hard feelings for those who can't fathom spending a night in a quiet little town where "there is nothing to do." (By the way, how do people suddenly lose their capacity to just enjoy people or find creative things to do when they're in a small town?).

But, I just decided after spending last week gallivanting across Nebraska and Kansas that it was time to declare my unabashed affection for those cozy states. Here's a shout out to all who hail from those lands of awesomeness! I can't get enough of the old farmhouses and gentle hills and gnarly trees that dot the landscape. I find joy in stopping at little gas stations like Casey's where the old folks and those with a few spare minutes stop to share the latest gossip.

On my way home from a wedding in Kansas, I drove by my Grandpa's hometown of Woodston, KS. To any passersby, it's a sleepy, nearly-evacuated ghost town whose busy days were back in the early 20th century. I couldn't resist taking a quick spin through the deserted streets to pretend it was not 2010 but 1940. I tried to picture my Grandpa as a kid running through the streets with his siblings and friends, flying past the old church he attended and bumping into older folks heading into the bank or post office.

Most of the buildings are now worn out with signs faded and doors boarded up. Yet, as I rambled by, they seemed frozen in time, ready to suddenly spring back to life if I just wished for it enough. As I drove up a street on the edge of town, I gazed toward the distant hills where my Grandpa's parents had farmed. The farmhouse was long gone, but I was delighted to think that I was seeing the same landscape that my great-grandparents peered at day after day. How whimsical and wonderful that little town is to me!

Perhaps experiences like this are why I love the Midwest so much. Perhaps it's because I know so many great people from the Midwest. Perhaps it's because of how much of the old is still visible in those parts. I think it feeds my imagination and love of history.

The bottom line is that I'm not exactly sure why, but I have quite an affinity for the Midwest and I just thought you should know.

New Year, New What?

2010-01-04T19:32:00.000-08:00

The start of a new year inspires every human soul. Even those cynics who coolly condemn making resolutions experience a stirring of their spirit when the concept of a fresh start accompanies the turning of the calendar. I'll admit that I have sometimes fallen into that cynic category, not wanting to giddily jump on the resolutions bandwagon just to experience a disgraceful tumble into the dirt a few weeks later.

The year 2010 has started off with no official resolutions in my life. That does not, however, mean that I am not contemplating what ways I need to challenge myself in the coming months. The growing theme on my heart has been my walk with God. In the end, nothing else matters. Without faith it is impossible to please God (Hebrews 11:6). Without faith, it is impossible to fulfill the great commission that Jesus gave in Matthew 28. As a believer, what goal should I have other than to please and glorify God and to further His Kingdom? To this I cannot procure a satisfactory answer. To live a surrendered life on fire for Christ should be my one ambition.

Yet, my life is often backwards from this. I strain and struggle to make myself more attractive via material means, intellectual pursuits, or physical challenges. I try to balance myself atop a flimsy self-perception, caring far too much far too often about how others view me. I fancy myself adorable when others applaud me and endlessly critique myself when lonely nights appear. I am given to selfish pursuits and self-gratifying prayers. In the meantime, I dabble in my walk with God. If asked for the top priority in my life, I would deem myself honest if I said God but would know that the pattern of my life does not completely support such a proclamation. I want to be on fire for Christ but somehow imagine it will happen without putting in the effort and passion that such a fervor requires.

In recent years, I have whined and grumbled and groveled for a change in this or that circumstance. I have fretted over my lot in life and have envied others for what they have. I have made my dreams and self-made visions my goals and have expected that God will be on board with my plans. Multiple times He has shut the door on my ideas. Multiple times, I have stumbled back only to again jump up in pursuit of a new thought-up idea like a dumb dog who learns not that his master is slapping him with the paper for a reason.

Such an analysis of my recent life may seem harsh, although I believe it to be painfully accurate. It's not that I have not desired intimacy with Christ. It is rather that I have not been willing to surrender myself to Him to gain His close friendship. I have not given adequate time or passion to pursuing His will, His vision, and His guidance in my life.

So, in thinking on this new year, my one goal is to get to know my Creator on a deeper level. My aim is seek His face. My desire is to stop wiggling in my seat and to cease fidgeting before Him. May I learn to "Be still and know" that He is God (Ps. 46:10). Let every other thing in my life unfold as it may. If nothing but a closer walk with God and a life that is a more constant testament to the Gospel of Christ is attained in 2010, may I count myself blessed.

Pride and Prejudice

2009-12-15T19:28:00.000-08:00

On a whim, I bought Pride and Prejudice at Barnes and Noble about a month ago. I suppose I did so in response to a sudden urge to become more well-versed in the classics. I had always heard reports of how amazing this book is and enjoyed the movies portraying the work, so I figured it was safe to invest 10 bucks in checking out the writing for myself.

As is often the case for me when reading, I experienced a slow start in my relationship with the story. A chapter here...a few days passed...a chapter there...a week expired...another chapter covered. You know, a half-hearted, I-think-I-should-at-least-work-at-this sort of reading habit. Not that the book was boring at the beginning, but my heart wasn't invested and my time was often cramped.

Then, suddenly, something changed. At some point, I was not just hooked on the book, I was mesmerized. I found the language captivating, the story enthralling, and the characters so very real. The relationship woes of folks in 1813 apparently mirror relationship issues of today. How incredible!, I would think to myself as I read the sentiments that Jane and Elizabeth Bennet felt that so reflected my own thoughts on many occasions.

As I wound myself through the story, the character of Mr. Darcy became continually more attractive to me. No doubt, the number of papers and books penned on the subject of Mr. Darcy's character are numerous and my discoveries not as novel as they seem to me. But, I must divulge.

Mr. Darcy, I decided, is the supreme example of a romantic man. He does not use flowery words. No, in fact, he is a bit stilted socially. He does not attempt nor bother to woe women with gifts, flattery, or constant attention. Yet, he is a supremely attractive man because of his character and because of what he sacrifices for Elizabeth. As I read of his extraordinary love toward Elizabeth shown in his remarkable kindness toward her (though she was not at all deserving of his kindness), I found that his actions resonated with my heart in ways I have never before experienced while reading fiction.

While I basked in the refreshing balm this book poured on my feminine soul, I suddenly realized that the reason Darcy's actions seemed pristine was that they were a picture of Christ's love for His bride, the church. Christ sacrificed much for his undeserving bride just as Darcy sacrificed much for undeserving Elizabeth Bennet. Obviously, nothing can truly compare to Christ's sacrifice, but the analogy was poignant in my mind.

I marvel at how "all truth is God's truth". I believe that when any author, artist, playwright, composer, etc. hits on a profound truth, the human heart sings in response. Jane Austen hit on a profound truth of what romance was created to be and how that picture of romance is supposed to reflect the picture of Christ's love and sacrifice for the church.

Wow. That's it. That's how I feel about this book and its story. No recommendation to read the book is necessary at this point. How more obvious could I be that it is a tale worth your time?

Less Stress

2009-09-02T18:40:00.000-07:00

My goal for this year has been to get rid of as much excess obligation in my life as possible. I find that I easily over-committ and then kick myself for it the rest of the year. Then, I don't enjoy my job and feel like a piece of taffy stretched far too wide. No more of that this year.

So, thus far, I have accomplished said goal. I only teach one piano lesson outside of school. That's it. No other permanent obligations with ministries, friends, or school. Perhaps it won't stay this way forever, but for right now, it's perfect. I can feel the positive effects already. I have time to exercise, time to read, time to enjoy life. Plus, I am loving my job more than I thought possible. It's a small miracle.

As part of my new goal, I am attempting to get back into good physical condition. I have begun running after work with a colleague. Today, however, my colleague couldn't run because of another obligation. So, I drove home (which is now just four minutes away from school!), grabbed my iPod and made myself jog on my own anyway.

As I rounded the last corner of my route and faced a gradual uphill for almost the last mile, I passed one of the students from my school who was sprinting the other way. I threw a wave like the friendly teacher I should be, wondering all the while what the heck he thought of a sweaty, beet-faced me.

Then, another student jogged past. "Wait a minute," I thought. "Is that a whole hoard or middle schoolers running my way?" Yep. The cross-country team from my school was jogging my route backwards...or at least that stretch backwards. So, I had the pleasure of bumbling past many of my students, trying to look chipper and vivacious while stuffing my angst about what I might look like at this point in my run. After all, some of them looked a bit bedraggled...but I, I must have really looked like a beaten horse due to my less-than-stellar physical condition at the moment.

I exchanged niceties with the students I passed while laughing to myself for getting into this predicament. I laughed out loud when I passed one of the coaches, making a lame joke about going the wrong way. He smiled and laughed too, even giving me a high five as we passed each other. I mean, it really wasn't that bad, but was just one of those events that I wouldn't have chosen to occur, you know? Pathetic, I realize.

At least when I'm teaching something in music class and a student feels confused, intimidated or just plain bored (though boredom never happens in my class, I promise), he can simply recall me staggering along the sidewalk in a hopeful jog and the memory will create a momentary amusement.

Ah, the joys of teaching middle school!

Overcast Bliss

2009-08-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

I'm a strange person. I love overcast days. In actuality, I suppose there are a number of people who enjoy a drizzly day even if they won't admit it. But, for me, a gloomy day gives me a sense of calm that I never fail to appreciate. Too many gloomy days in a row can be overwhelming, but, in general, a rainy day is welcome in my world.

So, not only is today such an overcast wonder, but it is also the first day I have experienced the new found, free Wi-Fi at Barnes and Noble. Add this place to my roster of computer-outing hot spots. Love it. Could my day be any better? Doubtful, unless Matthew Fox strolled in right now, spotted me, and sat with me for a good hour-long chat. He would notice me, you know. We are both from Wyoming and that makes us two of a kind.

Anyway, the other night, I saw the movie Julie and Julia (or the other way around?). For a movie title that's so confusing, it was a quaint and refreshing flick. Beyond the fact that Meryl Streep made an honestly fabulous Julia Childs, the film also inspired me to get into my blog again...while it also reminded me how narcissistic blogging is. I really have no clue if anybody short of my family reads my blog, but I find blogging therapeutic and fun nonetheless. Way to go, Hollywood, for pushing me to be all that I can be. Maybe?

This afternoon, I am going to return an incredibly overdue movie to the store from which I rented it, chat with my roommate who just returned from overseas, lie down for a nap, ponder the graciousness of God, and prepare myself for another week at school. That's a lot to do on one rainy day where nothing but reading, sipping warm liquids, and snoozing sounds appealing.

Until next time...

I've Fallen in Love

2009-07-16T06:48:00.000-07:00

With the East Coast. After spending two straight weeks back there and a total of nearly three weeks this summer in East Coast cities, I am aware that something new is in my blood. I love the subways, the varied people, the ballparks, the museums, the restaurants, and most of all, the rich history back East. I've fallen in love.

Not that I have lost my love of the West. Not that I had never spent time in cities or back East before. Not that I always appreciate the hurried pace of life in the big cities. Not that I'll ever move back there.

Instead, I just felt like I matured as an American by steeping myself in historical sites and iconic East Coast culture. I have an even greater attachment to our great country now and a greater appreciation of how our country began. I hope.

I also know how to navigate subway systems and feel my way around a city like the best of them. (Yet, I still do have a tendency to somtimes over-think navigation or throw it out the window and wander). I know how to blend in a bit more....though my conspicuous camera and eager-beaver tourist face is nearly impossible to hide. I know how to be a good New Yorker and disregard signs when a more common sense approach is available. No need to wait for the crosswalk sign to change to the chipper white walking guy. No, as a fake New Yorker, I know how to burst onto the street as soon as a Taxi is not 30 feet near me and push my way across the street to the tune of honks and squeels. Take that, red stop-signal hand!!

So, here I am back in Colorado Springs. While my being is taking a sigh of relief in many ways, I am like a lover longing already to go back to her beloved. Okay, that's a bit ridiculuos, but it does tell you that I loved my East Coast trip, does it not?

I hope our long-distance relationship works out well.

Perspective

2009-06-28T08:24:00.001-07:00

The coffee I made this morning isn't stellar. I think it's been sitting in my cupboard too long. Opened coffee isn't really even supposed to be stored in a cupboard, right? It should probably be in the fridge. Whatever the case, the cup of joe I'm sipping is mediocre at best. Yet, it still made me want to write a paragraph or two before readying for church.

I was thinking back on my NYC trip a few weeks ago and was reminded of one of the funniest happenings during our time there. Traveling with middle schoolers is both entertaining and stressful. Our tour group consisted of students from Wyoming, Texas, and Colorado. For some of these students, the atmosphere of NYC produced massive culture shock. So, the first evening of herding our large group through the streets of Manhattan was like throwing a bunny into the midst of a horse race and expecting it to keep up. We formed a massive tumor blocking the flowing arteries on the streets. Attempting to board the Subway was crazy too...it took a few times for some to realize that you have to push your way on or you may not make it before the doors shut.

So, there we were, fresh off the airplane, testing our legs on the Manhattan ground, trying to resist the temptation of constantly looking around at everything but the path in front. Yes, we were typical tourists taking pictures of everything mundane just because it was in New York. A nice older woman noticed our group and struck up a conversation with one of our Wyoming students as we waited at a light. She asked him where he was from. He answered, "Rawlins."

I bit my lip to keep from smiling too broad or even laughing. The blank look on the woman's face said it all. She faltered a bit. "Rawlins?" The light bulb then flickered on in the Wyoming boy's mind. "Rawlins, Wyoming."

In a matter of minutes, the needed clarification was there. But, it made me laugh inside. We had been in NYC for just a few hours. The boy's perspective hadn't shifted yet. I'm sure where he's from and where he usually travels, answering simply "Rawlins" is sufficient. He had not realized at first that we were in New York and he'd be lucky if people knew where Cheyenne (WY) was let alone Rawlins, a little town in the middle of nowhere.

It made me think of perspective and life experience and how those aspects so affect our ability to communicate and understand one another. It also made me appreciate anew how traveling adds incredible dimension to perspective. I'm just like that Wyoming boy sometimes with my perspective. But, just like he quickly adjusted, I hope I never lose that ability to adjust my perspective when it is necessary. That's a good skill to have.

Contrast

2009-06-15T19:28:00.000-07:00

As I roamed the streets and halls of New York City's most renowned sites last week, my mind was constantly gulping, trying to swallow the massive amount of stimuli being shoved my way. I found myself grasping many truths anew from all that I saw and experienced. Lesson one: Contrast.

Two weeks ago, I was in my Wyoming home. While there, I spent many hours playing with my nieces, baking bread, and working on a mind-numbing bird puzzle. And, though my home town is not the smallest nor the quietest place, it is geographically located in a remote patch of the map. Thus, as I drove back to Colorado at the end of my stay, I was surrounded by massive stretches of lonely, albeit enticing, landscape. Antelope, sheep, and deer were far more abundant than people as I made my way down WY.

As soon as I arrived home that day, I scrambled to do laundry, reorganize and pack again for my departure to New York City early the next morning. In a whirlwind of light naps, coffee sips, newspapers, purse and bag lugging, safety instructions, seat-belt signs, and restless legs, I was whisked to the Big Apple.

It didn't take long to feel the contrast. One day I was in the boondocks. The next day I was in one of the most famous and frenzied cities in the world. You may ask me to choose which I like better. The answer would depend on when you asked. I don't much prefer ice cream first thing in the morning. Late afternoon or early evening, however, ice cream is quite appealing. So, NYC or remote WY? Just depends.

One thing is true, however. Humans are still human in NYC. Brilliant discovery, I know. The difference in style and interests between a Wyoming coal miner and a Broadway artist may be astounding, but they both need food, rest, and companionship. They both get their feelings hurt, feel vulnerable, or have moments of elation.

So it is that this huge and sudden contrast between these two locations made me wish to be an anthropologist.

I am intrigued.

Sunshine

2009-05-17T11:13:00.001-07:00

I just came in from my front porch. Ah, delight! The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and life is looking chipper. I wonder at how a touch of sun can almost instantly transform my mood. It's hard to feel too upset in the presence of such bright warmth.

To me, the sun reminds me of how dependent human beings are. We are not self-sufficient. Even the most accomplished man or woman is not completely independent....not even MacGyver. We need other humans, we need food, we need sunshine. We need God.

Just a simple observation.

Heart or Logic?

2009-05-02T13:04:00.001-07:00

My reading habits are a bit sporadic. I go through phases where I read constantly, scolding myself for letting months of undisciplined reading patterns slip by. Then, I experience a lull in my ardor and find I have to push myself to read, if I do it at all. So, I am on a pendulum swing of ambition and apathy regarding the reading of books.

Just so happens I'm in a dry spell right now. Perhaps it's because I have no book in my possession that is captivating me. More likely, my mind is too preoccupied with thoughts of summer, plans for the future, and mindless distractions like....um....Facebook and day-dreaming (should I admit that?). One of these days, the pendulum will swing to the other side and a zealous yearning for academia will grip me once again.

Though my desire for books is lacklustre at the moment, there is a book I have been working on finishing. Take the Risk by Ben Carson, renowned neurosurgeon, is truly inspiring. My dad recommended it, so I knew it would be well worth my time, and....it has been.

One of the main premises of the book is that risk-taking is healthy but that there are smart ways to decipher whether a risk is worthwhile. Carson patented his own risk analysis in the form of four questions: 1) What is the best thing that could happen if I took this risk? 2) What is the worst thing that could happen if I took this risk? 3) What is the best thing that could happen if I didn't take this risk? 4) What is the worst thing that could happen if I didn't take this risk? Using his own story to exemplify such risk analysis in action, Carson successfully shows the value in thinking through major decisions that involve elements of risk by using logic.

Faced with some big decisions myself and encouraged by my dad to try Carson's approach, I made my way to Starbucks this morning with journal in hand to flesh out my own risk analyses on each of my options. I think it was helpful. I mean, I don't believe I had any new revelations. Being the obsessive person I am, I had already been hashing through a million thoughts about each option for weeks. However, putting the words on paper may have given some clarity.

Here's the problem. I don't know if I can make a decision purely on logic. I think I have to make it partially according to my heart too. Maybe that's cheesy, but it's true. It's like those silly lists that people have for finding a qualified mate (not offending anyone who's made a list, because I have in the past too). As neat as those might be, you'll probably fall in love with some guy/girl who doesn't match the list completely while Mr./Miss perfect over there just doesn't seem to capture your attention. It's much the same with such big life decisions. The "smart" move isn't always the most appealing to your heart.

Obviously, Bible reading, prayer and counsel from trusted mentors/friends is another key aspect to decision-making. And Carson definitely incorporates some of those aspects in his book. I'm just saying, though, that when it comes to the actual making of the decision, should heart or logic rule? And what if the options all seem equally risky with none outshining the other? What then? What if you're in a holding pattern that is growing increasingly aggravating? Not speaking from personal experience or anything [awkward cough].........

Okay, okay. So, I am in a frustrating though exciting place. I just need to know....heart or logic? My goal is to pursue the will of God, but I still have to make decisions. It's rarely done for me. I guess that, since the answer is not clear, I need to wait until it is...and, then, no matter how I know, I will know. Maybe it will be my heart or maybe pure logic. Either way, I must trust that God will guide. Easy to say. Hard to do. Lord, please help me trust.

Purple

2009-03-07T06:38:00.000-08:00

The new name is Purple Palace. It's a fitting name for the rental house I live in. If you were to come visit, you would stroll through the front door and glimpse fields of purple. Purple carpet, purplish counter-tops, purple-gray tile around the fire place perfectly complemented by purple-gray linoleum on the kitchen and bathroom floors. Ascending to the second floor would provide you no relief. The purple carpet happily crawls up the stairs and into the bedrooms as well. Supposedly, one man inhabited this house before my housemates and I did. It's a curious wonder how he survived the overt femininity.

Okay, truth be told, I actually like the Purple Palace just fine. The carpets feel somewhat cozy. Imagine a grayish purple rather than a Barney-purple and you may catch the aumbiance. Yet, there is something still stark and cold about the Purple Palace...the albino walls. Bright, undimmed, the-purist-wedding-dress-white walls. No touch of warmth. No hint of color. Albino.

I have concluded that the albino must be vanished. Perhaps it's the feeling of jealousy or longing every time I enter another house that is the telling sign. I find myself drooling over any color of wall...yellow, bright green, mocha, red...doesn't really matter. Once in the presence of such a wall, I transform into a color-thirsty savage who desperately clings to the color-hued drywall for dear life, hoping to never return to albino-land.

A bit dramatic, but you get the point, right? So, I wrote to the owner of our house and asked for permission to have a painting extravaganza (though I didn't use such words with her). Not surprisingly, she readily agreed, informing me that she always thought there needed to be some contrast on the walls. Great! But, what color? Remember, we live in the Purple Palace. Choosing an appropriate color will be no small challenge.

The challenge, however, makes me think of an analogous challenge in in my walk with Christ. Having purple carpets makes choosing the perfect wall color difficult. In the same way, factors X, Y, and Z in my life complicate upcoming decisions A, B, and C. Thus, I start to ponder for God how He can work out the mess perfectly. The problem is that I usually can't figure it out or else my formula is so exacting that there would be a greater chance of a termite building the Eiffel Tower than of my plan coming to fruition.

So, just as I tell myself that the wall color will work out and come together, I am reminded that God knows the perfect color to match the specific carpet in my life. In fact, it's even easier for Him to coordinate the incredible details in my life than it is for me to purchase the best hue for my walls. Simple analogy. Yet, profoundly difficult for me to grasp.

The Purple Palace has taught me a life lesson this morning. God uses even the color purple to get through my thick skull. Thanks, God!

No More Basement Singing!

2009-02-28T06:16:00.001-08:00

I had a breakthrough this week at school. Well, I don't know if I had the breakthrough or my 8th grade choir boys had the breakthrough....probably both of us. Glorious!

So, I'm not a male. That's obvious and an obvious hindrance when trying to guide adolescent males down the precarious path to great singing technique. Their constantly morphing voices make them uneasy and makes blending them into a united section as possible as herding cats. It's especially hazardous when I only have enough boys to have them sing one part, not a tenor and a bass part.

Without trying to detail all the challenges of effectively training adolescent male voices, suffice it to say that it's HARD. The biggest problem are the basement singers....those guys who have developed rich baritone and bass ranges and believe that the only manly way to sing is in the basement of their vocal range. And though I try to use the "Tenors-get-all-the-girls" line, the basement singers just stare at me blankly or sheepishly or with terror, wishing with all their might that they were in some other class.

Thus, I usually ignore the basement singers because, 1) my techniques don't work and 2) I don't want to cause needless humiliation in middle school.....

But, wait! Why is it that these students thrive on intense sport practices and even intense band classes? How is it that they will take a no-nonsense, you-better-get-competitive approach in football, but when they arrive to choir, it's a coddle-fest? Rebellion started seeping into my bones about this recently. I decided there would be no more pampering! No more protection from discomfort or challenges in choir! I decided to push my students, especially my guys, out of their comfort zones! Those basement singers had no more excuses!

So, last week, I gave multiple pep-talks about courage and about how choir should be like a sport. I reminded my young musicians that their voices were their instruments and that they should not take critique on their instruments personally. Then, I dove in. I worked my male section over and over, making each guy crawl out of his shell and try, especially my basement singers. I pulled out as many tricks as I could to get them to float into their upper range and falsetto voices. I decided to pick on them just a little...in a nice way. I was sure they would hate me forever.

To my disbelief, I was wrong! I was shocked that the one boy who was hovering in his low-range all year to that point was suddenly giving a shot at singing in his upper range...and he was making it! I was so thrilled that I began to chortle and giggle and clap my hands like a toddler at Christmas-time...but I didn't care if I looked like an idiot! All I could see were the boys' faces full of pride. All my badgering gave them a challenge and something to achieve! The girls seemed equally as pleased, watching these boys take on singing like they would a basketball play or a track race.

It goes to show you and me two things: 1) Adolescents like to be challenged and pushed even if they appear shy and insecure and 2) Singing is manly. Period. Especially when basement singers unashamedly sing high. Here's to you, Chris Martin and Michael Buble.

By the way, I think choir should be a sport.

A New Ride

2009-02-22T18:05:00.000-08:00

You know how you remember some things from years past with vividness while others are completely forgotten? For example, I will never forget the time growing up when my friend dared me to steal some popcorn from the lady's tub in front of us during a high school football game. So, while the unsuspecting fan turned her back on her popcorn, I snagged a piece. I'm not exactly proud of that memory, but there it is, indelibly ingrained.

Well, just like I have never forgotten that incident, neither have I ever forgotten one of the first chapel messages I sat under at John Brown University. It was a message aimed for the incoming freshman. I don't remember the man's name, but I definitely remember his story. He spoke of taking his son on an excursion to Disney World. After experiencing the first ride, the dad proceeded to escort his son to the next thrill. Surprisingly, the boy didn't want to leave the ride they had just experienced.

"But, son, the next ride is SO much better, I promise."

"No, Daddy. I like this ride. I want to stay here!"

And so the argument would go until the dad could convince the boy that the next ride would indeed be better. When they would finally reach the next ride, the cylce would start all over. The son would become attached to the current ride and refuse to move on.

The speaker went on to compare this cycle to the cycles of believers. Often, we refuse to trust that if God is pulling us away from our current "ride", He has something even better in store. That story and analogy has stayed with me and always proves a comfort when I am faced with giving something up or heading into something new.

Yet, I still often feel like that little boy: unwilling and doubtful. I don't relish unknowns and don't readily give up comforts. I rarely anticipate the next phase with giddy excitement because I'm busy mourning the loss of something familiar as I tred forward. Though I love the thought of adventure and change and wish to present myself as a bold pioneer, in practicality, I am a horrific transitioner and am just like that little boy.

This concept washes me afresh every now and then. Today is one of those days. I don't know what's happening next year. I feel uncertainty gnawing at me and newness waiting around the bend. Excited? Maybe, but desperately clinging to my current ride. I feel I need a deeper surrender. I am afraid the hands of my heart are white-knuckled in gripping the merry-go-round while Christ is gently tugging me toward Space Mountain. Of course, this analogy breaks down. Life does not always get progressively more fun or exciting, but our walk with God can get deeper and sweeter no matter what the circumstances if we navigate the rides with Him. As we do so, He will lead us through the rides that will refine us the best. I'm not sure what my next ride is, but I'm praying for the faith to embrace it enthusiastically.

Presidents Day

2009-02-16T08:05:00.001-08:00

Hooray for having two holidays two days apart. I felt it necessary to have a post for Presidents Day since I dedicated the title of my last one to Valentines Day. But....this post probably won't be about Presidents.

Or, maybe it will. I think that being President would be so incredibly tough. First of all, simply finding balance between work and play would be intensely challenging. You know how there are those jobs where you could always find something else to do? Like my job....if I wanted to, I could dedicate hours and hours to developing stellar lesson plans and creating carefully crafted birthday cards for each of my students (and that just the beginning of the extra things I could but don't do). How much more, then, would this be true with the President of the United States, the leader of the free world. Yikes.

But even more than that, I can't imagine how difficult it is for the President's every move to be endlessly scrutinized. People who agree and who disagree within the media spout off inflated opinions all day long. How twisted do reports and accounts become by the time they reach Americans' ears? I don't know....and, furthermore, how much media is fueled by mere perception of facts, not actual facts. After all, not all members of the media can know the President well enough to know his character and to know all the ins and outs or whys of his decisions. It's just not possible.

So it is that Presidents are more often than not defined by their voices of opposition or by the loudest media voice. It's difficult for reality to be completely known from such a distance. Truly. If I were the President or the First Lady, I think I would be frustrated by that. After living in a world where my reputation could be more "controlled", I can imagine losing some sleep over millions of eyes viewing me via a third party, the media.

No matter who is President, I have a level of sympathy for him regarding this aspect of his life. Yet, at the same, time, the President is the most powerful and influential man in the world. He has chosen this life and has many privileges that accompany the difficulties. He must be willing to be scrutinized because he must be held accountable. Thus, it must be the way it is. I just wish at times that the media would be a crew of superhumans....always knowing what is exactly right and true, never disagreeing, and always delivering a precise picture of the President. I wish that for the President and for Americans. I'll keep dreaming.

Valentines Day

2009-02-14T08:32:00.001-08:00

But....this post probably won't be about love, romance, or flowers.

I awoke this morning to glimpse a winter wonderland outside. Frosted trees, lazy fog, and snow-studded streets gave me a surreal feeling. So, after eating some breakfast and pouring myself some fresh coffee, I settled on my bedroom floor (my recent fave location for computer time) and put on some ethereal music to go along with the scene out my window. Howard Shore's music from Lord of the Rings is now engulfing my space. Soon, I'll be conquering foes, helping Hobbits and falling in love (so much for not mentioning love in this post). Or, maybe I'll just continue to sit here in my pink flannel pants and long-sleeved Cathedral Choir T-shirt. Either way, I'm loving this Saturday morning.

Yesterday at school, I was testing my 7th graders on "Ode to Joy". They individually came up to me and finger-picked the melody, a song they've been working on for the past two weeks. I was struck anew by how a piece of music could sound as unique as each person playing it. Though the guitar rendition that I teach is forever ingrained in my brain, having taught it over and over, I am still delighted by new interpretations of the same tune. Yesterday, I heard loud, soft, musical, stilted, fast, slow, connected, disjointed, delicate, and harsh renditions of the same little song. Some students possessed that intangible musical sense, using their fingers and their souls to pour beauty into the music. Some students approached the piece with robotic accuracy, seemingly feeling no connection to the tune. Some students awkwardly grappled with the strings, letting the guitar needlessly intimidate them. Wow. Unique. God created each of us uniquely. How well I see that even when grading students on identical tasks!

As my token show of respect to the day, I wish everyone a happy Valentines Day.

Mysterious Majesty

2009-02-09T20:37:00.000-08:00

Nobody looking would have thought I was driving down a patch of road I had endless times before. My eyes alert, I was soaking in the scenery as best I could while sitting at the wheel. Truth be told, I was hardly giving the road any notice. What made yesterday different from any other day of driving along that barren Wyoming land? The piece of black equipment occupying the passenger seat held the key. That new camera. I was suddenly seeing everything anew, hoping to find some unique piece of landscape that would lend itself to a photographic masterpiece.

Suddenly, my scouting eyes spotted him. I think time stood still as we stared each other down momentarily. A majestic white head peered at me through bland-colored sagebrush. I caught my breath. A bald eagle. No doubt. The last two times I had been on this road, I thought I had seen one, but couldn't be sure. No mistaking this guy. He was reality.

I quickly pulled my car over to the side of the road, jumped out, and ran back toward the eagle like a mad woman. He was quite far away by now and I was sprinting steadily away from my vehicle out in the middle of nowhere. Not sure it was the smartest move, but the majesty of the bird demanded my all.

With all the grandeur of a fairy tale, huge brown wings flapped upward. There it was, that gorgeous white head stretched out in front, leading the bird like a beacon to some unknown destination. I clicked my camera, but the fellow was just a speck on my screen.

Aware that I needed to reunite with my car, I hurried back, trying to keep an eye on the bird's swooping flight. When I slipped into my car, I flipped it around and sped back the other way, watching the prey of my vision. As if on cue, the big bird descended onto a large rock a ways off, perched with all the pride and dignity one would expect of bald eagle. I bolted out of my car and tried to steady my camera on the bird. It shook, the zoom maxed out and struggling to stay focused on the distant object. I snapped the camera. His image was captured. I took another picture. Another piece of evidence. Then, our rendezvous was over. He flew. I retreated to my car.

Turning around and continuing my journey toward Colorado, my heart was full. I could not explain to myself what was so magnificent about a bird with a white head. All I knew was that it was majestic. It gave joy to my day. I praised God. I felt it was a gift from Him to me. I think all of nature is God's gift to us. It's majestic because God created it and created us to enjoy it and thrill at its beauties. There is hardly a better example of such beauty than that of the mysteriously majestuc bald eagle.

Layers

2009-02-01T20:54:00.000-08:00

Layers. Everyone has them. Funny layers. Serious layers. Scary layers. Obvious layers. Sensitive layers. Tough layers. I'm convinced that people and relationships are complex, in part, because of human layers...layers that are normal and natural or layers that are caused by sin, fear, shame, or whatever else. This theory is not a psychological breakthrough nor should it resemble a nauseating self-help guide. Instead, it's just my simple, unoriginal observation about myself and others. So, it's the name of my blog. End of story.

My unwise layer is exposing itself right now. It's a Sunday night before a busy Monday. It's time for bed and rest so that I will have the energy to keep up with middle schoolers tomorrow. If rest is not found, I will have no patience for those students whose one goal in life is to not do what they're supposed to...those students who delight in annoying me. Yes, facing those students seems like WW III when I'm exhausted.

So, to bed I will go. Future posts may not mention layers specifically but may reveal human layers all the same. My random, whimsical layer will dictate my blogging frequency. I don't know how often I let that layer surface. I guess I'll find out.