Sweltering.
Desperate.
Dry.
Parched panting.
Sweat cascading down.
Hot wind whips.
Blazing sand chafes.
Sun strikes earth, searing air into transparent flame. And every second my core craving grows.
I am thirsty.
Step after dragging step, I finally reach the swinging double doors and collapse into a wooden chair. Smoke curls from thick cigars as a drunken song reels through the room. Snoring patrons clutch empty tumblers. Feathered, painted women hang on men hunkered over a game of poker. And on the shelf behind the bar stand bottles of flavorful forgetfulness.
I seek relief.
“What’s your pleasure, traveler?” calls the mustached bartender as he dries a yellowed shot glass.
“Water,” I utter faintly.
“What?”
“Water,” I cough.
“That colorless stuff?“ the bartender cackles and wipes his hairy nose. “That’s for children. Why not something more grown up, like this full-bodied beer?”
I lick my cracked lips. “I just want some water.”
The bartender points toward the shelf of glinting, boxy bottles. “If you want something that’ll put the spunk back in your spirit, I’ve got the best whiskey in the state.”
I shake my head.
“Brandy, then?”
“No.”
“Rum?”
“No.”
“Club soda?”
I curse.
“Water. Where the devil do you keep the water?” I demand.
The bartender scowls, marches outside, and returns, slamming the shot glass in front of my sunburned face.
“There,” he says flatly. “Compliments of the horse trough.”
Thin, green ooze coats the liquid’s surface. Flecks of brown matter revolve in the cup, trapping an unfortunate insect. It thrashes for life. So do I.
Unthinkable. Undrinkable. Unacceptable.
I waver to my feet and stumble toward the doors.
“Come back when you’re man enough to drink something real, you idiot!“” the bartender yells from inside.
White sky. White heat. White death.
I am still thirsty.
Suddenly, I spy something green in the distance. A bush? A tree? A mirage? Not disappearing… Buzzards soar in sickening circles overhead. I urge my carcass onward. Just a few more steps and…
Merciful shade!
Refreshing shade!
Luxuriant shade, snuffing out sun’s anger.
And music. Not of winds or brass. But the fluid tinkling of a brook racing over, under, around smooth rock, scattering bubbles across the pristine expanse of a deep, blue pool. A living spring.
I’ve arrived.
I plunge my hands into the crystalline water and bring them to my mouth again and again and again. Cool, clear droplets checker my cheeks like tiny diamonds. When my mind clears, I lift my hands toward heaven and shout in triumph. Thankful tears course down my face and drip off my chin, making ever-widening arcs in the water.
Then I toss my dusty rags aside and dive deep.
Into relief.
Into life.
Into pure delight.
The Spirit and the bride say, "Come!" And let him who hears say, "Come!" Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life. ~ Revelation 22:17
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Another Reason Why Reading is Cool
A few months ago, my friend, Charissa, remarked upon the beeping, flashing educational toys on the market for toddlers. You know, the ones that light up and sing songs after you push 1, 2, 3, or A,B,C.
“So, how exactly are those going to teach my son to sit still and read a book?” she wondered aloud.
Compared to all the glitz of TV and high-paced internet, reading can seem kind of… well, boring. Just black and white. No movement. No music. Nothing fancy.
Charissa’s comment got me thinking. If kids are implicitly trained to think that all learning must always be entertaining, then they probably won’t find reading or critical thinking all that appealing. Let’s face it: reading takes work and it’s easier to watch a movie.
The very fact that you are visiting this blog implies that you think reading is somewhat valuable. And there are many educators, scientists, and psychologists who would agree with you. Few people ever argue against the merits of reading. (And even fewer take their criticisms seriously).
Unlike watching a movie, old-fashioned reading taps into two innate human needs: the need for both community AND individuality. When an audience sits in a movie theatre, everyone sees the same film. People may have their different opinions, but everyone experiences the same stimulus. Unless you’re an active film critic, the experience is largely passive. You sit. You watch. You get entertained.
It’s true that people will always interpret the film differently. One will say that so and so is a great actor while another will disagree. But everything from the setting to the characters has been presented on a platter. The major work has already been accomplished according to the director’s interpretation of the story. This is why it is possible for Hollywood to make oodles of money in remaking old films. A new director re-interprets a script, slaps on some younger faces to the characters, and we have another new movie.
But books are different. Each person becomes the director by imagining the setting and characters. You have to have a longer relationship with a book than with a movie in order to enjoy. There’s more connection and personal investment. In general, reading provides a more personalized, engaging experience. DISCLAIMER: I am NOT suggesting that people should disregard the original author’s intent and meaning. I am merely saying that people will visualize and apply the text descriptions individually.
And when you meet someone who’s read the same book, there’s a mutual sense of communal nostalgia as people recall their old mental haunts and relationships with the characters. Few movies elicit such personal enthusiasm to the same degree. A person who’s spent ten hours with a book will naturally have a deeper appreciation for the story than the person who’s only spent two hours with a movie. You can’t cram ten hours’ worth of description, details, and inner-monologues into a two hour film. This is probably why I have NEVER heard anyone say, “Wow. That movie was sure better than the book!”
The point? While I certainly enjoy my share of movies like every other middle-class American, I think we all (myself included) could better understand and appreciate stories/information if we actually read these and thought about them rather than letting some director (whose worldview may be questionable) interpret reality for us. Active reading is a more humane process than passive observing. Even if the observing is more physically colorful.
No wonder it’s so hard to read the Bible these days.
“So, how exactly are those going to teach my son to sit still and read a book?” she wondered aloud.
Compared to all the glitz of TV and high-paced internet, reading can seem kind of… well, boring. Just black and white. No movement. No music. Nothing fancy.
Charissa’s comment got me thinking. If kids are implicitly trained to think that all learning must always be entertaining, then they probably won’t find reading or critical thinking all that appealing. Let’s face it: reading takes work and it’s easier to watch a movie.
The very fact that you are visiting this blog implies that you think reading is somewhat valuable. And there are many educators, scientists, and psychologists who would agree with you. Few people ever argue against the merits of reading. (And even fewer take their criticisms seriously).
Unlike watching a movie, old-fashioned reading taps into two innate human needs: the need for both community AND individuality. When an audience sits in a movie theatre, everyone sees the same film. People may have their different opinions, but everyone experiences the same stimulus. Unless you’re an active film critic, the experience is largely passive. You sit. You watch. You get entertained.
It’s true that people will always interpret the film differently. One will say that so and so is a great actor while another will disagree. But everything from the setting to the characters has been presented on a platter. The major work has already been accomplished according to the director’s interpretation of the story. This is why it is possible for Hollywood to make oodles of money in remaking old films. A new director re-interprets a script, slaps on some younger faces to the characters, and we have another new movie.
But books are different. Each person becomes the director by imagining the setting and characters. You have to have a longer relationship with a book than with a movie in order to enjoy. There’s more connection and personal investment. In general, reading provides a more personalized, engaging experience. DISCLAIMER: I am NOT suggesting that people should disregard the original author’s intent and meaning. I am merely saying that people will visualize and apply the text descriptions individually.
And when you meet someone who’s read the same book, there’s a mutual sense of communal nostalgia as people recall their old mental haunts and relationships with the characters. Few movies elicit such personal enthusiasm to the same degree. A person who’s spent ten hours with a book will naturally have a deeper appreciation for the story than the person who’s only spent two hours with a movie. You can’t cram ten hours’ worth of description, details, and inner-monologues into a two hour film. This is probably why I have NEVER heard anyone say, “Wow. That movie was sure better than the book!”
The point? While I certainly enjoy my share of movies like every other middle-class American, I think we all (myself included) could better understand and appreciate stories/information if we actually read these and thought about them rather than letting some director (whose worldview may be questionable) interpret reality for us. Active reading is a more humane process than passive observing. Even if the observing is more physically colorful.
No wonder it’s so hard to read the Bible these days.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Of Wisdom and Orange Juice
When I Finally Felt Grown Up
Orange juice not from concentrate - that’s when I’d know I’d arrived. No more mashing cylindrical slush with a wooden spoon. No more scraping sweet sludge against the pitcher. When I grew up, I would buy 100% Natural OJ and sip all I wanted without getting my fingers sticky. Once my fridge was stocked with fancy orange juice, name-brand pickles, and Miracle Whip instead of mayonnaise, I was sure to feel like a sophisticated adult. At least that’s what I thought as a child.
My notion of what it means to be a real grown-up has gone through as many stages as a Broadway musical. As a kid, my concept of adulthood was simplistic; it basically boiled down to the power to purchase. Grown-ups swore that money didn’t grow on trees (and I spent enough time climbing them to know this was true). Yet it seemed like adults could always buy whatever they wanted. All they had to do was whip out their debit card and voila! A dress. A car. A house. My modest allowance just didn’t have these capabilities. But when I became a grown-up, I’d have tons of money (and would probably invest much of it in candy).
As my body matured, however, so did my tastes. When I finally got a job, I didn’t want to eat chocolate by the bag anymore. Candy was nice, but sweeter still was the idea of independence. Throughout childhood, I’d relied on my parents to pay the bills and make the rules. But once I could survive without Mom and Dad, then I’d surely be an adult.
Soon after turning nineteen, I drove six hundred miles from home to live with some girlfriends for a summer. I worked in retail selling kitchen supplies and soon discovered that discretionary income is always a few digits shy of the number on the paycheck. Liberty is not only exciting; it’s also expensive.
The ironic thing about personal freedom is that once you have it, you have to pay for things that were once free. Rather than going toward an indulgent stash of sweets, most of my capital paid for practical things like rent, electricity, and groceries (usually the non-fancy kind). Along with the ability to run my life came the responsibility to support my lifestyle, and being in charge could be complicated at times.
One day while I was at work, I noticed a police car parked by my Saturn. Since there were no customers, I walked outside to find that someone had accidentally hit my car. Sure enough, there was a sizable dent near the brake light with an apologetic woman standing beside it. Thankfully, the damage was merely external.
Although my car functioned well, I still needed to figure out all the insurance stuff. So I did what most stereotypical females do when they have a car problem - I called my dad. He’d found the car for me in the first place and usually handled this sort of thing.
However, I soon realized my dad wouldn’t be able to fix this problem for me. For the first time in my life, I would be the one to call the insurance company, research auto mechanics, and gather damage estimates. I was intimidated. But I flipped through the phonebook, made some calls, and drove to the mechanic like a big girl.
While taking care of my car and paying the bills gave me a new sense of competence, I still felt like a kid in some ways. After all, I still watched movies, hung out with friends, and went to school (although I now paid for these things). I didn’t have a curfew, but I also didn’t have that peaceful feeling of being a full-fledged grown-up. Maybe that feeling would come once I got married. Only true grown-ups ever did that. I thus upgraded my definition of adulthood yet again and looked forward to living happily ever after.
I didn’t have to wait long. Shortly before turning twenty-one, I married my favorite person and moved to Tennessee to make his home my own. Ironically, changing my name did not change my attitude; I had the ring, but not the self-assured reality of being a grown-up. Jason and I had been friends since high school, so marriage felt more like an eternal slumber party rather than a milestone of maturity.
Several months later, I found out I would soon be moving to where all the truly official grown-ups lived - motherhood. Moms are like God; they see everything, know everything, heal the sick, and can be in two places at once (thanks to cell phones). As a mom, I was sure to have all the answers. But it didn’t take long to learn that parenting produces its own plethora of questions.
How would I recognize real labor? What do I do when the baby cries? How does weaning work? Do babies sleep on their tummies or on their backs? I spent the next nine months reading books on pregnancy and feeding schedules. I researched online. I even took a childbirth class with my husband. But for all my studying, I knew the real education lay ahead.
On delivery day, I felt less than omniscient as my entrance into motherhood was anything but graceful. Our son arrived early while Jason and I were out of town for a wedding. Jason sped toward the hospital where we’d pre-registered while I clutched the door handle and hummed Take Me Back to the Black Hills during contractions. Two hours later, we arrived home only to discover our hospital was full. We went elsewhere and had a confusing time finding an entrance, a parking space, and assistance. After hours of pushing with little progress, I ended up with a C-section and spent my first day of motherhood bound to a gurney.
After life regained some routine, I was surprised to find that having a newborn was a lot like toting a baby doll around. Although Jason and I were often tired, we were still socially mobile. If our son wasn’t getting passed around party guests, he was sleeping through entire events (and celebrating with us later at 2:00 and 4:00 in the morning).
I also learned that motherhood does not morph you into a “sophisticated” adult. In fact, it reconnects you back to childhood. I started taking new delight in passing planes and cars because my toddler thought they were amazing. I also started reading picture books, playing with bubbles, and watching Winnie the Pooh. Sometimes I felt more like a kid on a new adventure rather than a field expert.
Getting my degree didn’t grant me that grown-up feeling, either. I graduated in December, but there are no huge commencement ceremonies in winter. I was happy to finish school, but doing so did not significantly alter my identity. I was still a wife and mother. Attending spring graduation was somewhat of an afterthought.
What sort of magic could possibly transform me into a grown-up if independence, marriage, motherhood, and graduation couldn’t do the trick? I was beginning to think that self-assured adulthood might be a myth. But I unexpectedly felt a sense of restful competence as I entered motherhood for the second time.
Unlike my first pregnancy and birth where everything was new and uncertain, I now knew my way around the block and had total freedom in my personal homebirth. It was miraculous and empowering to bring a new person into the world without being passively strapped to a surgeon’s table. When push came to shove, God was merciful and gracious to give me a baby girl. And it was nice not to fret every time she cried on this second go around. Although there was more excitement at the birth of my first child, there was certainly more peace at the arrival of my second. I was battle-proven now, no longer barraged with incessant questions or doubts that I could survive on the homefront.
On my second trip into motherhood, I learned that life isn’t all about the milestones - it’s about the miles in between. It’s not about leaving home; it’s about learning responsibility. It’s not about the wedding day; it’s about the marriage. Not having the baby. But bringing it home. It’s the lessons you learn while walking beyond the milestones that truly make you a grown-up.
People often look to a marriage license, child’s birth certificate, or Bachelor’s degree to define themselves. Yet wisdom often goes undocumented. Being a grown-up is not based on what you have, but rather on what you do with what you know. That’s wisdom. My knowledge gleaned from past experiences enabled me to smile at a future with two children. Maturity didn’t come instantly. It grew for over twenty-four years to make me who I am today. It may take time to cultivate, but ripened wisdom produces a harvest of peace that can lift your spirit and nourish your soul. Just like orange juice not from concentrate.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Driving Lessons
In 2005, I left my home in Maryland to live in Georgia with some girlfriends for the summer. I looked forward to this new adventure, and also to narrowing the 600-mile distance between me and Jason. Now I could drive three hours to see him instead of eleven. And thanks to the hospitality of Jason’s friends, my Chattanooga accommodations never cost me a dime. My car needed a surprising number of oil changes that summer. But even more surprising was the number of lessons I learned from behind the wheel.
My first trip to Chattanooga was anything but easygoing. An hour into my trek, I got trapped in Atlanta traffic. Then my “Service Engine” light started flashing. I’ll take care of it later, I thought, secretly hoping my car was just overreacting to the caterpillar pace. But when I accelerated, my little automatic wouldn’t shift properly. My car had settled into fourth gear and roared in protest if I tried to go any faster.
Putting along in the slow lane, I rummaged around for my cell phone. I needed male expertise. After trying unsuccessfully to reach Jason, I called my dad back in Maryland. I knew very well he couldn’t pick me up or anything, but I needed some assurance. He calmly advised me to drive slowly and pull over if my engine started to overheat.
I had no desire to get stranded halfway between Commerce and Chattanooga. Not only would it take my friends from both cities an hour and a half to pick me up, but it would also waste precious time -- time I could be spending with Jason. I took a breath, gripped the steering wheel, and asked God to help me make it to Tennessee. I also asked my girlfriends to pray.
After watching other cars zoom past me for two hours, I finally saw signs for Chattanooga. Almost there, almost there! As I rounded a scenic bend in the highway, I spotted not only the city of my beloved, but also two beautiful rainbows. I felt so relieved, I cried.
With the first rainbow, it seemed like God was saying He’d be faithful to get me to Chattanooga. With the second, that He’d keep me faithful once I got there. Jason and I both desired to have a pure relationship, free from premarital sexual involvement. But I still felt timid in my ability to withstand the natural temptation to get too intimate too quickly. Yet here, en route to my testing ground, God had painted a portrait in the sky to remind me of His presence. He was with me always. Even on the highway to Chattanooga. I brushed a tear from my cheek and thanked Him.
Then I got lost.
I hate getting lost. Hate, hate, hate it. I was already running late due to my fifty mile-per-hour commute, and now I couldn’t find my way a mere ten miles from my destination. Will I ever get there? Fortunately being a woman, I had no trouble pulling into the first gas station I saw to ask for directions. After talking with the man behind the counter, I hurried back to the car. When I turned the key, the “Service Engine” light vanished! And to my unexpected joy, my car once again shifted into fifth gear without a fuss.
After stopping once more at the Chattanooga Choo Choo Hotel for additional directions, I eventually crossed the Tennessee River and found Jason. He spied me at an intersection, and I gladly called “shotgun” as he took the driver’s seat. As far as I was concerned, he could keep it for the rest of our relationship.
My first trip to Chattanooga was anything but easygoing. An hour into my trek, I got trapped in Atlanta traffic. Then my “Service Engine” light started flashing. I’ll take care of it later, I thought, secretly hoping my car was just overreacting to the caterpillar pace. But when I accelerated, my little automatic wouldn’t shift properly. My car had settled into fourth gear and roared in protest if I tried to go any faster.
Putting along in the slow lane, I rummaged around for my cell phone. I needed male expertise. After trying unsuccessfully to reach Jason, I called my dad back in Maryland. I knew very well he couldn’t pick me up or anything, but I needed some assurance. He calmly advised me to drive slowly and pull over if my engine started to overheat.
I had no desire to get stranded halfway between Commerce and Chattanooga. Not only would it take my friends from both cities an hour and a half to pick me up, but it would also waste precious time -- time I could be spending with Jason. I took a breath, gripped the steering wheel, and asked God to help me make it to Tennessee. I also asked my girlfriends to pray.
After watching other cars zoom past me for two hours, I finally saw signs for Chattanooga. Almost there, almost there! As I rounded a scenic bend in the highway, I spotted not only the city of my beloved, but also two beautiful rainbows. I felt so relieved, I cried.
With the first rainbow, it seemed like God was saying He’d be faithful to get me to Chattanooga. With the second, that He’d keep me faithful once I got there. Jason and I both desired to have a pure relationship, free from premarital sexual involvement. But I still felt timid in my ability to withstand the natural temptation to get too intimate too quickly. Yet here, en route to my testing ground, God had painted a portrait in the sky to remind me of His presence. He was with me always. Even on the highway to Chattanooga. I brushed a tear from my cheek and thanked Him.
Then I got lost.
I hate getting lost. Hate, hate, hate it. I was already running late due to my fifty mile-per-hour commute, and now I couldn’t find my way a mere ten miles from my destination. Will I ever get there? Fortunately being a woman, I had no trouble pulling into the first gas station I saw to ask for directions. After talking with the man behind the counter, I hurried back to the car. When I turned the key, the “Service Engine” light vanished! And to my unexpected joy, my car once again shifted into fifth gear without a fuss.
After stopping once more at the Chattanooga Choo Choo Hotel for additional directions, I eventually crossed the Tennessee River and found Jason. He spied me at an intersection, and I gladly called “shotgun” as he took the driver’s seat. As far as I was concerned, he could keep it for the rest of our relationship.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Procrastination in Poetry
Perhaps if I got penalized, I then would mend my way.
Really, I’ll have tons of time to work after I play.
Of course I’ll get it finished for the sun is still quite high.
Certainly I have the time to spend with friends, don’t I?
Rumor has it this assignment won’t take long at all.
And there’s a super sale for just today inside the mall.
Surely I can’t miss the famed finale of this show!
Tonight’s the big event and am I skipping it? Heck no!
I work best under pressure and I guess I must begin it.
New mail in my inbox? This will only take a minute.
And now it’s time to get a snack. I’m past due for a break.
Tomorrow morning’s not far off - I’m sure to be up late.
Espressos fuel my fuzzy mind as I procrastinate.
Really, I’ll have tons of time to work after I play.
Of course I’ll get it finished for the sun is still quite high.
Certainly I have the time to spend with friends, don’t I?
Rumor has it this assignment won’t take long at all.
And there’s a super sale for just today inside the mall.
Surely I can’t miss the famed finale of this show!
Tonight’s the big event and am I skipping it? Heck no!
I work best under pressure and I guess I must begin it.
New mail in my inbox? This will only take a minute.
And now it’s time to get a snack. I’m past due for a break.
Tomorrow morning’s not far off - I’m sure to be up late.
Espressos fuel my fuzzy mind as I procrastinate.
Monday, September 28, 2009
A Compliment to Active Beauty
My double stroller’s quite the gift
It gives my children both a lift
I get to run, they get to ride
We all enjoy the air outside
One day while jogging thus behind
A question trotted through my mind:
Why am I praised for exercise
More than I am for being wise?
Don’t get me wrong, I like the smiles
Shot my way o’er sweaty miles
They aren’t trying to insult
Can commendations have a fault?
But often compliments are placed
Not on our souls but on our waists
On what we own or what we wear
Our jewelry or our new-cut hair
Somehow I do sincerely doubt
That I’d obtain the self-same clout
From wiping snotty nose of son
Compared to running marathon
I would not get as many smiles
From those within grocery aisles
Were I to withstand child’s rant
(My toddler wants to roam, but can’t)
Rather than support respect
They all would want me to defect
But for the mom who well dissents
Alas there are no compliments
Though beauty was first God’s invention
We make it just one dimension
Easier to say “Nice earrings!”
Than to praise the deeper things
While we should not go spite our faces
Or disdain cosmetic graces
Beauty’s more than being thin
Or having super-model skin
It’s living life with energy
And loving those God brings to me
And though our culture says it’s true
Health doesn’t always come “Size 2”
Culture does not oft sing anthems
Of not giving in to tantrums
Honest work or being pure
Of love that isn’t keeping score
Choosing people over profit
Standing firm when crowd says “drop it”
Of changing diapers, paying bills
Or taking care of parents ill
Truthful, loving confrontation
These aren’t lauded by the nation
But while we all can point and sigh
We Christians also buy the lie
For as it is, we often feel
So restless without abs of steel
We may spend thousands on a gym
And kill ourselves to get real slim
External beauty’s so divine
We lose the inches and our minds
Eating grapefruit till we’re sick
Conforming to a “lovely” stick
We tear through makeup catalogs
To steer our way through fashion’s fog
We trim our noses, bleach our teeth
But truer beauty lies beneath
While faces surely have their part
The real thing lives in tranquil heart
Now anchored firm against mad tide
Within our Prince who for us died
For Jesus did not judge by sight
He praised great faith and widow’s mite
He lives and gives us hearts anew
Forget the mirror for this is true
Lovelier than perfume’s essence
Is life fragrant with Christ’s presence
Daughters of the Most High King
Beauty’s our identity
Though some find us unattractive
Beauty’s deepest when it’s active
Flowing from beneath the skin
Colors every thought and action
So as well as clothes that flatter
Let’s commend the things that matter
Like confessing, killing pride
Seeking those on life’s outside
Helping tired single mothers
Trusting God and hon’ring others
Fighting against Satan’s lies
Hugging toddlers when they cry
Seeking justice and forgiveness
Giving more and hoarding less
Hating sin when crowd is lenient
Loving when it’s inconvenient
To such things I tip my hat
To inner beauty lived like that
Not founded upon cute makeup
But welling from within clean cup
Let’s not stress o’er mere externals
But praise more of life’s eternals
And express our satisfaction
Seeing beauty shine through action
It gives my children both a lift
I get to run, they get to ride
We all enjoy the air outside
One day while jogging thus behind
A question trotted through my mind:
Why am I praised for exercise
More than I am for being wise?
Don’t get me wrong, I like the smiles
Shot my way o’er sweaty miles
They aren’t trying to insult
Can commendations have a fault?
But often compliments are placed
Not on our souls but on our waists
On what we own or what we wear
Our jewelry or our new-cut hair
Somehow I do sincerely doubt
That I’d obtain the self-same clout
From wiping snotty nose of son
Compared to running marathon
I would not get as many smiles
From those within grocery aisles
Were I to withstand child’s rant
(My toddler wants to roam, but can’t)
Rather than support respect
They all would want me to defect
But for the mom who well dissents
Alas there are no compliments
Though beauty was first God’s invention
We make it just one dimension
Easier to say “Nice earrings!”
Than to praise the deeper things
While we should not go spite our faces
Or disdain cosmetic graces
Beauty’s more than being thin
Or having super-model skin
It’s living life with energy
And loving those God brings to me
And though our culture says it’s true
Health doesn’t always come “Size 2”
Culture does not oft sing anthems
Of not giving in to tantrums
Honest work or being pure
Of love that isn’t keeping score
Choosing people over profit
Standing firm when crowd says “drop it”
Of changing diapers, paying bills
Or taking care of parents ill
Truthful, loving confrontation
These aren’t lauded by the nation
But while we all can point and sigh
We Christians also buy the lie
For as it is, we often feel
So restless without abs of steel
We may spend thousands on a gym
And kill ourselves to get real slim
External beauty’s so divine
We lose the inches and our minds
Eating grapefruit till we’re sick
Conforming to a “lovely” stick
We tear through makeup catalogs
To steer our way through fashion’s fog
We trim our noses, bleach our teeth
But truer beauty lies beneath
While faces surely have their part
The real thing lives in tranquil heart
Now anchored firm against mad tide
Within our Prince who for us died
For Jesus did not judge by sight
He praised great faith and widow’s mite
He lives and gives us hearts anew
Forget the mirror for this is true
Lovelier than perfume’s essence
Is life fragrant with Christ’s presence
Daughters of the Most High King
Beauty’s our identity
Though some find us unattractive
Beauty’s deepest when it’s active
Flowing from beneath the skin
Colors every thought and action
So as well as clothes that flatter
Let’s commend the things that matter
Like confessing, killing pride
Seeking those on life’s outside
Helping tired single mothers
Trusting God and hon’ring others
Fighting against Satan’s lies
Hugging toddlers when they cry
Seeking justice and forgiveness
Giving more and hoarding less
Hating sin when crowd is lenient
Loving when it’s inconvenient
To such things I tip my hat
To inner beauty lived like that
Not founded upon cute makeup
But welling from within clean cup
Let’s not stress o’er mere externals
But praise more of life’s eternals
And express our satisfaction
Seeing beauty shine through action
Monday, September 14, 2009
An Untraditional Finish (Part 2 of 2)
But now that I was expecting a baby, could I honestly expect a diploma as well?
Our child wasn’t due until early summer. This would allow me to complete my first two semesters without any complications. Well, almost.
During that first academic year I gained a new appreciation for things I’d always taken for granted. Commuting to class in the mornings was challenging enough. But doing so with morning sickness was a horse of a different color - often a pale green. Luckily, my statistics professor (as in MWF at 7:45am Statistics) didn’t mind me coming to class a few minutes late. Leaning over the sink to get some soap from the dispenser in the restroom had never been a problem before. Nor had sitting in those little chairs with the folding desktops. But now I had a watermelon-sized bulge on the front of me and suddenly all those little things had be reckoned with.
To make matters worse, my midwife ordered me to go on eight hours of bed-rest a day due to some swelling in my legs. I felt like I’d just been grounded, and all I was trying to do was pass college. I don’t know what I would have done without a certain girlfriend who let me borrow her bed between classes.
Fall and spring came and went and soon my son was born - all nine pounds, eleven ounces of him. No wonder it had been so hard to reach for the soap. I had two peaceful months to recover and the summer passed joyfully. Our son had even learned to sleep through the night before school started. But autumn came quickly, bringing with it my most complicated semester yet.
Due to a miscalculation the previous year, I would have to take nineteen credits in the fall to graduate on time. I had never taken nineteen credits before. And I certainly would not have chosen to do so while breastfeeding an infant. Speaking of the baby, I was going to need quite a few babysitters to pull this semester off. I couldn’t very well bring him to “Show and Tell” every day.
But God provided. I quickly recruited four babysitters to cover my afternoon classes and Jason’s boss let him work remotely so he could keep an eye on the baby in the mornings. The best part was that we didn’t have to pay the babysitters. They were willing to watch our son in exchange for a few loads of laundry or out of sheer love for children. I was grateful.
My final semester proved to be a busy one, but we made it. I met all the academic requirements in December 2007 and graduated with distinction the following spring. I am still amazed that the details of transferring, pregnancy, writing papers, finding babysitters, breastfeeding, and finally graduating all came together. By the time I left school, I had learned more than just the subject listed on my diploma. I learned that God’s got the details figured out and always provides for His children. My college career had been an untraditional journey, but it was also an adventurous one that I wouldn’t trade.
Our child wasn’t due until early summer. This would allow me to complete my first two semesters without any complications. Well, almost.
During that first academic year I gained a new appreciation for things I’d always taken for granted. Commuting to class in the mornings was challenging enough. But doing so with morning sickness was a horse of a different color - often a pale green. Luckily, my statistics professor (as in MWF at 7:45am Statistics) didn’t mind me coming to class a few minutes late. Leaning over the sink to get some soap from the dispenser in the restroom had never been a problem before. Nor had sitting in those little chairs with the folding desktops. But now I had a watermelon-sized bulge on the front of me and suddenly all those little things had be reckoned with.
To make matters worse, my midwife ordered me to go on eight hours of bed-rest a day due to some swelling in my legs. I felt like I’d just been grounded, and all I was trying to do was pass college. I don’t know what I would have done without a certain girlfriend who let me borrow her bed between classes.
Fall and spring came and went and soon my son was born - all nine pounds, eleven ounces of him. No wonder it had been so hard to reach for the soap. I had two peaceful months to recover and the summer passed joyfully. Our son had even learned to sleep through the night before school started. But autumn came quickly, bringing with it my most complicated semester yet.
Due to a miscalculation the previous year, I would have to take nineteen credits in the fall to graduate on time. I had never taken nineteen credits before. And I certainly would not have chosen to do so while breastfeeding an infant. Speaking of the baby, I was going to need quite a few babysitters to pull this semester off. I couldn’t very well bring him to “Show and Tell” every day.
But God provided. I quickly recruited four babysitters to cover my afternoon classes and Jason’s boss let him work remotely so he could keep an eye on the baby in the mornings. The best part was that we didn’t have to pay the babysitters. They were willing to watch our son in exchange for a few loads of laundry or out of sheer love for children. I was grateful.
My final semester proved to be a busy one, but we made it. I met all the academic requirements in December 2007 and graduated with distinction the following spring. I am still amazed that the details of transferring, pregnancy, writing papers, finding babysitters, breastfeeding, and finally graduating all came together. By the time I left school, I had learned more than just the subject listed on my diploma. I learned that God’s got the details figured out and always provides for His children. My college career had been an untraditional journey, but it was also an adventurous one that I wouldn’t trade.
Monday, September 7, 2009
An Untraditional Finish (Part 1 of 2)
Most people who go to college usually take classes for a few years, graduate, find a job, and eventually get married and have kids. I did all this too - just not in that order. When I set off for college in the fall of 2003, I had no idea that earning my degree would require not only managing the responsibilities of a student, but also those of a wife and mother as well.
My first few years of school were spent at a local community college and a small Bible school. After getting married during my junior year, I moved out of state with my husband, Jason, and transferred all my credits to a Christian liberal arts college near Chattanooga, Tennessee. Although I had almost three years of schooling under my belt, this new college required all new students to attend a weeklong orientation prior to starting the semester.
I felt odd that week being the only married transfer student amid the throng of bubbly freshmen. In terms of life-stage, I had more in common with the professors than I did with the students. Unlike the “kids,” I wouldn’t be returning to the dorm to discuss my latest crush or quirky professor. I wouldn’t participate in campus pranks, late night parties, inside jokes, or early morning runs to the local Krispy Kreme store. Instead, I would spend most of my evenings driving home, eating dinner with my husband, and going to bed before midnight.
Sometimes this social distance proved comical. While eating in the cafeteria with another student, an upperclassman approached us and started talking to me. He was being sweet and attentive, but I didn’t want to lead him on at all. So I casually mentioned something about my husband. The other student smiled and said something to the effect of “Oops, better take her off the list.”
Another time, I found myself assuming a maternal role. While doing a service project with my orientation team, I noticed that our leader’s mascara was smeared. I offered to fix the problem and she accepted. There I was, spit-shining the face of an authority figure that was younger than I was. When I had fixed her makeup, she smiled and said, “You’ll make a great mom someday.”
My team leader must have been majoring in prophecy. A few weeks later, I found that I had not only begun my first semester at this new school; I had also started my first trimester. I was pregnant. And this hadn’t exactly been in my graduation plans. Jason and I were hoping to become parents after I completed my degree. But now that I was expecting a baby, could I honestly expect a diploma as well?
My first few years of school were spent at a local community college and a small Bible school. After getting married during my junior year, I moved out of state with my husband, Jason, and transferred all my credits to a Christian liberal arts college near Chattanooga, Tennessee. Although I had almost three years of schooling under my belt, this new college required all new students to attend a weeklong orientation prior to starting the semester.
I felt odd that week being the only married transfer student amid the throng of bubbly freshmen. In terms of life-stage, I had more in common with the professors than I did with the students. Unlike the “kids,” I wouldn’t be returning to the dorm to discuss my latest crush or quirky professor. I wouldn’t participate in campus pranks, late night parties, inside jokes, or early morning runs to the local Krispy Kreme store. Instead, I would spend most of my evenings driving home, eating dinner with my husband, and going to bed before midnight.
Sometimes this social distance proved comical. While eating in the cafeteria with another student, an upperclassman approached us and started talking to me. He was being sweet and attentive, but I didn’t want to lead him on at all. So I casually mentioned something about my husband. The other student smiled and said something to the effect of “Oops, better take her off the list.”
Another time, I found myself assuming a maternal role. While doing a service project with my orientation team, I noticed that our leader’s mascara was smeared. I offered to fix the problem and she accepted. There I was, spit-shining the face of an authority figure that was younger than I was. When I had fixed her makeup, she smiled and said, “You’ll make a great mom someday.”
My team leader must have been majoring in prophecy. A few weeks later, I found that I had not only begun my first semester at this new school; I had also started my first trimester. I was pregnant. And this hadn’t exactly been in my graduation plans. Jason and I were hoping to become parents after I completed my degree. But now that I was expecting a baby, could I honestly expect a diploma as well?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Procrastination Poem
Perhaps if I got penalized, I then would mend my way.
Really, I’ll have tons of time to work after I play.
Of course I’ll get it finished for the sun is still quite high.
Certainly I have the time to spend with friends, don’t I?
Rumor has it this assignment won’t take long at all.
And there’s a super sale for just today inside the mall.
Surely I can’t miss the famed finale of this show!
Tonight’s the big event and am I skipping it? Heck no!
Iwork best under pressure and I guess I must begin it.
New mail in my inbox? This will only take a minute.
And now it’s time to get a snack. I’m past due for a break.
Tomorrow morning’s not far off - I’m sure to be up late.
Espressos fuel my fuzzy mind as I procrastinate.
Really, I’ll have tons of time to work after I play.
Of course I’ll get it finished for the sun is still quite high.
Certainly I have the time to spend with friends, don’t I?
Rumor has it this assignment won’t take long at all.
And there’s a super sale for just today inside the mall.
Surely I can’t miss the famed finale of this show!
Tonight’s the big event and am I skipping it? Heck no!
Iwork best under pressure and I guess I must begin it.
New mail in my inbox? This will only take a minute.
And now it’s time to get a snack. I’m past due for a break.
Tomorrow morning’s not far off - I’m sure to be up late.
Espressos fuel my fuzzy mind as I procrastinate.
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