So few of us hold mustard seeds.

"But remember too that the ultimate irony of faith is that it necessarily admits doubt. It is the belief in things not seen."
...President Barack Obama.

I have to disagree with the President.
...actually, with the first sentence of that quote.
Faith is the complete absence of doubt, in the face of no physical evidence.
Thats what makes it seems so insane to some.

Henry James

Soo, I have kindof already filled my blog quota for about a year....but, I couldn't resist putting up this quote:

"Summer afternoon - summer afternoon...the two most beautiful words in the English language."

Its even more true when we haven't reached summer yet.

I will go before you
and will level the mountains;
I will break down gates of bronze
and cut through bars of iron.
I will give you the treasures of darkness,
riches stored in secret places,
so that you may know that I am the Lord,
the God of Israel, who summons you by name.
For the sake of Jacob my servant,
of Israel my chosen,
I summon you by name.

Oh my God. Can't you just hear the force behind those words?

Elated step of faith

Excitement!

I put my deposit and acceptance slip in the mail today.

A Gordon College sticker now waits impatiently on my desk to be adhered somewhere....

Shaken from Sleep

This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light, because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God.

So live by the truth.

The truth is that death has no hold.
When your mind argues you can't help it; sin is ingrained in your nature, its not truth. You can't live in darkness any longer, when the Spirit dwelling inside you is Light. The corrupting decay of this world's death is repelled from the radiance of the Spirit, so abide in that light. Remain within that sphere of untouchable purity.

Fear has been cast out.
Step into the light with no hesitation, because you have nothing to be afraid of. If you expose your failure to the light, nothing but forgiveness and supportive hands will lift you up, because that light is made up of perfect love. Confess with honest open hands, and experience your life of freedom and beauty again.

Temptations are not failures.
Temptations play with the weakest parts of your spirit, but when you are weak, you are at your strongest, because you have nothing to rely on, nothing to grasp at, but the strength of God. The Spirit dwelling in you, is the Spirit that called the universe into existence out of nothing. And with that power, nothing is insurmountable. Nothing is invincible.

The past can't touch your future.
The victories of today's success do not redeem yesterday's miserable failures - only the pure blood of the one who gave us our redemption does that. But the new mercy of this victorious morning erases your guilt, and sets you on your feet to press forward.

You are loved.
Perhaps if this concept could be grasped in a stronger and surer way, we would not struggle so much. We would pour out our souls with eagerness, we would use every ounce of strength we had to follow the truth, and bring honor to God. We only understand human love, and that love is tainted with self-interest.

You are weak.
You cannot leave behind your love of darkness on your own. You cannot vanquish the evil of your heart with your own hands; you have to give it to the capable hands of God. You don't have to prove your desire for a new life by staring into the face of the enemy with no one by your side - Christ has passed that test for you. Surrender, and put on the armor of the Spirit. We can be radiant, but not until we step out from the darkness and allow ourselves to be broken down, stripped bare, and clothed in beautiful Light.

The truth is, the end has already been written. The night is nearly over, and the day is almost here. This battle will be won by the Army defending truth.

So are you going to fight with them?

Please, God.

I'm not strong enough to hold everyone together.

Don't let go of any of them.

Evening dreaming

I sit cross legged in front of my desk, drafting an essay for my art portfolio, slightly distracted by the old stories I have found written down inside the journals that are stacked ontop of eachother next to my notebook. One of them is lying open, and I turn the pages with curiosity and a smile - how strange to have forgotten my own ideas. Intrigued, I put down my pencil and take the journal in my lap to read it. A paragraph ends mid-sentence, and suddenly a spark of thought connects two events in the story that I couldn't bring together before. I grab a pen and write in the margins before the revelation escapes me, then continue on through the journal. My thoughts are incomlplete, and I find myself dissappointed as the writing on the pages end. My imagination grasps at possible explanations for where the plot goes, idly wandering through musings and various notions.
The house is suddenly quiet; everyone left for the grocery store, a basketball game, a friends house; and suddenly my thoughts are sharper and more focused. I scribble down a handful of sentences for the essay, and then lean back in the chair to stretch my arms and look out the glass door. The sky is so grey, the pathway lights in the backyard have come on and dark stains from this morning's rain hold on to the edges of each stone of the patio outside. Something reminds me of being six years old in the back seat of our dark blue, four-door Honda with Maddie, watching the raindrops race eachother across the windows, picking our favorite ones and hoping each will be faster than the other.
My room is softly lit; the scent of a ruby candle I burned this morning still lingers, and with the white blanket around my shoulders I realize that I feel content. Too often I don't notice - contentment doesn't announce itself like satisfaction sometimes does. I draw my knees up under my chin, and think how I would like to stay in this place for awhile.

Relieved

The day started off as one of the toughest all month - and then ended as one of the best.
I love the big envelopes. (=

Some snow would be nice.

As I finish my application to Gordon, the lyrics to Augustana's Boston keep playing in my head. I liked that song before it was on the radio every fifteen minutes, but the words all seem perfectly in sync with how I feel.

She said I think I'll go to Boston
I think I'll start a new life,
I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name,
I'll get out of California, I'm tired of the weather,
I think I'll get a lover and fly em out to Spain
I think I'll go to Boston,
I think that I'm just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind
I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset
I hear it's nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice

Boston, where no one knows my name...


I love Boston.

Revelation

When everything around me is fear, pain, death, heat and flame. My trust isnt shaken, but my joy is dimmed, my spirit hurts. My peace is left undisturbed, but I am sad. Indescribable sorrow can exist and not cause damage with faith, but I still have to fight back trembling. The world isn't in my hands, nor am I in the world's.

I turned around to see the voice that was speaking to me.

'Write, therefore, what you have seen, what is now, and what will take place later.'

Innocence is bliss

Sometimes I think that children are the only reason the world goes on. As I was walking through the store the other day, I felt oppressed by the state of the lives I saw around me. Glancing through the narrow little windows that people construct into who they are by their cell phone conversations or coffee discussions, I could see anger, confusion, lost hope, resignation, endless hurt. The people I passed by with tightly drawn foreheads, condemning eyes, and frustrated voices dragged my spirits further down. No encouragement, no patience. Each person walked past their fellow human being without a thought or care. And that is life, it's the norm. But then a little head bobbed by, just below my line of sight, short brown curls bouncing as the little thing went along through the store. There was a smile dimpling his round cheeks, and exuberant words and questions bubbled from his mouth. His mom tugged his hand gently to keep him next to her as his feet wove in zigzags, making a walk down the dish soap aisle a dizzying adventure. His joy, and the overflowing life he had held my despair at bay for a moment. Then there was a tiny little laugh, and a milder giggle echoed it. A mother was holding her baby girl; a perfect, soft baby who was looking up at her mother with clear, sparkling eyes. Such a tiny thing who was so beautiful and pure, so weak and protected. But I couldn't help but think how she wasn't going to stay that way. These wonderful little beings aren't tainted by the dark and the disfigured things of our world. So to watch as they lose little pieces of innocence - and even as I see where I have tasted fruits from the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, is saddening. I want my innocence restored, my child eyes given back.

The narrow road is lonely.

Friends who are hurting,
Struggling.
Trying to help each other.
Judging despite good intentions.
Not helping.
Creating anger,
Fraying complicated threads.
Stepping aside from love;
Forgetting it unconsciously.
Slowly separating,
Abandoning their best support.
Some, afraid.
Others, angered.
Some, jealous.
Others, indifferent.

I, feeling helpless.
But free.
Free from the pain,
Standing in front of judgment.
Thoughts clear of envy,
Of wounds.

How can I help?
I want to.
But I don't know how to.

Eliza and Freddy

Pandora while I research India-Pakistan relations.

"I have often walked down this street before;
But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I Several stories high.
Knowing I'm on the street where you live..."


I wish it would rain. I love the grey sky, the moving clouds, but the illusion of cold - cold that promises hot drinks, lit fireplaces, thick scarves - is sad, because it is only an illusion. No need for scarves or the wonderful leather boots.


'...Are there lilac trees in the heart of town?
Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?
Does enchantment pour Out of ev'ry door?
No, it's just on the street where you live!'


I want to curl up on my bed and fall asleep. I did not get enough last night, though that was entirely my fault.


'...And oh! The towering feeling
Just to know somehow you are near.
The overpowering feeling
That any second you may suddenly appear!


Julie Andrews was Eliza Doolittle on Broadway, one of the most spectacular hits in its history, but when My Fair Lady was translated on to the screen, she lost her role to Audrey Hepburn. There is such a world of difference between the two of them in my mind; I think of Sound of Music and Sabrina and can't imagine either of them playing the same role as the other.

Grace Kelly made me laugh: "Emancipation of women has made them lose their mystery."


'...People stop and stare. They don't bother me.
For there's no where else on earth that I would rather be.
Let the time go by, I won't care if I
Can be here on the street where you live.'


I always liked Freddy better than Rex Harrison.

Nothing creative for a title. Creativity needs replenishing.

The heaviness is gone - along with my irritated (and likewise irritating) mood. I can behave like such a four year old sometimes. Its good to be brought low again though, to be reminded to look upwards and away from myself.

I wouldn't call myself proud of the blood I extracted from the stone, but the writing was adequate and so I can be at peace. Sometimes I suppose we have to settle for adequate. At least its finished, and I can focus my attention on the other things I have in front of me. Like preparing for Clash, working on my portfolio, reading my Econ and Constitution books. And indulging in a second read of Twilight, since the movie is coming out and I can have a reason.

I really want to scribble down absent minded thoughts for my fiction stories (the tragic, romantic and unrealistic - my favorite ones) it always makes me so happy. My propensity for day dreaming has decreased drastically, which on on hand is a good thing since I can get through work and school, but on the other hand makes me sad. Imagination has become shy; I confined and restrained her for so long that she lingers in the shadows and I miss my old friend.

Almost finished with Vilette, I love Charlotte Brontë so much. Still, and I want to read Jane Eyre again but I won't. I have to finish Ivanhoe and The Scarlet Letter.

Still in a Brontë kind of mood.

Im so frustrated, and on the verge of giving up. Except I know I can't give up, and I don't even want to, so I sit here and continue trying to force ideas out of my head that I could translate into sentences and paragraphs which are much easier to edit and craft when they exist in the first place. Im stuck, and it's driving me nuts. It's not just the inevitable and commonplace writer's block, but more than that - almost a lack of the courage to write. Why is that part of my mind holding back? What reason on earth do I have for being afraid to put something down - when I don't even have a coherent 'something' to write in the first place? Im even more irritated by being so confused about myself. I'm me, you'd think I would get it.

I guess I do kind of get it, sort of. I know part of where the lack of courageous enthusiasm is coming from, but it still doesn't seem to match up with everything, and theres no obvious solution telling me, "fix this and then it'll be okay".

I bet this makes no sense whatsoever, and every time I write something like this I will usually copy it into a document and delete it from my page, so it can still exist, just in my own little corner. But I don't feel like it. (the lack of enthusiasm is morphing into laziness. I hate that.)

I wonder where this desire for self expression comes from. Why do I want to write this all out, and keep it somewhere (even if no one else would see it)? Most other people don't really care what you are thinking, even if occasionally they do enjoy satisfying their curiosity by hearing your thoughts, or feeling affirmed that they can identify with your position and that they are not the only ones who feel that way. But why this urge to explain and display the inner workings of your mind? I wonder I wonder.

Headache

Im tired. Words bother me. Im irritated by reading them and writing them. Im going to go paint.

Observing Them

Contemplating things as I drove down to Santa Barbara with my mom this afternoon. Realizing the woman wearing a tight, lacy red top and filling her gas tank was made just like I was, with the hands of God, and He loves her. The man sitting hunched over on a bench in front of the Biltmore, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the ocean. The girl walking down the sidewalk in knee high white laced Converse, with black cropped hair and a red scarf. The young guy running along Cold Springs Road in athletic shorts, a band around his wrist and an iPod in his ears. The quiet music student, wearing black earrings and a faint smile.

* * * *

After La Super Rica (amazing as always), Laurel and I had strawberry mochi and went back to her dorm, where mom painted our toes as we watched a half-hour of Emma. Later mom and I walked down the beach, and took a picture of the cypress tree that she and Dad were photographed under the day they got married. The sun setting was beautiful. Faint pink dusted the fog which obscured the islands, reflecting in the wet sand when the waves pulled away from the shore. The trees were my favorite.

* * * *

From broken things, comes life.

There is such beauty in brokenness. Such renewal, like the sweetness that follows tears. The crushed and humbled heart that exposes the deepest part of the wound; ripping open the hurt again so that the true damage can be removed and then healed completely. Mistakes we have chosen to learn from are like autumn leaves, once young and verdant, that have fallen from the grace of the branches above, and piling around the base of the tree they die and decay. But from them, life is restored to the tree, new buds grow and blossom, and the branches grow ever taller.

And so even though my heart was stained and broken, life hadn't left. I wasn't forsaken, and beauty again took root.

Chalk mural

Amanda and I played together yesterday!

...

Sand

How I love it. Brandi and I went to the beach on Friday, and I remembered how breathtaking the ocean is. We brought our boards and the water felt good, but my favorite part was just sitting on the swings with the sun on my shoulders, eating cinnamon rolls and staring up at the clouds while listening to the surf, and Brandi laughing at herself.


...