Christmas!

This is the first year I've even paid attention to the fact that it's Christmas, and that's only because I fly out soon, and am looking forward to maybe some less-crowded flights today! But I had a cozy Christmas Eve last night (never paid attention to that, either), and I read Luke 2 for fun (they do it in books a lot, I thought I'd see what the fuss was all about) and cozied up and went to bed at about 9:00. Which is good, because, in case nobody has noticed, it's a little early right now. Huzzah for early flights...

Anyhow, this whole Christmas cheer thing? So not all it's cracked up to be. Yesterday I went to Borders (ahhh, what good times) and was about to pull in a parking space when I realized that some crazy car was driving on the wrong side of the road towards me. I had no idea what was going on, but just pulled into the space to be done with it, and then got out of the car to walk into the store. At which point I realized that the car had stopped in the midst of the parking lot for the express purpose of calling me some rather nasty names and to tell me what they thought of my driving. Um, I was the one driving in the right direction, Mr. Foul Mouth.

But I'm a Christian, it's cool.

So good-bye, Christmas lights. Good-bye, songs about all manner of animals--from reindeer to donkeys (Dominic, anyone?) to squirrels--I think I'll be happier without you. Good-bye, Santa Baby. Remember your vows, old dude, and smack those cheeky girls who call you baby. Good-bye Christmas "cheer." Though I think the cheer looses some of it's cheeriness each year. Good-bye frantic shoppers, we'll see you come Valentine's Day when you want chocolates and flowers. Good-bye, jingle bells.

Good-night, moon.

What's not leaving? The peace on earth, good will to man. Because guess what? That's sort of part of the package that came with redemption. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is something we get to keep with us all year round.

DV

First of all, I have to make note of the fact that I can never remember how the full version of "DV" is actually pronounced. Domnus Vet....something. I remember it easily as "da Lord 'Villing" with a weird sort of German accent or something. Can't say I didn't try.

But I was just thinking about that the other day. When I say "the other day" I mean "yesterday" because I happened to be reading up on some Paul (practicing for my order of the Corinthian nun, no doubt) when he was talking about this. He was visiting somewhere--Ephesus, I think?--and they were all sad, and he told them that he'd see them again, Lord willing. Well, in actual fact I believe he did see them again--it talks about sailing through Ephesus a few chapters later--but what this set me to wondering was this: is it always legitimate to say "Lord willing?"

Here's the deal. James says that we ought to say "if the Lord will" etc. but what if we say that, the Lord does will, and we fall down on the job? The Lord knows what's going to happen, obviously, but a lot of times we say Lord Willing as sort of a way to get out of things we don't want to do. "Well, I'll come to the hospital to clean up vomit later, Lord willing," and then when it doesn't happen, we feel justified because we didn't have time. That's a bad example, because I don't think very many of us have had that experience.

But should we really be throwing that around all the time so casually? I know that I personally qualify just about every third sentence with a "Lord willing" because I never know when I'm going to get raptured and not be able to do something, or hit by a car, or kidnapped by a mad scientist or something. Am I leaving for California tomorrow? Lord willing. I hope to, but I may not. But if I just don't get on the plane in the morning, but choose rather to hang out at the airport for a week and a half, is it going to be because the Lord willed it, or because I'm a moron?

The Lord is willing to do a lot of things that don't happen. The Lord is not willing that any should perish, for instance, and last I checked, people are still perishing.

I'm not trying to suggest that anybody stop saying Lord Willing, by the way. I for one would have a really tough time cutting it out of my vocabulary, and I'm fine with that. But I think what I'm trying to say is that we should examine our own actions more, perhaps. I don't know. I guess it can sort of boil down to the fact that in the garden the Lord Jesus said that if the Father was willing, then could He remove this cup from Him? And the answer to that was no. So maybe it's not so much about what our actions do and don't say about us, but rather that we show ourselves willing to follow the Lord's directives.

But this whole when-to-say-it-and-when-not-to-say-it thing still gets me. For instance, what if I planned to rob the bank later this afternoon? Would I be as apt to say, "well, I'm going to head over to the bank and rob it, Lord willing" as I would be to say, "well, I'm going to head over to Drug Mart and buy some post cards, Lord Willing"? But when I'm saying the deal about the post cards I guess what I usually mean is "time permitting." Obviously I guess I'd stop if the Lord showed me that He wasn't willing to buy post cards, which I guess would mean I would stop robbing the bank if He didn't want me to do that, either. But if I'm going to say Lord Willing about stuff that I think is kosher (buying post cards, going to California, making pizza for supper) then I guess it means I shouldn't do anything I'm not willing to tack a Lord Willing onto. Is that it? If you're not comfortable saying "Lord Willing" after something, then you're maybe not supposed to do it?

I don't know. Maybe next time I'm trying to make a decision I'll test-run a few sentences with a Lord Willing after it. I'm going to Europe this summer, Lord Willing.

See, but sometimes you just like the way something sounds, even if maybe the Lord still doesn't will. Who doesn't want to go to Europe this summer?

Anyhow, this got convoluted and off-topic, but it was just something that crossed my poor tangled mind. This much I know--I'm going to keep on saying "Lord Willing," Lord willing.

Leftovers

Isn't is sad how poorly we treat leftovers? I don't know about you guys, but I tend to not appreciate leftovers as much as I should. For instance, I currently am trying desperately to finish up a fridge-full of leftovers before I depart for the West Coast for the holidays. When my family left they left me with all kinds of things--soup, rice, bread, vegetables, enough things to keep me happy for a long time.

Sad thing is, though, now I feel obliged to finish it up. Not in a stuff-myself-ugh kind of way, but in a if-I-have-one-of-these-meals-at-every-meal-from now-until-I-leave-I'll-finish-them-all-up kind of way. But I'm home alone! I always crave cereal for supper, for some reason, but since I've got white chili in the fridge, I don't want to have to freeze that and eat my cheerios instead. So instead of being thankful that I don't have to go to any effort to pull together a supper for myself in the evening, I sigh because I can't have an egg for breakfast, because of the excess of bananas in my house.

Isn't that sad? I'd be a bad third-world-dweller.

I gave up and froze the rice, by the way, and I think I'll follow suite with some of the chili. I've already finished all of the split pea soup (it was really yummy, actually) and if I freeze that white chili, it means.... cereal for supper! It's like a dream come true!

Birthday wishes

Today is my mom's birthday. It makes me happy that my mom has a special day just to herself. The rest of us keep using it for regular, mundane things, but it's her day! She emailed me this morning and told me that she was planning on doing nothing today but curling up with a Karen Kingsbury book (the one about the arsonist, not my favorite, but whatever) and then my dad is taking her out to supper. Now isn't that the sweetest thing ever?

So, to my mother (who doesn't actually read this blog, as far as I know), Happy Birthday. I love you.

The Funeral Planner

In days gone by, I used to go to school. "Go to" being the operative words in the statement, but we'll worry about that another day. Anyhow, I had three delightful friends, all of whom I've almost entirely lost touch with since those days. Life comes at you fast.

Anyhow, one late evening we young ladies were discussing the ins and outs of our future lives. One young lady, named Chrissy, was supposedly looking for "James from British" on a map, and could never find him. I'm pretty sure, in this highly preposterous story we were making up, that she died from lack of food and water, so intense was her search for this place named "British" on the globe. For those who are confused, I actually have a slide show explaining the story in all its glory, should you care for a gander.

The point of this little tale is that I decided (uh, "decided" being the operative word) that my lot in life was to become... The Funeral Planner. Actually, I'm not going to lie, I'd still like to have that job--go visit terminally ill children, chat with them about their likes and dislikes, get a feel for their parents, figure out a funeral fitting for a child (you know, balloons, candy, Bible verses read by best friends instead of pastors, that sort of thing) and then be responsible for organizing it once their sickness has gotten the best of them. It may sound morbid, but it actually sounds like a job I'd like.

Moving on, however, to the fact that I tend to think about funerals a bit much. I don't entirely have the details for mine down yet (I'm getting there) but I actually do ponder it sometimes. Well, not a lot, since I figure the rapture will have long since happened by the time a regular person would have needed a funeral, so it's more like a little thing I sometimes wonder about.

For instance, my funeral can't be boring. Nobody likes a boring funeral. If that ol' speaker rambles on for even one moment about the funeral of their own dearly departed mother (who is known to none in the audience), then he has failed, and someone should tackle him. My funeral should be about, I don't know, the Lord? That's what I'm thinking. If they're talking about me, it should be in a sort of off-handed "isn't it great that Joanne loved the Lord and was saved?" type of way. If they want to tell precious little stories about how one time I picked up someone's hankie with a smile on my face, fine. But really? It's not about me, people, it's about the One who made me. And happened to graciously welcome me into His Home, even though I really wanted to be raptured instead.

Stipulation number two. No congregational singing. I mean, seriously, none. I've been to only one funeral where that worked out well, and they had instruments, so it hardly counted. But if it has to be done, sing at the graveside, but not in the funeral home, please. I'd like for random friends to sing, if songs are needed. If there has to be a congregational singing of "Praise Him for all that is past, and trust Him for all that's to come" for the sake of my mother, that's fine, but only because I love my mom a lot. Otherwise, friends of mine who are good singers may sing. Oh, and a friend who's not such a good singer, because I promised her. But only if she really wants to, otherwise I'll spare the excessive singing.

I want an open casket. Unless I've died a vicious death that included animal paws or very large vehicles, I figure my face can handle it. I don't like closed-casket funerals. Weird, I know.

At the visiting hours, I want background music playing. Not boring type, but nothing crazy. Like... that Chris Rice CD with piano hymns? That's a good one. No classical music, though.

I want my friends to have a say in who my pall-bearers should be. My brother is an obvious shoo-in, but my parents and friends should confer and decide who the others should be. I think a lot of times random people are selected. So not cool, people, we're talking about a dead body in a wooden box--only special people should get to carry that!

I liked the open-mic format they had at my brother's, however, if anybody were to do that at mine, we'd need a larger funeral home. I'm just saying.

There are more things, but I just realized that in light of all the funerals that have been going on recently, this most likely isn't the appropriate time to be sharing this with the world. Guess the rest of my funeral plans will have to stay hidden away in my stash of papers. I didn't even get to whom or what I wanted my in-lieu-of money to be donated. So many things that the rapture will preserve us from having to figure out. Isn't that a joy?

Home alone

Well, I'm home alone. Well, I'm not home at this exact second, but in general I'm alone at my home. Unless this is a stalker reading this who somehow knows where I live, in which case I have a dog and a burly guard and alarms that will tie you into a ball of humanity.

Moving on.

You'd think I'd want to order pizza and laze around and eat junk food, right? That's what I'd think, but all I can think is that I have a ton of grapefruit in the fridge that I want to eat. I don't even usually like grapefruit, is the weird thing. But right now I just really want to eat it. Maybe it's the three cups of coffee talking, but citrus sounds amazing right now.

Everyone has told me that a fun thing to do is listen to really loud music when you're home alone. All good and well, but I don't like my music loud. I like music to be more like a background to the life I lead, not the leading... lady. Leading loudly? Eh, I have no idea.

I feel wholly uninspired right now. A friend of mine told me today that they actually read this sometimes (uh, hi co-worker slash best friend, if you're reading) and it made me realize how boring and pointless this whole blog is. I don't like when I post posts like this--pointless ones talking about my day or how I feel, but at the same time, the posts where I ramble on about nothing are lame as well. So... everything I write? pointless.

The end. I go. A-fishing. Just kidding, I've sworn off fishing expeditions. I hope.

No, seriously, I'm done now.

Blind faith

There have been some tragic events going on recently, one of which involved a friend of mine who died of bone cancer. He was only 15, and it's been really hard on his family. One reason it's been so difficult is because his dad just didn't expect him to die. He'd been led to believe that it was always God's will to heal someone, and that sickness is indicative of sin. When his son died late Friday night, he turned to his wife and asked if she saw this coming.

He had faith. Faith that God would restore his son to full health and fix what was going on.

Sometimes we talk about "blind faith" and how it's trusting God even when we just can't see what He's doing. But this time? This time blind faith meant that he (the dad) believed that God would do a certain thing, rather than believing that God would do what was best for the situation. And I know I have a measure of that myself--I tend to think, "hey, He wants us to have faith like a grain of mustard seed..." and then I don't open myself to the possibility that He'll do something other than what I want Him to.

And questions with this are so hard. "How can someone with such strong faith feel so let down? Aren't we supposed to be protected?"

When people ask me things like that I just don't know what to say. It's such a difficult thing to be willing to trust God completely; blind faith that trusts Him to do the right thing, regardless of personal preference.

Joseph & co.

The other night our family was having a Bible reading (I like to call it "pre-BOB," a Saturday night gathering where we sing BOB-related songs and read BOB-related verses, etc.) and I got to rambling about Joseph, and we had a rather rousing (not exactly Bob-related) discussion about him and his life.

This is Bible Joseph, just in case that hasn't come across yet.

I was just pondering a few things.

1. Did Joseph ever check in on brother Simeon while he was in prison? I mean, I think if I were Joseph and my brother was just down in the dungeon, and if he missed his family as much as the story indicates, that he would have found some sort of way to get updated on him. Maybe he would have had his Steward make sure that Simeon was well cared for? That Steward, by the way, must have been soo confused about the goings-on of Joseph's life. Seriously. Oh, plus, I would think it would have been super easy for Joseph to check out prisons himself. I mean, he'd been a clever prison-keeper back before his Zaphnathpaaneah days, right? So it would stand to reason that nobody would question if he wanted to poke around in prisons whenever he wanted.

2. Speaking of that. Didn't any of the farmers wonder why in the world they were handing over a fifth of their crops to an ex-con? I think I would have wondered, quite honestly. My brother was rather surprised that I brought this up at all, since Joseph was number two in the land and all. True, brother, but you'd think they'd at least have some moments of doubt or worry or something.

3. I'd think at least some of the wives would wonder why they had to uproot and move to Egypt of all places (you really want our children to be raised in that heathen land, honey?) but my mom thinks they would have been glad to be closer to the corn. I still think they'd have at least one disgruntled wife between the all of them.

4. I liked how Pharaoh had known Joseph for about five minutes and decided that he was the person "discreet and wise" to run the whole Project Survive Famine. Yes, he interpreted your dream, but you don't know much about him other than the fact he'd been in jail.

I'm stuck on this whole jail thing today.

Ah, well. Nobody knows. Maybe nobody ever bothered with these things in those days ("these things" being the moving-to-a-heathen land, visiting-my-brother-secretly, bringing-food-to-an-ex-con things), I don't know.

Ohhhh, but one more thing. Did Simeon (it was Simeon, right?) grow to respect the person Zaphnathpaaneah was while he was imprisoned in Egypt? Did he know what was going on in the land? Hear many current events? I just wonder if he respected Joseph without even knowing it was him, you know?

Heaven will be sweet. For a million reasons, but one being that I'll get to finally find out all this stuff. I've got some questions for Amos, too, actually. Soon!!

Now I can die happy

I found it. The library I want to get married in. It's always been sort of a family joke that I'll end up getting married in a library (in addition to making the happy husband sign an agreement about living close to a library, haha), but seriously, it could happen. It's not really big enough for a wedding of my family's caliber, but I can work something out I'm sure.

It's near to where I work (I mentioned it one day and everyone else at the office was stunned that there was a library around here) and it's attached to the park, which means the grounds are really nice. It's RIGHT on a lake, and there are big glass windows that face the lake, and it's just gorgeous. It's winter now, so they have a fireplace burning every time I go in there, and it's just remarkable.

I was telling my friends of this discovery, and everyone was encouraging me to find the man so it can all happen until my cousin remembered that I've decided to become a nun! So, we worked it out and decided that I could take my vows of nunhood at the library. I don't know what vows of nunhood are, or whether or not I could take them not in a church or convent, but if it's kosher, I'd so take them at that library.

Ahh, pipe dreams.

Deck the halls

Ah, Christmas. I don't really like Christmas. Mostly, people are busy and frazzled and in a hurry. Plus, shopping (which I already dislike) is a mess. Everyone, it seems, wants to be shopping. Long lines, impatient people, sales that aren't that good... Not so exciting.

I've been feeling at least mildly jolly, I guess. There's been a lot of stuff going on recently (two of my friends died this weekend, if that's any indication), so I haven't been crazily excited about everything, but I have a lot to be thankful for.

Christmas music at work has been a little difficult to get used to. Usually I like to get in the car on a snowy day and hear Christmas music. This year? I hear Christmas music for 8 1/2 hours a day (yeah, they play it in the lunch room, too) and when I get in the car I'm not that inclined to listen to more. So I've been hearing some less seasonal sounds in the car, which is fine, but odd.

Dude, working has benefits--besides the money and connections. =) I can't even tell you how many people have brought us Christmas treats here at the office. We just got our third one today! My boss got a ham, but I don't count that as a treat, since it is neither sweet nor will I be partaking of it.

Anyhow, I have no idea what I was really here to say. And I'm not trying to be super down on the season but OH MY GOODNESS IF I HEAR THIS SONG ONE MORE TIME I WILL IMPLODE! OK, I don't know about anybody else, but the song "Last Christmas I gave you my heart, the very next day you gave it away, etc" was fine maybe once or twice. Six times a day is NOT cool, since it is pointless and lame.

I see a wooden rocking horse in the camera here at work. What tomfoolery is this? I must go investigate.

Over and out.

Ugh

I have many fond memories of being sick, oddly enough. Cozy-type memories, ones where my mom would sing to put me to sleep, or my siblings and I would all lay around on the couch and moan in unison.

But this? This is my first time being sick and going to work. Real work, anyhow, I was sick when I nannied all the time. So... we'll see how it goes. Work starts in a minute, and I've been avoiding doing anything useful until it actually turns 8:30. So... here goes nothing!

Prayers and things like that

Sometimes I just need some time with the Lord. Not because I feel like I'm losing my grip on Him and need to reconnect, but because I feel like I just can't have anybody around me as I fellowship with Him. Right now there's some crazy stuff going on around my place, and I've been pretty much bawling my eyes out for the past day. Less than that, actually, even though it feels like much longer.

But anyhow, I got MikesChair out of the library on Monday, which was crazy and of the Lord, because I've been listening to their song, Let the Waters Rise, even before stuff went a little crazy. This is short, I know, but sometimes there's nothing to say but that I love being able to pray. I love knowing that underneath are the everlasting arms. I love casting all my cares upon Him. This morning in Bible reading with my family I happened to read 1 Samuel 25:29, the verse about being "bound up in the bundle of life with the Lord my God," and I just started crying. I love knowing that I'm bound up in the bundle of life with my Lord, and... I trust that everyone I know and love is being bound up in that bundle of life.

Here are the lyrics to that amazing song, for those who aren't familiar with the song. Look it up, if you don't know it. And when you listen, pray for the brokenhearted.

Don't know where to begin
It's like my world's caving in
And I tried but i can't control my fear
Where do I go from here

Sometimes it's so hard to pray
You feel so far away
I am willing to go where You want me to
God I trust You

[Chorus]
There's a raging sea
Right in front of me
Wants to pull me in
Bring me to my knees
So let the waters rise
If you want them to
I will follow You
I will follow You
I will follow You

I will swim in the deep
'Cause You'll be next to me
You're in the eye of the storm and the calm of the sea
You're never out of reach

God You know where I've been
You were there with me then
You were faithful before
You'll be faithful again
I'm holding Your hand

[Chorus]

God Your love is enough
You will pull me through
I'm holding on to You

God your love is enough
I will follow You
I will follow You

[Chorus]"

'Tis the Season!

They've started playing Christmas music full-time at work. Oh, joy.

But you know what? I'm still really thankful, and Thanksgiving/being a Christian still seems to me lingering. Which is good. So I've been trying to be duly thankful for as many things as possible. Like... not sleeping=lots of time to pray! Woohoo!

I'm on my lunch break at work. I just don't have time to keep up with anything meaningful... Sigh.

A gimmick after all?

Does football count as a gimmick for Thanksgiving? I'm not sure it would be in the same category as Santa and Cupid and all that other stuff, but suddenly it occurred to me that Thanksgiving it not completely without fault.

Sorry, that was a random PS.

Give Thanks!

I just love Thanksgiving! If I had to choose just one holiday to celebrate for a whole year, Thanksgiving would be my top choice--even over Guy Fawkes Day! It's not because I love the food (turkey, blegh), but because it's so... cozy! In a way that no other holiday is, Thanksgiving is without pretensions, I feel. Sure, it's a super shopping signal--but that's just because Christmas is around the corner. Black Friday is more about Christmas than Thanksgiving, in my opinion.

Thanksgiving is what it is: about giving thanks. There's no crazy gimmick, no bunny or fat dude or cupid, there's just family and turkey. How much better could it get? (Well, minus the turkey it could be better, but this isn't the time for me to be worrying about such things.)

Plus, I've been super encouraged recently about how awesome the assurance of Heaven is. Here's the deal--no matter how difficult our times on earth may be, no matter how much we don't feel like giving thanks, we can still rejoice, because it all ends in GLORY! Doesn't that just make every day a million times better?

So this year, if you're not feeling thankful for anything at all, just remember, no matter what trials we may experience, it'll all be worth it in HEAVEN! Even so come!

The same grace

I remember the first time I ever heard a mournful Christian say something to the effect of, "Boy, I sure do wish I'd been a drunkard or something." Instead of appalling me, like maybe it should have, I thought, "Boy, I sort of wish the same thing." Not that I want to be a drunkard, because I certainly do not, but because sometimes when other people have these awesome conversion stories, it makes those of us saved-while-innocent-children people feel sort of badly that we haven't really had a chance to show forth the amazing grace of God like all the heathens around us.


But someone was talking about this the other day, and it was one of these "good point" moments I love so much. Basically, what's the difference, this person was saying, because at the end of the day, both of you are saved. I've heard that all my life, but I was just so happy to hear someone say it again, and so forcefully. The amazing grace that saved John Newton is the amazing grace that saved me--even if I never sold slaves or turned my back on God.

I don't remember getting saved, but I know I am saved, at that is enough for me.

PS, I still sort of wish I could remember getting saved. And sometimes I still wish I'd been a total heathen before that day, just so my testimony would be awesome. But I've been spared all that pain, so it's more than OK.

What wilt Thou have me to do?

For years, I've struggled with the concept of "What wilt Thou have me to do?" Basically, I understand the question, but how do we really know what the Lord is telling us in reply? I think it's just my stubbornness that has made me ponder it so much (want to talk about consecration? I am the wrong person to talk to that about, stubborn ol' me...), but it just seems... difficult.

One thing that always sort of got to me was about the whole when-I-grow-up-I'll-be-a-whatever question. For school, at the end of every year, my mom would have us write what we wanted to be when we grew up. For the first few school years of my life the answer was, without fail, "a missionary or a nurse," but once I was in about third grade, I realized that I didn't really want to be a missionary or a nurse. I wanted to be a "wife and mommy." By the time I got to twelfth grade I made it all sophisticated and wrote "homemaker" but the idea was essentially the same.

Which is all good and well, but that's the sort of thing that the Lord has to determine for you, at an appointed time (also good and well, don't get me wrong). So I've spent the last few years sort of floating around, doing random jobs and enjoying myself thoroughly. Also fine. But there was one thing that always sort of got to me--what was I really doing with my life?

Well, I still have no idea what the answer to that question is, but this isn't so much about what I'm doing with my life as what I'm letting the Lord do with my life.

Last Wednesday there were a lot of remarkably helpful comments made, one of which sort of eased my mind about what I was doing with myself these days. They were reading from Ephesians 2:10 "For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them."

They were pointing out that every work we do is specialized and prepared, and God has a very specific path He wants each one of us to travel. Basic stuff, true. But then someone made the remark to the effect of, "You know, kids today try to decide what to do based on what they're good at, which doesn't make a bit of sense, because they're really supposed to be doing whatever God wants them to do, not what they want to do."

As an aside, anybody who knows anybody in my meeting can guess who this might have been (one hint, it wasn't my dad).

Anyhow, there was more to it than that, but it was a good thought for me, one I needed to be reminded of. I'm in insurance right now, which is weird, and certainly not something I would have chosen of my own accord. But that's OK, because for some odd reason, this is where the Lord has me. I was enjoying the verse from Ecclesiastes 9 about, "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." For some reason, my hand has found insurance, and I need to make sure that I do it to the best of my ability so that I might honour the Lord.

Which is scary to me, honestly. Because it means that I've got to work extremely hard to make up for what I lack in common insurance sense. But... I can do all things through Christ Who gives me strength!

And that's why it's called life-long

So, some of us were talking about marriage last weekend (does Monday count as part of the weekend?), and it wasn't one of those "yay marriage" times, but one of those "HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN???" times. Basically, here's what we were wondering: How do people ever get married?

Seriously, how do two people decide that the Lord is telling them without a shadow of a doubt that that other person is absolutely the person for them? Honestly, how does a person get to that place in their life? And on a closer level, how do two people decide that it's an appropriate time to start a relationship at all? I was just reading about Jim and Elisabeth Elliot, and they waited for five years until they thought the Lord was cool with them having a relationship. As crazy and long as that sounds, sometimes I think that I'll have to wait for at least five years, just to make sure I think I know what I'm getting into.

But I'm just jaded. Marriage is something I'm looking forward to potentially being a part of one day (though I may not be, which is fine), and I assume that I'll have times of extreme dislike towards my husband. Isn't that awful? I like to think I'm just practical, but secretly, I think I'm just way more jaded than any 20-year-old should be.

I had a chance to recount this story to someone the other day, and usually once I've recounted a story once, it's out of my system and I'm good and done, but this story is a good one, so I'll tell it again.

The other day I got home from work and wanted a chance to put through some laundry before supper, but I knew my dad was coming home soon, and could see that the table wasn't even set yet. So I as I was flying up the stairs to put my stuff away, I hollered at my brother, "hey, the table needs to be set!" When I came down with the laundry I saw that the table still hadn't been set, and I didn't want to seem like I was getting down on my brother, so I set the table myself. When I came up from the basement after putting through some laundry, I was greeted with the sight of my mom and brother carrying in groceries from the car.

"Mom, how did you rate? I asked him to help me set the table, and he didn't. Why is he helping you carry in groceries?"

(I just want to go on record as saying that my mother is far more worthy of help than I, but I was saying this loudly enough in his hearing to try to drive a point home.)

A blank look came from my brother. "You didn't ask me to set the table, you just said it needed setting!"

I seriously stared at him in... something. My mom just looked at me and laughed and laughed and said that boys were like this, and I should get used to it. And of course I had to laugh as well, because it was rather funny.

But... that's just another thing that frightens me about marriage--being married to an obtuse creature such as my brother. Sometimes I understand why so many woman are staying single these days!

im not you're spellcheker

One thing that I've nicely avoided (thus far) by being raised in a smart family is an excess of grammatical errors. We used to laugh on car trips, because while us kids were drooling over billboards with food and pools and candy, my mom would always point out the mistakes on the billboard, and, without fail, she'd wonder out loud why in the world nobody could seem to afford an editor. While I make a number of mistakes myself (a LARGE number, sad to say), I do make a concerted effort to edit materials before other people see them. It's really not that hard to spend a few extra minutes on things that I'll be sharing.



So why is it that at my new job, I'm constantly bombarded with editorial mistakes? It seems that I'm surrounded by instructional manuals filled with typos. It's driving me crazy.



Sorry, I just had to vent.

Shapes in the dark

I love my room at night. Well, I'd love it a tiny bit more if it were darker, but that's beside the point. What I love so much about my room at night is that all I can see are the shapes around me. And I'm not usually a shape person--all it took was a year of geometry to solidify that thought forever in my brain--but I love the feeling of being surrounded by solid patterns and shapes.

I think this love of the concrete stems from the fact that for most of my childhood my room was markedly NOT full of clean lines. I tend to be... well, messy, and my room is the first to suffer from my not-so-tidy habits. Since I have been endevouring (for the past eight or ten years) to put away my childish things, I tend to keep my room a little cleaner than it once was. For instance, my dressers typically have tops not covered with things, these days (though today they are covered with pictures, and books, and hairbrushes, and to-do lists, so today isn't a good day for this illustration), and so when I look out at night, I just see the square shapes of my furniture.

But what I love best are the walls. I love to look on the far wall and see a cacophony of squares, rectangles, and circles. It's like geometry exploded on my wall, but in a happy way. I can't even explain why this makes my tired heart happy, but when I look out at night and see a patchwork of shapes, I just have to grin. I think, maybe, it's because I look at those shapes and think "that's the needlepoint that Grammy made me when I was born," and "that's a photograph of my first and favorite (I mean, uh, they're all my favorite) niece," or, "that's the verse Mom and Dad got me for my birthday one year," and the list goes on. Actually, most of my shapes are from posters of sunrises and sunsets, but they don't usually show up so well in the dark, due to the high amount of brightness-from-sun in them. Ah, well, the rest are cool.

So there we have it. Sometimes, orderliness and... shapeliness?... are actually things I appreciate. It's like pigs are flying overhead this very second.

Uh, and I hope we all realize that I don't mean shapeliness in the traditional way. I mean, actual shapes. So, yeah.

Yes, I am obsessive

When my new boss was interviewing me, he decided I was tightly wound to the point of OCD. Well, there are some things that I am sort of OC about. A lot of things, actually. (I've decided that saying OCD is just wrong. How could I be "disorder" about anything? I don't understand that statement.) And I just realized that he might be even more correct than he thought.

After my first full day of work (I didn't want to count chickens before they hatched and do this prior to having at least a full day under my belt), I came home, went into my tasks in Gmail, and checked "get a job" off of my to-do list. Now you tell me, is it normal to have "get a job" on ones to-do list? Is it normal to remember it's there, and then check it off? I'm not sure, obviously, since I only live one life (I may be OC, but I'm not bi-polar, thankfully), but I was just remembering my weirdness and decided that maybe somebody could enlighten me on the rules of to-do listing.

Though this bodes well for my job, since apparently one of the things I'm supposed to do is successfully finish to-do lists. That's cool, lists are right up my alley.

Hey there, Delilah

Sometimes I just get upset when I read the story of Samson and Delilah. First of all, Samson was a judge, he certainly should have known better than to be cavorting around like a fool. (Plus, I wish the author of Judges had written at least a little about his judging. I mean, what did he do? How did he act as a judge? Was he less retarded in those twenty years than he was during his woman-hunting days? Seriously...) Secondly, I don't really like stories that end with eyes being poked out, or thousands of people dying. This story ends in both.

Alas, for I make up stories in my head. Honestly, I pretty much can't help it (I can do all things, etc., I know, but this is something I haven't worked too hard to stop. I can't decide if the stoppage of this is actually necessary), when I see someone on the street, or meet someone for a split second, or bless the person who sneezes when I'm grocery shopping, I wonder about them and their life. Do they have a spouse and family at home? Are they caring for an elderly parent? Are they all alone--nobody to care for or be cared by? I just always wonder.

Well, this transfers a tad (uh, tad times 57) to my Bible reading times. For instance, I've got all these fake stories (well, they're not really firmly-implanted stories, so to speak, they're mostly just vague wonderings, like maybe there's something about their life I'd see if I just studied their chapters hard enough) about Jonah, and Job's wife, and Potiphar's wife (actually, I've given up that one, after enough reprimands about it), and Martha, and, well, just about every character you can find in the Bible. I read and I wonder, might it have been like such-and-such? And usually I try not to share my rambling thoughts with anyone, lest it seem as if I'm spreading bad doctrine, but I present them only as things I wonder about (seriously, mrg, I've never been as dogmatic about these things as you think me to be), and sometimes, apparently, even blog about.

So yes, Samson. First, WHAT WAS HE THINKING? I mean, obviously Samson knew what was going on. Delilah would tie him up in different manners, tell him that the Philistines were upon him, he'd wake up, get out of there, and that was that. But he knew that she had the Philistines on her side. Check out Judges 16:11 "If they bind me fast with new ropes, etc." Uh, pardon the obvious, but they? Don't you think that if Samson had a brain in his head, he would have stopped to think "Oh hey, Delilah is conferring with the Philistines on how to kill me, maybe it wouldn't be wise to explain to her how to cut off power to my strength."? But nooo, Samson had to stick around and eventually cave in to Delilah's whining. I don't want to get down on men too hard, but the sheer level of stupidity astounds me. The things men do for love.

Speaking of. I have a theory about why Delilah did what she did (hint: it wasn't for love). Only, it's not a theory, because the Bible clearly shows that she did it for the money. But sometimes when I read this chapter I feel as worn down by the end as Delilah. I feel almost like she didn't really expect a real answer, and it feels like she's almost as sad in verse 18 as I am. "And when Delilah saw that he had told her all his heart, etc." I feel like there must be a prevailing reason as to why Delilah wanted that money. Could it really be that she just wanted it? I wish there was a little secrety verse in there that was all like, "Just so you know, Delilah didn't really want to turn Samson in, but was a single mother and needed to care for her children, lest social services take them away." Clearly, Social Services wasn't an issue in old-timey Gaza, but I always want to make Delilah into not such a bad person, and explain away her greed with a more human side.

But... there's really nothing like that in this chapter, not at all. Samson was just a foolish man who thought he was in love, and Delilah was just a woman with an agenda.

This is just a bad, bad chapter in the saga of humankind.

What am I thinking?

I mentioned that I was doing NaNoWriMo this year, right? Well, I commented to my brother the other day (back in October) that I was interested to see how I'd do with my full-time job plus trying to write a 50,000-word novel. Well, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that... it's tough. I leave my house before 8:00 AM, and don't get home until after 5:30, at which time I skip straight to supper, and with all of our extra evening events, I'm not usually free to reach the computer until at least 7:00 PM, and usually later (those nasty dishes, goodness).

Plus, I'm still trying to get used to the job, so I'm needing as much sleep as I can get. Which means I'm just not tempted to stay up until all hours of the night writing words I know I'll be disgusted in as soon as the month is over. But, I said I'd do my best, so I will. Also, I've given several friends a hard time for electing not to do NaNoWriMo this year, so I think it's only fair that I prove that it can be done. And even if it can't be done, an attempt can be made. There's no sense in deciding before you begin something that it's too hard to do.

Then again, that's what I say now. We'll see what happens as the month drags on!

Party: Guy Fawkes style

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason, and plot,
I know of no reason,
Why the gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot.

This poem is just to remind us all of the glorious holiday that is coming up tomorrow. (And lest I forget, happy birthday, mrg!) I guess it's maybe a little odd that I love Guy Fawkes day so much. After all, it's in celebration of a man who tried to blow up British Parliament. But since they celebrate it in England, I think it's only fair that we get to celebrate here, too.

People always ask me: why do they celebrate it? Well, I always answer that it's fun to run around and light off fireworks and have bonfires and the such, but I'm pretty sure that the only reason it is a celebrated holiday is because it used to be a mandatory holiday. No joke, for about 250 years after that not-fateful-after-all day, English folk were required to celebrate the deliverance of the King of England. My theory is, they just got so used to having a holiday specially for blowing things up that they just couldn't stop that train of fun once they were on it. So they celebrate to this day. And some of us poor North American folks, who don't know any better, celebrate right along with them.

This year, we're having a big Guy Fawkes Day party at my house. I'm not really organizing it (here's where the realities of work set in), but mrg is planning it for me. And coming over to cook the food, too. Nice...

Anyhow, I don't really have much else to say about GFD. I don't even know how I could wax eloquent about blowing things up. Except to remind us all that the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. How great a matter a little fire kindleth! Guy Fawkes no doubt never considered the power his tongue wielded. Unfortunately, he was too busy trying to kindle things with a little (or lot) of fire. My problem lies more with the tongue thing--I'm more tempted to spout off at the mouth than I am tempted to light things on fire. Though I do accidentally burn a very high number of pot holders... Hmm, maybe I have more of Guy Fawkes in me then I thought.

Theou

I'm the most mixed-up pray-er ever, I think. Not in terms of to Whom I am praying, don't get me wrong, but in terms of how I refer to Him. I've recently tried to evaluate my prayers, because I noticed that I switch back and forth between Thee and You a lot. My prayers are jumbled masses of words, though, and it's difficult to tell what I'm really saying. I think I've decided that I tend to begin my prayers in Thee form, and switch to You partway through my prayer. I'm not sure why this is so, though.

When I sing songs, I find myself automatically switching all the Yous to Thees. I sing, "Lord, we lift Thy name on high, Lord, we love to sing Thy praises." Everyone else around me sings "Your name on high" so it gets as confusing as when I slip Thees into As the Deer. Most of the people around are singing "so my soul longeth after You" and there I am, forgetting to be a team player, singing Thee.

Which I guess isn't a big deal, and I'm not sure why I thought it was enough of a point of interest to waste time talking about, but I was thinking about it the other day, and, well, this blog is my thoughts in print. Well, some thoughts. I don't go public with most of what I think, actually. So consider yourself blessed to be able to read even this tiny little bit of my life.

Oh, the irony

Today, I went back and looked at a blog post I wrote back in January, but posted just last month. It was one where I was talking about insurance, and how I didn't understand it, and how I was trying to help my grandparents switch their insurance company, but just didn't understand anything insurance-related. Why is this ironic? Well...

So, about a week and a half ago I submitted my resume to one of my best friends, who works at an insurance company. That was a Thursday. On Friday, her boss called me to set up an interview. On Monday, I interviewed. On Tuesday, I accepted the job. And on Wednesday, I started. Which means, my friends, I now work at an insurance company. The exact type of place I still don't understand.

I pretty much have accomplished nothing on my few days on the job, though I am constantly assured that I'll be learning so much that new information will be coming out of my ears for the next six months or so. That's fine with me--I've always liked being challenged with new information. But the fact that it's an insurance company. Oh man, it cracks me up.

I was pondering to my friend (the one who works there) over the legalities of the situation. First of all, I'm supposed to leave everything I hear about people behind me when I leave the door of the building (so says my new boss--good policy, I must say), so I won't be spilling too many beans about tales of my working life, but there was one thing that made me laugh. So I was signing all the legal papers for my file there, and one paper I signed made me promise to not share any personal information about clients with any insurance companies within 50 miles of my current office until after I leave (should I get fired or married or bored or a new job) for at least 24 months. So I asked my friend: can I tell that information to insurance companies outside of a 50-mile radius at any time? Well, apparently.

So, I guess if you have your insurance company call me, I can tell them whatever I want. But I won't. Partly, because that would be boring and pointless, but mostly because I'm a Christian, and that's just mean. So, I'm sorry if you were just dying to hear about all the people whose files I deal with every day. You can't have the information. Muahahaha...

Left and right

My sister forwarded me an email recently that had a bunch of brain tricks and optical illusions. Most of them were ones I'd seen before--counting all the fs in a sentence, catching all the "thes" in a sentence, seeing the old lady and the young lady, that sort of thing--but there was one in the email that I hadn't seen before. It was a video clip of a not-very-clothed lady spinning in a circle. The way you saw her turn determined which side of the brain you were using. (For a refresher course in which side does what, check this out.)

As most people who know me can attest, I don't have the best left-and-right skills. It took me a while to decide which hand was making a legitimate "L,"and then I realized that I was seeing this dancer spinning to the left. The description said that if you saw the lady spinning left, you were left-brained, and if you saw her spinning right, you were right-brained. If you could see her spinning both ways, your IQ was 160 or above. Well, I just couldn't imagine that I was left-brained at all, so I had to call my family to confirm that I had the correct left.

They came, and, once I explained my dilemma, they confirmed that I had, indeed, gotten my left correct. My brother saw the lady turning right, and my dad could see her switch back and forth at random. My mom also saw the lady turning to the right.

But as I looked, I realized that I saw the lady switching back and forth as well! Then my brother followed, though my mom could still only see her turning to the right. By this point I was curious (I've never taken an IQ test, and don't actually know what's considered high, but 160 just sounds a lot higher then my IQ should be) as to what brained I really was. So I pulled up a bunch of tests online and my brother and I took them, and found some fairly surprising results. For one thing, I have extremely high left-brainedness. I'm pretty much completely middle-brained, which means I have almost equal strengths on both sides, but I still am stronger in my right brain than my left (though not my much, which was where my surprise lay). As for my brother, he has stronger right-brain dominance than I! For those of you who know my brother and I, one might assume me to be the more right-brained among us, and he the left-brained. But apparently, assumptions are often wrong.

Of course, these tests are generic tests, potentially faulty. I might be completely right-brained after all, but I answer left-brainedly. Who even knows.

I dub thee...

Our family has the odd habit of naming things. I'm not quite sure where it started, but by the time I was old enough to remember anything, our Kenmore fan was just called "Kenmore." We don't make a habit of naming everything (for instance, no room in our house has a name, like The Rose Room or anything like that), but there are a few things that deserve titles.

Such as vehicles. Our van, big, slow and green, is called the Turtle. (I'll never forget the day I told the guy at Goodyear Tire that, and afterward he began to refer to the van as The Turtle. They messed up our brakes, though, so he didn't endear himself to me, even though he was on board with the whole Turtle thing.) Our Camry, with the first three letters of the license plate reading "Elf" was dubbed The Elf. Tacky, we know, but it came with a name, and we don't believe in being contrary to pre-named items. Our Taurus is called Avon. I'll take full credit for that one, because I was the one who first fell in love with a clever little book called The End of the Beginning, wherein an ant and a snail (Avon and Edward) journey forth on all sorts of adventures. Having a vehicle named Avon seemed like the least we could do to pay homage to the brilliance that is that book.

Other things in our house weren't really my doing. Our refrigerators, for instance. We have two refrigerators, both whiteish, both side-by-side, and it was frightfully difficult to tell them apart. My mom kept on reminding us that we should pick names for them (other than "the milk fridge" and "the leftover fridge"), and after several suggestions like Stan (because the one was more tan-coloured than the other), and other less-sensible names, we stumbled upon brilliance. Mahli and Mushi.

My mom claims that she always sort of wanted twins named Mahil and Mushi, after the legendary Bible brothers, but just never had the chance. So, that was that. Mushi became the name of our fridge that always dies (and leaves us with mushy food) and Mahli became... the other one. Everyone thinks we're saying Molly and Mushy, and can't imagine why we chose such odd names, but we silently thank that clever Merari fellow for having such funnily-named children.

A month of crazy

Well, we all do crazy things. As November approaches, and NaNoWriMo with it, I realize that my days of fairly regular blogging will no doubt come to an end. NaNoWriMo is a crazy program in which you write a novel (well, sort of a shorter novel, checking in at only 50,000 words) using only the 30 days of November. I've only done it once, but I'm hoping to again this year. Which is why I don't think I'll have a lot of excess time to be blogging several times a week.

A big problem I've been trying not to think about is this: I do not have a plot. I think that maybe perhaps I have sort of something I could use as a plot-type thing, but it's really not all here. Last year I had a similar problem, but it ended up coming to me, and I was able to write a story in about 56,000 words and be done with it. But I'm not sure that such helpful inspiration will strike me twice. My younger brother (did it last year, doing it again) keeps on going on about his story, and how he's got it all figured out, but I just don't work that way. Prewriting was always my least favorite part of English--sometimes, in fact, it was so problematic that I would write the whole essay, and then go back and write an outline based on what I'd actually written. I'm not suggesting that that's a good way to go, I'm just saying, that's how I roll.

Which means that when November comes and several thousand people are out there, cheerfully writing stories that have been outlined in their heads for months, I'll be tapping at the keyboard, killing off random characters, adding a lot of adverbs, and trying to get my word count up. It's a sad, sad month I'll have ahead of me.

Back from the Neverland

I guess I never bothered to mention that I finished Peter Pan. I had meant to write about it when I finished, but rather forgot. I suppose it's not worthy of too much consideration, but the truth of the matter is, it was a fascinating read, once you got over the killing.

The whole reason I could ever recommend that book to anyone (besides its sheer classic value), is because James Barrie was truly a genius. Throughout the whole story you get the feeling that he was as baffled as you are, as to why the story unfolded the way it did. He sounded so helpless, often, as if it pained him that the story follows certain paths, and it pained him that he couldn't just make up whatever he pleased. There was one point in the book where he was talking about all the adventures the children had on the Neverland, and he spent a while trying to decide what story to tell. Shall I tell the one about the mermaids? Or the battle with the Redskins? Or the time when Tinker Bell tried to float Wendy away? Or when Peter fought the lions? Eventually, James Barrie claimed to have tossed a coin to decide which story to tell, and ended up telling the one about mermaids, though he was awfully sorry it hadn't been another story, but that's just the way it was.

It just cracked me up, how much James Barrie feels a part of the story. You almost feel as if he were really a part of it, like you'd have a much different view of everything, had someone else attempted to tell it.

Another part I liked? That when they wanted to tell time on the Neverland, someone would wander around until they heard the crocodile ticking, and then hang around him until he chimed the hour. At which point they would know what time it was.

But all that aside, there were parts I really didn't like. At the end, when Peter Pan is having the last battle with Hook and the pirates, one of the Lost Boys slowly counts as various pirates get killed off. One. Two. Three. And so on (he gets up to about seventeen, which isn't actually correct, because two, Smee and someone else, I forget who, managed to escape alive). And even the demise of Hook is viewed as a rather lackadaisical affair, similar to spotting the Never Bird in the ocean, or bumping into Tiger Lilly in the woods. It rather creeped me out to have to read it in such a hum-drum manner.

Also, I couldn't decide how old Peter Pan really was. We like to think of him as maybe eight or ten (well, that's how old I might have placed him, if I'd given it any thought), but in the book it says multiple times that Peter still had his baby teeth. Well, I nannied a child who just turned five, and has already lost several of his baby teeth. Is this to imply that Peter was maybe just four years old? I really don't understand how a boy of such short stature could conceivably knock off so many beefy pirates.

Also, this doesn't seem to be common Peter Pan knowledge, but Peter had a terrible memory. He forgot everything. I think it was just to show that he was a child and didn't have to care, but maybe it was because he was four years old, and children of that age don't have a good recollection of anything.

And I could never determine "fact" from "fiction," because the book goes on and on about how they play-acted everything, from meals to mending to medicine. Wendy made the children sleep on the rock for half an hour before swimming after lunch, but then it says that it was rather silly, since their lunch was just play-acting, anyhow. So... did they ever eat? I have no idea.

There's this hilarious part right at the end of the book where we're in the nursery, looking at Mrs. Darling as she mourns for her children, and James Barrie had wanted to mock her, because he wasn't so terribly fond of her, but then he saw that she really did miss her children, so he decided to be nice. But there's this hilarious sentence that says, "If she was too fond of her rubbishy children, she couldn't help it." I just liked that the children were described as rubbishy.

Speaking of children, I didn't realize, until reading this original version of the story, that the Lost Children stayed in the "real world." In the Disney movie, didn't they stay in the Neverland? I don't quite recall.

Oh, and Mr. Darling felt so dreadfully remorseful about his part in the children flying away (he had been the one to tie up Nana the night they flew the coop), that after the children left, he kicked Nana out of the kennel and he lived in it until the children returned. He had the taxi bring him to and from work every day (he was excessively fond of taxis, since a taxi had helped him beat the rush to propose to Mrs. Darling before she was a Mrs.) and just never got out of the kennel. Can you say odd?

Whatever the case, the story was well presented, though I found the plot a little strange at times. Odd though it might have been, I have done my duty as a child, and read Peter Pan. I must say, it doesn't make me want to stay a child forever. It makes me happy, in fact, that I'm in full possession of my faculties and in no danger of being attacked by pirates or ticking crocodiles. Sometimes real life feels safer than fantasy.

Of apples and trees

We had supper the other night at my grandparent's house. The food was delicious, the fellowship was wonderful, and the conversation... familiar. Familiar, because it was the same conversation we have every time we go. The embarrassing thing? I haven't even memorized it yet.

I love it, don't get me wrong, I just appreciate the humor of the whole thing. What happens is we talk about this and that--what various family members are up to, who's studying up on what Biblical topic, what we feel about chiropractors or torture chambers--and then, all of a sudden, we're talking about Israel. And that's fine, truly it is, I love all things Israel. What makes it so familiar is that the conversation almost always goes the same way.

My grandpa talks about how Israel is being protected only by the hand of the Lord, and how nations are retarded to try to fight against Israel. My dad backs this up with recent news items about countries who want to attack Israel. They talk about American politics for a moment, then revert back to all the points in history wherein Israel was protected in miraculous ways. Anyone who's had a meal with these guys has no doubt heard at least some of the stories. 90 Minutes in Antibe being a fairly popular one. They also talk about the times when the Israeli soldiers would stand out in the open and always hit their guys, while the enemy always missed them. The time when Israeli planes came to a Russian airfield and managed to knock out all the actual fighterly planes, and somehow miss all the decoy planes is a good one, too.

It's always interesting, and about 20 minutes into this hour-long ordeal my grandma falls asleep and my brother and I start conversing among ourselves. But one day (if the rapture holds off for a while longer), no doubt, I'll find myself having a meal with my brother and his family, and he and I will start telling all of his bored children about all the miracles the Lord performed for Israel when they didn't even know it. And they'll roll their eyes and start talking about something else. That's OK, they'll no doubt get a chance to hear it again, if they choose not to listen that time. And again. And again.

Connect the dots

All the time when people explain things to me from the Bible, I realize that it is such a good thing that everyone else came along first to connect all the dots for me. The other night my grandpa was talking about how 1 Kings 18:38 was the closest we could ever come to understanding what really went on on the cross, and, though I've heard it before, I was enjoying that thought, but I was also thinking: who first realized that?

The verse goes as follows: "Then the fire of the LORD fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust, and licked up the water that was in the trench." And it's a nice verse, and a nice connection, but honestly, I have to admit, I'm not sure I would have been able to get from that verse to the cross without a little direction.

Which makes me think: how much of the Bible would I have been able to understand had not so many Berean-type folk come before me? I'm not sure I would have gotten much farther than connecting Psalm 22 to the cross, truth be told. There are just so many pictures and types and shadows in the OT that I still don't really get, even though they're explained to me. Samson, for instance. People are forever explaining how he's a type of Christ, and I nod and smile, but really don't follow.

So, to all the Berean-type folks in the world, thank you. I join with all the other people like me in asking that you continually help us out by sharing your wisdom with us. I'm just really bad at connecting the dots on my own.

All about unity

So, you know how I was rambling on about the song City on Our Knees, and how I hoped it was about evangelism and the such? Well, I just found a quick youtube clip of Toby explaining what the song was about. Great, I thought, now I'll know. So I watched it, and, though I know now what it's about, I don't think it's as great as I once did.

The song, says Toby, is about Unity. The moment when we lay aside our differences and we all come together, blah blah blah. What? Why are saints and sinners coming together, and what's their common ground? I'm not trying to be too critical here, but the whole point of sinners is that they're not saved yet. I, Toby, am saved. I, Toby, don't exactly have the ability to lay aside my differences--I'm saved and that's that. I, Toby, should be coming and sharing the gospel with them. We, Toby, are not going to a city with One King with said sinners if those sinners didn't get saved. We, Toby, are the light of the world, and if we can't differentiate between sinners and saints, than we need brighter lightbulbs.

And honestly, I'm not trying to sound like a grouch here, but the difference between me and my lost neighbour is that I have Jesus Christ living in my heart, and he doesn't (yet). That difference shouldn't prevent us from talking (and it certainly shouldn't prevent me from evangelizing, especially since my flesh seems to get in the way of that on its own enough as it is), but it certainly does prevent my neighbour and I from coming together in a unified, fellowshippy way. Sorry, Toby, you tried, and you missed.

All for the sake of posterity

Some people keep journals as a record of their life for the sake of posterity. Others, like me, keep a journal to keep from exploding from the excessive amounts of words inside of them. Honestly, I like my way better, because it seems more interesting, plus, I can write or not write whenever the Spirit so moves me without worrying that a grand-niece of mine might one day wonder what I did on that illusive missing Tuesday. Even better, once I burn my journals, they'll never be the wiser as to the fact that my Tuesday was missing in the first place.

But... should the Lord wait a while before rapturing us, will posterity actually want something through which they might be able to understand what sort of person I was? Not that I think I'm that interesting (because trust me, I don't), but because history is so deeply ingrained into us humans that I feel like somebody should would want to have a part of my life just because it was a life that was lived. For instance, I love to look at pieces of my grandparents' and parents' lives. Mind you, I've certainly never been allowed to look at journals of any of my relatives (maybe they've burned them?) but I like other parts of their lives, like a pair of my dad's baby shoes, a childhood book of my grandma's, my mom's old school projects. I love to look at things like that!

But those things are collected as we live. By virtue of the fact that I was a baby, I have baby shoes (actually, I'm pretty sure we don't have any more of my baby shoes, but since I've never liked shoes I've never worried about whether or not that particular item was preserved in any capacity), and because I did school, I'll have old school papers. The fact that I come from a hugely readerly family indicates that I'll have plenty of my childhood books for my descendants to have. But sometimes I like to write random things that I think would be fun to look back on, should someone care.

But what I wonder, while doing things like this: will anyone really care? Because things about me aren't that interesting, neither do they really have a historical factor. For instance, I have a love/hate relationship with carrots. But such jumbled feelings regarding carrots isn't really something I would care to know about my great-grandpa Harry (I have no idea how he felt about carrots, just so you know). Or is it? My great-grandmother used to love licorice and she would give one piece a night to her kids while their dad (aforementioned Great-Grandpa Harry) was away Bibleing around. I think that's fun to know. But carrots aren't quite as interesting.

For at least 20 years of my life I managed to never break a bone or get stitches--though I'm a klutz, and expect this to change momentarily. But... that's not really interesting. I just wish I had more things from my own past (AKA, more information about my great-grandparents and such), and wish I could somehow create something that would be a part of life right now, in 2009, to show what they (which is to say, posterity) missed by having the misfortune of being born later on in life. I mean, I was around when we had nine planets! I remember the day Pluto got plutoed! Is there a way to portray that, and still be able to burn my journals?

I guess this is what scrapbooking is for. And stories. Maybe the Lord will tarry and I'll grow up and have some younger relative who loves to collect and file away family stories. Or maybe I should collect and file away family stories. I've got enough memorized already--This is the pond where we got our fish, Freddy. This is the pond where mom almost died. This is the silo dad used to climb around on when he babysat grain during harvest. This is the tree under which mom and dad got married. This is garage where dad backed up with the car door open and removed the car door. This is the old couch we used to have in the dining room where all of us kids used to sit on, half-asleep, while we waited for breakfast. This is the typing program we all used to learn to type. You get the idea.

But I feel like those are things that would be insanely boring to collect and preserve. Especially the typing thing. Yet... when my nieces and nephews grow up, will they even know about typing on computers? We laugh to think of things beyond computers as we know them, but my parents used typwriters in school (not that I view that as too crazy--my dad still uses a typwriter at his office, no joke), and I think it's interesting to hear them talk about "erasing" stuff on typewriters and such.

Clearly I go on too many bunny trails to be able to accomplish such things as these. I'd be discussing my parents' wedding tree, and then I'd ramble about how it was so early in the morning... but they got crapes for breakfast, so it was OK... and how one of the groomsmen was so tired he forgot to wear a vest like the rest of the guys... and my dad forgot to wear actual nice shoes, so he just wore his ugly ol' everyday shoes to the wedding... and how the dresses were lovely for that day, but frightfully unattractive to my eyes at current. Which says nothing about the tree under which my parents got married. Which is mostly acceptable, I guess, since the tree just sits around at the park and gets more and more bug-eaten year by year.

I'm not sure why I wanted to write about that tree, after all. It's nearly dead these days. Which doesn't seem nicely symbolic, like I first thought it would. Oops.

Lose my soul

I was watching the music video for TobyMac's song, Lose My Soul, the other day. And, while I like the song, I think it's only fair to share that I didn't really understand the music video. Yes, yes, I got the part about the guy NOT killing himself (deciding he didn't want to lose his soul, I can only assume), but everything else? No clue.

For instance, I was sorry that the lady had to sell her wedding band, but was that showing that she was losing her soul? gaining the world? I couldn't figure it out. And the guys who stole the computer? What was that? Gaining the world? Because it didn't really fit in with the story. For a second I thought maybe the pawn shop guy was the one who was gaining the world/losing his soul. But I think he was a good guy. He admired the wedding band, and seemed to pay a good price, plus he smiled when the guy returned the gun without killing himself. That was... nice.

This is why I sometimes thing I should stick with hymns. They, at least make sense. Modern music, or whatever we call it, rarely does. For instance, I really like the new TobyMac song City On Our Knees, but I don't really understand it. Why are the sinners and saints meeting, and what are they doing? and if those sinners are truly sinners, then I'm sorry, but they're not coming to the city with One King without some serious Salvation. But I agreed with his general point of starting now and here. I mean, I agree, providing he's talking about evangelizing or something. Like I said, I'm really not sure what he's getting at in that song.

But I think it's about evangelism, since he talks about third-world missions and stepping across the line. I've been thinking a lot recently about how little I evangelize, and it's been driving me crazy, my lack of evangelism-motivation.

So, here's hoping that when Toby is singing "we are one choice from together," what's he's saying is that if I get you saved, we'll be together forever. And then we can be family. That's cool with me, my friend. Getting saved is about the most glorious display we can find on earth. So maybe Toby knows what he's singing about, after all.

The Bumbetoes

One of my favorite story books when I was a child was one called The Bumbletoes. My grandma had it from when she was a child, and it was the only fictional book she and her siblings were ever allowed to own. The book went missing for about ten years, so the details were getting foggy. There was something about a castle, a picnic situation, and Buttonsboy kept on saying "Right ho."

But we found it recently, much to our delight, and it was one of the few things I asked for from my grandmother's house after she passed away... and I got it! The book is over a hundred years old now, and has been in the family for more than 90 years, according to the inscription in the front page. "Five little H_____'s, from Uncle Herbert, Jan. 1918." Magnificent in beat-up-ness, brilliant in verse, and clever (yet vaguely frightening) pictures is what makes the book what it is.

The basic story is that The Bumbletoes (little odd-looking, alien-type fellows) decide that they're not content being at home, they're wanting to travel. And they want to take Buttonsboy and Belinda, because Buttonsboy is their friend, I guess, and "a girl can cook or trim a hat."

With all that out of the way, the travelers travel forth. They go by boat, get seasick, and stop for a picnic lunch, made especially sweet by "Sally Luns, those best of buns" which "cheer each drooping heart." Now comes my favorite part of the whole book. Pardon the long quote.

As if from subterranean depths,
A Growl comes to their ears,
And round the corner of a rock
A Big Black Bear appears.

Now fly the Bumbletoes, with speed
That only fear can lend:
Alone now stands the Buttonsboy
Belinda to defend.
No help is near, no weapons sure,
Nor pistol, sword, nor gun--
With courage born of great despair,
He throws the deadly Bun.

Not often for such courage rare
Such swift reward is found--
The Bear before that fearful blow
Lies dead upon the ground:
Belinda laughs at perils past,
The others do the same,
Congratulating Buttonsboy
Upon his careful aim.

After the nearly ill-fated picnic, they set off again, see a castle in the distance, and are welcomed warmly by the residents of the castle, only to discover that they are merely being imprisoned. The Bumbletoes dissolve in tears, "'All, all is lost,'" they cry, 'Give us a foot or so of floor, We'll lay us down and die.'"

Belinda has an interesting take on matters as well (if it weren't for the bun killing the bear episode, this would be my favorite part of the book, hands down). "'Oh! Buttonsboy,' Belinda says, 'Although I'm not a man, and have not intellect enough to think out any plan, I grasp the prospect is not one we're likely to enjoy--I think we needn't quite despair!' 'Righto!' said Buttonsboy."

Now tell me, isn't that the funniest thing ever? I have not intellect enough to think out any plan? Best part is, the book was written by a duo of sisters, Millicent and Githa Sowerby. We are forever thankful that they felt they had intellect enough to write and illustrate a book that should be a classic in its own rite.

The Bumbletoes and Buttonsboy are put to work, growing pale and thin and having no time for sleep or play. These weren't the adventures they were looking for, I'll tell you that. Belinda, being a girl "now must sew and cook, and bustle all she can," because apparently bustling is an actual thing to do. The things you learn while reading.

Anyhow, all is saved when a Donkey falls in love with Belinda (at which point we realize that maybe Belinda and Buttonsboy were brother and sister and not marriageable-type playmates after all). After declaring his love for Belinda, the Donkey makes this Darcy-worthy impassioned speech.

My stand is only made of wood,
My voice is best unheard,
My tail is short--I know full well
That I was born absurd;
But oh! I'd perish for your sake,
I'd give up carrots too,
Nor touch another blade of grass,
And all for love of you.

How touching. Eventually "love lends him brains to form a simply brilliant plan" wherein he brings poppy seeds to Belinda, who bakes them into an apple pie that is a "culinary art." Everyone from the castle loves the pie (the very large pie, the largest pie Belinda could have possibly made) and they all eat it and simultaneously fall into a deep sleep. The Donkey steals the keys from the sleeping key-holder dude, and they all escape.

It's a good thing they have the Donkey with them (you didn't think Belinda was going to leave him behind, did you?) because once they realize that they'll never make it to the coast by walking on their feet, the "helpful Donkey cries 'You'll have to ride, of course, and as a cow is rather slow you'd better try a horse!" The Bumbletoes catch a non-broken-in horse, somehow managing to ride it off into the sunset, because by this point everyone in the castle woke up sort of angry over the situation and were chasing them.

It gets worse. The castle folk are coming ever-closer and since our travelers "have no guns, not even buns, they cannot turn and fight" they end up taking out their pocket-knives cutting most of the way through a wooden bridge the castle-folk will have to cross to reach them, and waiting for the bad castle-folk to walk out on the bridge (all at once, mind you) and the bridge falls apart. Naturally, the castle-folk "Hang for a moment in the air--then scatter far and wide. Down, down they fall, and one and all are sunk beneath the tide." But the book hastens to assure us that the evil folk manage to make it out alive and come to the coast just in time to watch the friends put out to sea. Belinda got to man the wheel, actually, so I guess even though she couldn't form intelligent plans, she was able to be some good.

They get home safe and sound, but best of all:

No more their restless spirits long
In distant lands to roam;
While ways are steep and seas are deep,
It's best to stay at home.

Oh, and there's a picture at the end of Belinda watering some flowers standing in front of a cave-like dwelling with a sign "At Home" on it.

So remember this, good friends. 'Tis always best to be "at home."

Rhymes with "wholly unfortunate"

I used to write poem-ly things when I was young. Once, I even took a poetry class. Unfortunately my poems were, in a word, terrible, and the poetry class didn't help even one iota. The whole "tree/Calvary/died for me" rhyming scheme worked well for the first 12 or so years of my life, and after that, I sort of latched onto the simple "rewind/mind/God is kind" type stuff that seemed like such brilliance.

But I just have no talent for poetry. Every time I look back on poems I considered to be so incredible or deep, I sort of want to burn them (which isn't unusual, I pretty much want to burn everything I've ever written). But sometimes I make myself try to write poetry, just to see if I've inadvertently gotten hit in the head with a poetry-laden 2x4. So far, just so you know, it hasn't happened. When I try to write poetry these days I just feel like being lazy and doing what every other modern poet does, which is to say, write completely random words.

Let me try a poem that would get a modern poet published in a magazine.

Tortilla Chips dreams
Frozen Vegetables drama
Wrinkled Paper fear
Antique Watch far from youth

Pretty much, that's what I see when I read poetry written in the past hundred years or so. What is wrong with at least attempting to put in cool-sounding lines, like things about "time yet for a hundred indecisions, and time for a hundred visions and revisions," sort of Thomas Stearns style? Not that T. S. Eliot bothered to rhyme much, but at least he had a natural cadence to his work, and at least some of his stuff rhymed, and at least he didn't write abstractly about plutonium and proms and sowing seeds of anger. When I look at modern poetry I realize that there's usually something to decipher (unlike my beautiful poem above, so seriously, don't bother trying to find a deep meaning between my tortilla chips and fear), but if I wanted to decipher something, I'd work on Hebrew, or do a logic puzzle, or try to read my dad's handwriting or something. There is no good reason for having to spend forever trying to figure out poetry.

Poetry is supposed to touch a chord inside of you. Reach something you didn't know you had. It's supposed to make you itch to say words or your own, jumbled masses of thoughts, strung together like music. But these days? You're counting blessings if the words are even masses of jumbledness, and finding things strung together is somewhat hopeless.

The tablecloth,
Sinks in the washer,
Under the weight of water,
and soap, and dirty socks.

Seriously, people get paid for that?

Hold on

I’ll admit: as far as I know, I’m the only person in a first-world country who still likes to be on hold when calling for help. There we have it: I pretty much love it. I don’t understand what the problem is for those poor folks who dislike it. What’s not to like?

First, grab a book or magazine, and the time flies. Better yet, learn the song that they’re playing on their continuous loop, and learn it. Then sing along, only better.

Actually, I’ll admit, it’s the music that makes me love being on hold. I love being on hold, listening to their stupid music, knowing that dozens of other people are listening to the same music as I am at that very second. For some reason it seems way cooler than listening to the radio, which is also (obviously) listened to by multiple people at a time.

I like to sit on hold, listening to their music, and pray for the other people listening to that exact same music. I like to think that they’re having a good day (though let’s face it, they’re on hold, which most people consider a waste of a day), or I like to think that if they’re not having a good day (which we’ve basically established that they’re not) then my little prayer for them will help their day get better. I don’t know their names, obviously, or anything of the sort, but I know what they’re doing at that exact moment—just doing the same thing I am.

And you know what? Somehow it makes being on hold seem not all that bad.

Thomas Stearns would have cried

I don’t know why I keep sharing all this stuff from my journals, since they’re supposed to be top secret, keep out or else, and all that. But apparently I don’t write as much private stuff in my journals as 10-year-olds are wont to do. Plus, I’m still dwelling on them, and blogs are supposed to be about things we’re pondering, so I figured I might as well spring for it.

First, I’m not completely insane, I promise. However, I do sometimes do odd things. For instance, in a journal that I kept about three or so years ago, I decided to do a rather insane thing. My first entry has a portion that goes as follows:

“Well, I’ve finally started my new diary. Just for background information (for 47 years from now, if the Lord doesn’t come, or tribulation saints (hi!) if He does) I’m __ years old. I lead a rather uneventful life and can’t write in straight lines… and absolutely NO handwriting skills. Good luck, oh ye tribulation saints. Go find a Bible or something—way more profitable and way easier to read!

“So, _______ conference comes up soon, and no doubt these pages will be full to the brim of “guess what?” stories. I seem to always collect stories at conferences, like flies to honey, or something. Not that I’m honey, or stories are flies, but it was just the best analogy I could think of. By the way, I can’t spell, not even if my life were hanging on the chance. So, my tribulation saints: beware. And as I said, Bible is always better. But if you do insist, I shall keep writing.

“That gives me an idea. You know how Anne Frank did that annoying “Dear Kitty” thing? Well, for this insufferably long journal, I can do a “Dear Tribulation Saint.” I doubt that’s been done too many times before. And if it has, well, so what. We’re all just excited about the Lord’s coming.”

So apparently I decided to keep a journal dedicated entirely to a random tribulation saint. We often talk in our house about how we hope the trib saints get to our house before the government, because then they can get our many Bibles. Clearly this has influenced me to consider that they might take off with my journals as reading material.

So, I carried forth for several months, starting each journal entry with a “Dear Tribulation Saint,” or, if I were feeling rather blasé, I’d just say “Tribulation Saint:” and carry forth. But one day, I had a rather startling thought.

“Friend,

“I just realized something. What if you’re not a tribulation saint? What if *gasp* you’re an evil dictator who has scoured the homes of known believers for information on meeting places and stuff? AHHH!!!! Get away from my diary!

“Anyhow, if the (hopefully large) chance that you’re a Saint, and/or still reading this, I shall endeavor to tell you about my day.”

Then, one September 11^th, I got pensive about that.

“Before I get too far I just want to say, September 11 already? I know that you, as a tribulated person, have all sorts of crazy stuff in your world, but September 11 was pretty crazy for me.”

I just couldn’t believe that I would even vaguely compare our little problems to Tribulation-sized problems. Clearly I have no sense of fair comparisons.

While going tangenty one day, I made this observation to my friend TS,

“Anyhow, that got a little off-topic from my subject, but that’s OK, because 1) this is a diary and I can say pretty much whatever I want, and b) if you’re really a tribulation saint, then I’m in Heaven and the rules of writing don’t even apply any more.”

I’m not sure why I thought that the rules of writing would cease to apply once I got a Heavenly-type promotion, but maybe my old self knew something it hasn’t bothered to share with the current me.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!

“Oh wait, do you have happy anything days there in the tribulation? That would kind of stink, not having happy anything days. I mean, I guess you have joy in the Lord and all that, but that would just kind of stink.”

Actually, I think the most amusing part of my whole thing was that I eventually shortened my saint’s title from “Tribulation Saint” to “TS.” It took me a little while to realize that T. S. Eliot has such initials, so I started calling my Tribulation Saint TS, Thomas, or just Eliot. And sometimes Thomas. It vaguely weireded me out to realize that writing my journal to a man didn’t seem odd, because I’d been subconsciously writing it to a male the whole time.

Which should be weirder, but when I think of tribulation saints, I mostly think of men, for some reason. Silly, I know, because women and children would be the most likely to grab journals from someone’s room (the men would be in the basement stocking up on pliers and flathead screwdrivers) and so it goes to follow that a woman or childly person would end up with my journal.

But, it’s all foolishness anyhow, because if I manage to remain on earth for very long, I intend to burn most (code word: all) of my journals anyhow. So, Tribulation Saint, don’t bother looking for those journals. Go help your mom raid our pantry. Also in the basement, by the way, so just follow the menfolk, and you’ll do fine.