Rebekah, Going Up

I require a beautiful life

2009-04-19T22:52:00.001-07:00

I require a beautiful life.
Not one without grief or dirt or cold tea or black beatles. But certainly beautiful.
I require a life that surprises all who encounter it. A life that I have created through stout labor and the good help of God.
I require a simple life, true, but rich too. Richly imagined and richly designed that is. And full of rich moments--the ones that will take my breath away.
And taking the joy with the pain and the love with the heartache, I shall live my beautiful life working, and trusting, till I die.

Ushering in another October

2008-09-17T16:05:00.000-07:00

october falling
10/07

when October falls like
orange and yellow from gutter
traps then, then hearts are
full and much possessed by
the water-log of wet from
the sky and from pumpkin spice
lattes and Shakespeare by
moonlight.

who taught your heart to love
October falling when April
has flown with geese
away, south and left, after
summer’s glow has faded, a
wetter, warmer way behind
at your own hearth and
firelight?

where will it go, this feeling
when October is finished falling
and lies dead on the cold
streets? Will the heart find new
charms of lattes and light and
will the ways of the world
change for the sake of small girls
in love?

My other life: a love letter

2008-09-09T17:22:00.000-07:00

If today should run away like Brigadoon and recede into a mist as
profound as the herald angel’s cry, I
will still remember that we laughed.
If this moment should fade like six month old jeans into a pale
remnant of what we bought, I
will still remember that we told the truth.
I will remember that we ran, measuring each breath with each
stride, comparing sweat and speed. I
will remember how our voices forgot to be unique and
bent themselves to an indiscernible melody together.
I will remember (how could I forget?) how June in Georgia rained
torrents of wet on our soaked, laughing heads, as we screamed,
free at last to do what we never would have dared to do otherwise.

A Few Digressions

2008-02-28T21:32:00.000-08:00

I might as well say it: I agonized over what to title this great piece of wit and originality. I thought maybe, "A few digressions: an autobiography." Or, "A few digressions, a few daddy long-leg spiders, and a king tossed in for flavor." Or, "An Autobiography: daddy long-legs, a poet, and a king." All of which were charming and very interesting but, much, much too long. So. "A Few Digressions" it is.

Some people write endlessly of themselves like great men who carefully recount their memoirs in meticulous detail for the reading pleasure of all the world and all history. A life in black ink on white paper apparently holds more intrinsic value as each occasion is duly noted and documented, than a simple life, unrecorded, un-remarked upon, and never read, much less written could possibly possess. There is, I must acknowledge, something in the telling of them, that renders each moment more momentous and enchanting than before. A moment lived and a moment expressed are two entirely different experiences that, like port and chocolate, are better had together. Having said as much, I hereby both criticize and utilize the practice of autobiography, assuring myself of the world’s indulgence, un-warranted as it may be and distressing as it may prove. Amen.

When at college and laboring over Latin, Milton wrote this rebellious interjection:

“Hail, Native Language, that by sinews weak,
Didst move my first-endeavoring tongue to speak,
And madest imperfect word, with childish trips,
Half unpronounced, slide through my infant lips,
Driving dumb silence from the portal door,
Where he had mutely sat two years before:
Here I salute thee in my latter task…”

Lest any random, innocent reader should think me a well-read intellectual of sorts, let me confess immediately that I never read Milton till yesterday—when I discovered another book on my shelf, borrowed and unread for nearly a year. The subsequent guilt pangs prompted me to peruse a few pages at least. But I digress.

My intellectual ambition is at best sporadic, and as far as wit is concerned, I am generally know to be somewhat charming at times of rare enlightenment. Enlightenment for me is most generally and quite certainly always accompanied by tea. Not any tea bag tossed in a mug you understand, but real, sensible, sit down and pour-it-from-a-pot tea. Accompanied nicely of course by sweet bread and jam of some kind. There is nothing—absolutely nothing that can produce equal clarity of mind and sensitivity of judgment as a good tea. Except of course the work of the Spirit Himself. But then I have often wondered whether He doesn’t work through tea in the majority of cases. But I digress.

I will spare you the entire quote, and simply get to the point—something I am famed for. Oh, I thought of something else that the Spirit undoubtedly works through: Chopin’s nocturnes. Actually, through Maria Joao Pires who plays them and whose name I will never remember how to pronounce. Although I suppose the argument could be made that the Spirit works through the Bose Wave Radio from which the scintillating music forthwith comes—but that may be, like Mary Poppins in the country, going a bit too far. “Doshus ali expi, listic, fragi cali rupus.” Or something like that. But again, I digress.

Milton and I both feel the need to pay our respects to our native English. Goodness knows we neither of us have had much success with any other language. At least I haven’t. I don’t know what my pal Milt would say, but if he’s an honest bloke I bet he’d tell you he failed Latin. I bet. Why else would he write such a poem write in the middle of a Latin assignment? At least I got a B in Spanish—not much to write home about, but still passing. In Milton’s case, his devotion to English served him well in the end—he is after all rather famous. I have yet to see but a smattering of the success I have asked of my language. Language is fitful I believe. Rather like temperamental Greek deities. And as you know, I am merely a rather ordinary, but hopeful mortal who sometimes tries her clumsy hand at the King’s English. Although, we don’t have a king, and that may have some bearing on the matter. A king to possess a language and press his seal of approval on a language, and give decrees in a language, and order books to be written in a language and torture school children with the learning of a language must of course lend credence and respectability to any common citizen, however lowly who employs said language’s use. There is a queen of course, but I’m not sure if that can have quite the same effect. People don’t say “the Queen’s English” any more than they say “the President’s English” (but then, that is understandable for in our case it would be “the President’s American”). It simply isn’t done. And so the collective writers of the English speaking nations of the world must suffer for it. No king, no respect, no love. Pardon me for a moment, its time for my daily “cry in a dark, dirty corner” session.

Okay, that’s better. Actually, I don’t really have such a thing as a daily “cry in a dark dirty, daddy long-leg infested corner” session. I just made that up. Just like I just added “daddy long-leg infested” to “dark, dirty corner.” It sounded better. And more dreadful. Daddy long-leg spiders in corners would make me cry. But yet again, I digress. Except this time, I’m not sure I can even remember what I was digressing from. I mean, “I’m not sure I can even remember from what I was digressing.” My apologies your majesty.

Till next time.

Opportunity

2008-02-02T11:22:00.000-08:00

It was strangely cold, strangely mild
Strangely gray, strangely wild.
Such a day it was when the waiter came
To dish out pieces of fame
From pie dishes still warm, steaming.
But the ice cream kept me from believing
On that gray, wild day
What the waiter said in his cold, mild way.
And then he left carrying the bill
Away from we, the patrons who will
Always forget to tip.

Sorrow: a phenomenon

2007-12-26T10:31:00.000-08:00

What is sorrow but a great need, a need for something imagined or true, accelerated to the point of absolute necessity (whether imagined or true)?

What is sorrow but a great hand squeezing otherwise ordinary people into small children who cower in alley corners, and behind office desks, and under warm quilts and in front of kitchen sinks--alone (or seemingly so). A large alone--conspicuous as an elephant in your lap. And although you may sit and wish the elephant away for long, lonely nights and days, you would answer a cold, flat no if anyone offered to take it away. You would rather sit, smothered, and just wish.

But how can the elephant be led away? Gently and with the sly, coaxings of a respectable zoo-keeper? No amount of zoo-keepers or coaxing can draw out the elephants in our hearts. What is a human soul, but solitary? The ultimate aloneness comes from within, as layers and layers of strong stone walls refuse to fall away and not even Joshua's trumpets can tumble the horrible isolation of each of us. We talk, but even what we call communication cannot possibly facilitate communion between souls. There will always be a language barrier and we will encode and decode every word as they come and go as if across live wires. What can we say of ourselves that anyone else would understand? And who would want to understand anyone else but themselves? We are so alone. We are so pitiful. So we will clutch our elephants tightly to ourselves and scribble soul-baring notes in our journals, trying desperately to trust in the worth and the romance of a voice never heard, of words never spoken, or if spoken never truly understood. We sit in dusty, drafty corners or on the deep leather of chic coffee-house armchairs and imagine the glory of posthumous fame. But this is no consolation, no amount of Greek tragedy and grand speeches can salve the ache of anonymity. No amount of prayer and sacrifice to Greek deities will console an unopened, unbroken heart.

But it was not always thus. Something has gone badly wrong with the human soul since the beginning. We were created to be together, to talk with God in the cool of the day, to know and be known. If this were not so, we would not now feel the sorrow of disconnect. It is an unnatural phenomenon, like physical pain. This sorrow, I would be bold and recognize as the quintessential sorrow of the world, its plague as it were, to be separated from God, has a cure.

"Was there any sorrow like unto His sorrow?"

There is no need for me to continue clutching my particular Dumbo on my long-laden lap. The great ringmaster has led it away, and it shall never come wandering back. I don't have to get sick on ice cream sodas is some obscure drugstore waiting to be discovered, because from everlasting to everlasting He is God and He has known my innermost being from the beginning. Christ has been separated from the Father in my place and has suffered the quintessential sorrow more profoundly than any human ever has in order that we may know and be known.

To dance in the wilderness

2007-12-23T21:55:00.000-08:00

The whirring of ceiling fans hums above the stirring of a large audience. Singers in black to my right and left, behind and before. The organ in the corner groans a beginning through great pipes at my back and then, suddenly a breeze blows through this church and I am whisked away on its wings to a place of sand and wind and sagebrush. Strangely the organ music continues its strains of eloquence. My feet are light and delight fills my stomach with joy. I dance, sand spraying reluctantly as I whirl, twirling in time with the wind and my own heart beat. Perhaps I dance alone, perhaps I have a partner. Perhaps two. Perhaps my beloved and His Father both dance with me. Perhaps all of heaven dances with me, shouting with each sweep of my feet: "Glory!" One thing I know: I could not have danced in the wilderness if blood had not been shed, if tears had not dropped like rain on the desert ground. I could not have danced, so carefree, like a child on the beach if I had not once sat, cold, seemingly alone in the dark of a wilderness night. I could not have danced in this wilderness if I had not been led here in the first place. To dance in the wilderness is a thing seldom done. To dance in the wilderness is a thing saints do. To dance in the wilderness is to trust the Master.

Night in the wilderness

2007-11-22T22:57:00.000-08:00

There are times, at night, when the wilderness seems cold.
Times when the dark feels stronger than my Beloved.
There is no moon now, and this valley is quiet and cold.
Oh, so very cold that I think I can feel my iced marrow creaking when I breathe. These are the times when it is hardest of all to let joy in.
She does not want to be possessed tonight.
I remember that moment--so long ago--that rip of black tulle, that wild burst of wind that carried it far up and away.
I remember that knowing time, I remember the battle in which my dragon was slain.
I remember the screams, I remember the blood on the sand, the rocks in my hands. Above all, I remember that voice.
So irresistible, so warm, like the soft touch of a lover to the waist of his wife. "Trust me," it said.
So still, so quiet, and yet that small whisper resonated through this desert valley disrupting the play of merciless dust devils, leaping from hillside to hillside, twirling in the skirted breeze of a far-off coast.
But the green is gone again--its absence makes me think that winter has come.
The voice never promised that winter would stay away.
But I had hoped.
Now I sit in the dark and it is my lot to remember and believe.
And watch for the morning.

The work of my hands, Established c. 1987

2007-10-22T17:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent two hours and a little more training for my new position as intern with Washington Eagle Forum. I know. The term "intern" is rather ambiguous. Let me enlighten you. I will be updating their database, which involves editing mailing lists, contact information etc. I also will be managing their website, posting new material, articles, and such. Its just a few hours a week, but frankly, I'm excited. And happy. I had been wondering if pizza was to swallow up my life in large mouth fulls till all that can be seen is pepperoni and bus tubs and grease.

Anyone who knows me would say that I'm not the type they would describe with the words "technical," "computer," or "database," anywhere in the diatribe. This being the case, I find it truly a manifestation of God's sovereignty that He would have me doing such uncharacteristic and unexpected work. In the past few weeks I have been meditating on Psalm 90. The very last two verses jumped out and kissed me on the nose.

"Let Your work appear to Your
servants,
And Your glory to their children.
And let the beauty of the Lord our
God be upon us,
And establish the work of our hands
for us;
Yes, establish the work of our hands."

I whispered those words at work over pizzas, I panted them out on my morning runs, I hummed them at home while I stirred simmering pots of soup, I sang them out as I stood at church with a hymnal in my hands. I want to say them forever: Let the beauty of the Lord be upon me, establish the work of my hands, oh establish the work of my hands. I am still wandering in the wilderness where He led me, but now suddenly the desert landscape seems to be blossoming with vitality and everywhere I look I am seeing the lines, curves, unmistakable prints of my Father's hands. His work has appeared in splendid colors of unimaginable vibrancy. Even pizza looks beautiful from where I stand, breathless at the view. And this is just the beginning.

I went to the wilderness

2007-10-19T16:32:00.000-07:00

I went to the wilderness because a hand of destiny beckoned.
I went to the wilderness unwilling, stubborn, afraid, like a captive
Squirrel to civilization. And when the cage bars rose away above me I
Looked up and couldn’t see the doorway it had left behind. Scary
Doorway, beautiful bars, precious, safe. Scary doorway, leave me
Alone. I went to the wilderness weeping, like a widow. I mourned
For my precious future, gone, gone, gone like all other little precious
Nothings that I longed for. I wore black to the wilderness and the veil
That I lay over my red face billowed like a thundercloud above me.
I wore black to my wedding, cold shrew that I was, I wore black to the
Happy day in the wilderness valley. I did not know it was happy.
I could not see. I could only cry for my precious, precious future, oh future
Of dreams, of desires, of delight, oh future, precious, why have you gone?
But no answer would come from my precious, so bright, so beautiful.
It was gone. And so I went to the wilderness, following a strange
Stirring, a whispering in the air, not as a bold adventurer, off
To new undiscovered lands of mystery, but as
A new widow goes to the gravesite, weary, betrayed, seemingly
Alone. But I was not alone. The stirring became a walking, and the
Whispering became a voice, and there in the wilderness, it walked, and
It spoke. What it said is not as important as what it meant, but I shall
Tell you anyway. It said, “Trust me.” Simply that, which is easy to tell
But not so easy to understand. But at those words the veil tore away from my head and I watched it fly, black tulle extended like
Grasping hands towards me as it flew up and away from me. And with
It went a part of me that mourned for my precious. All that stayed
Was a woman, standing, surprised, with joy in her face and trust
In her heart.

Out of the wilderness

2007-10-02T10:52:00.000-07:00

"Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved?"
Song of Solomon 8:5a

Someday they will see me on the hazy desert horizon, and at first they won't know it is me.
The steady ripple of heat will enshroud my tired body, dust will be like a robe for me.
Nothing will stretch out like a cruel cat behind me.
But this time it won't be allowed to pounce on me or beat me with its Nothing, Nothing paws.
I will come out of Egypt much more worn and brown than I went in, but every new line on my face will be like love kisses from my Beloved.
Oh yes, yes, my Beloved who at that moment as I look up is looking down at me with all the pride and joy of a bridegroom laughing out from His oasis eyes.
And as they look they will know that something wondrous has happened, is happening, or is soon to happen.
They will see me leaning on the arm of my Beloved and they will run to meet us and prepare a feast and shout and dance for joy that we have come.
Someday they will see me coming up from the wilderness and they will praise my Beloved.

Into the wilderness

2007-09-11T14:38:00.000-07:00

Into the wilderness far
Farther than ever before I
Will go to the wilderness
And there I may find a valley deep
And narrow where sand stretches far
Farther than ever before I
Will kneel to the rocks and gather stone I
Will gather stone to throw
To bash in the head of my dragon my
Idol I will throw stone after stone and
They will fly as our screams fly reverberating
Sharp and crushing screams till it falls, dead,
Bleeding.

Down I will hold its shiny head and mourn my
Loss, my idol’s death, its destruction and
Think how its life had been glorious and
Proud and so beautiful I
Will remember plans made in silent houses I
Will remember long mornings of sun and
Pleasure that ran through my bones when
My idol breathed hot on my heart just so I
Will weep for it a little then no more because
My idol is dead and already I can
Feel its nothingness filling my chest with eyes
That stare and that can never be
Surprised.

Then in the stillness a voice will speak
With words that can fill the eyes in my
Chest with knowledge that barely understands, with
Wisdom that can hardly comprehend it
Will say words of comfort that echo down into chasm
Walls to where I stand, surprised.
“Trust. Trust me,” it will say in tones as
Deep as Earl Grey and tingling as a
Lover's soft touch on the waist of his wife.
And I will trust.

I want.

2007-07-30T15:36:00.000-07:00

As selfish a statement as I can formulate. As focused a purpose as I can work toward. As deep a consideration as I can imagine. As confusing a sentiment as I can feel.

I want. I want, I want, I want, I want, want, want, want!

"I want..." I say and then my mouth goes dry and my head clears of all information or ideas. I want...everything, nothing, bigness, littleness, dark, light, far, near, love, hate, joy, grief, hope, despair, courage, fear...I want it all. I want it all. I want to know. I want to know why and how and when and where, and oh Lord God of my fathers I want to know You. But I don't know anything really. I only know that I want to know.

It occurs to me that food isn't as delectible as it should be, that sleep isn't as restful as it should be, that time ticks torturously by, that the sun is unbearably intense, that the mountains opress me, entrapping, holding me in, that color isn't as vibrant as it should be, that the most elaborate fractal isn't as infinite as it should be. It occurs to me that sixteen wasn't sweet enough, that twenty won't satisfy me either, or thirty or fourty, or eighty. It occurs to me that the creaking of the rusty, dusty gears in my head are louder than my constructive thoughts. It occurs to me that when I open my eyes after napping in the sun, everything looks gray-blue instead of gold and green. It occurs to me that everything is wrong. It occcurs to me.

Do you ever wonder if Jesus will ever come back? I do. When I'm feeling especially selfish, or tired, or disgusted, or hopeless. Or when the grainy sand of this endless desert they call history seems to stretch further and dryer than I can bear. So I look up and I know that my creator watches and holds and breathes with me: in, out. I know that He sighs with me and creation. And it occurs to me that the time I spend here, that the tears I cry here, that the desire I hold in my being here, unfulfilled will be worth it if His glory is served. If His purpose is served.

"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

Not to worry--He'll come. And then I'll know. And then every "I want" will be His to fulfill.

Looking for Overworld

2007-07-25T15:19:00.000-07:00

Its like we used to be high, so high up in Overworld. Its like we used to see the sun and the sky and the sea. Its like we used to talk to big, bright lions and have adventures.

Its like we've sunk down to the dark lands legions farther down than can be comprehended. Its like we don't even know what the sun looks like anymore or the sky or the sea. Its like we've settled for a second-rate substitute to satisfy our need for happiness, or love, or everything. Its like we're tied in a shiny chair listening to a soothing, sweet voice whisper succulent lies in our ears. Its like we look at a cat and think its a lion, like we look at a lamp and think its the sun, its like we hear a little sappy strumming on an acoustic and think its a symphony.

Its like we don't even listen when someone wakes up from a dream one day and says he's seen real lions, suns, and heard real symphonies, and insists that he wander in our Underworld for as long as it takes to find his dream one. Its like I had the same dream and I try so hard to remember and record it all before it slips away, carefully tucked into the archives of my dusty mind. Its like I try my best to believe that there really are lions and suns and I tear at the ropes every night in my shiny chair, but the lies come a-whispering, and the fire flares green as a snake, and I can't bear to stay awake anymore. Oh no, no, not anymore. But someone has to stomp on the fire for me, I can't, I can't. Oh please stomp on the fire for me. I have a dream, a dream as big as a lion, and it comes bounding in as gold as the dream sun and as bright. I have to believe it, and every night I will wander Underworld in my dreams and look for Overworld till I can see the sun and the sky and the sea and the lion.

My security blanket

2007-06-13T13:18:00.000-07:00

School is my security blanket. Its a place where my purpose is obvious and sure. Here I stand, I can do no other, etc.

In September of 2005, Rebekah Reimers, 17, enrolled in a two-year degree program at Whatcom Community College. She was scared, and short, and in love with Tennyson. In June of 2007, she will graduate from WCC with an associates degree in arts and sciences at the age of 19, having retained a grade point average of 3.8, taken five English classes, and been a member of Phi Theta Kappa. She is scared, and short, and in love with Tennyson. So what.

Or shall we say, now what? Yes, school is my security blanket. Or so it seems. No my dears, as much as I would like to say that school is my security blanket, it really isn't. That's a lie, or it should be anyway. God is my security blanket. Has been, is now, and forevermore shall be. Amen.

So there is no reason why I should be worried about the future, right? Of course right. You have convinced me, I believe there isn't.

The dining room dissertation and me

2007-05-06T17:08:00.000-07:00

In desperate need of tea, I set to work. Soon steam was rippling like transparent silk towards the dining room chandelier, free from the bonds of gravity. Hope was addressing me from the rotating tape deck on the table, insistent in its honest sincerity. Why joy? I wonder. Why joy in the worst of times? Because these are the best of times.

"It takes real faith in a real Christ to weather the storms," the tape deck declares. Do I dare believe? Do I dare "put my confidence in Christ alone"? In dissapointment also, He is trustworthy, it said. "Faith brings the glory of Christ in the present experience." He's the one I need, He's the one I want. Only. "When did I let myself forget again?" my pen wonders as it hushes across my journal page.

Why should I look to any other source for comfort? Or for hope, or joy, or fulfillment, or delight? My tea is cold, but I still see steam rising like rippling gray silk toward heaven. He has love that can intoxicate the soul. Because He is in Himself the essence of empathy. He knows.

"So I'm on my way back home into the hands that made the wine from the water, into the hands, the hands of the potter."

The tape said that peaceful coexistence is not love. It is not knowing and being known. My eyes trace the lines of glass panes in the china cabinet like a cathedral window. He loves beyond the love of honor or duty or "function." Oh God, help me to remember this tomorrow, and the next day and the next day.

Let go.

2007-05-06T14:30:00.000-07:00

Let go.
Let go before you make yourself miserable again.
Its not fair. Who said anything about it being fair?
What about justice, though? What did I ever do to deserve this?
I'll just think of swear words in my head and then maybe I'll feel better.
No. Let go. Let go before you hurt yourself!
You hate me, don't you.
You must hate me or you would have done everything in
Your power to give me my own way. The world hates me, doesn't it.
I thought so.
No. Let go. Let go before you ride this trolley all the way to hell!
I'm not listening to you--you hate me.
I like this trolley, so just leave me alone.
No. Let go. Let go before its too late!
You know what? I can't even see you--you're not real so shove off.
I am real. I am here.
I don't care, don't you see? I don't care.
You know what? Why don't you find yourself a
Nice bridge, and jump of it, okay?
No. Let go. Let go my daughter of darkness, my
Hopeless child of fear and failure.
Let go. Let go and look up. I'm here.
Why? Why are you here? Everyone else left.
You hate me like everyone else--you're just
Trying to trick me.
No. Let go. I am here. I have always been here.
I will stay here forever.
I can't look up--my head is so heavy. Please
Don't ask me to try.
You won't have to try. I will lift it up. You will see me.
I made you. I love you. Love me.

English 121 (fiction and poetry writing)

2007-04-21T00:26:00.000-07:00

Waiting for Kenton
(Who was born on July 14, 2006)

Bright. Too bright. But the light stayed stubborn.
I wiped sweat again.
Hot. Too hot. But the kids played on, unaffected.
Somewhere in a neighboring town
A mother was probably pushing, breathing, calling for ice.
I couldn't see the blue of the sky
Just yellow. Too yellow.
I wiped sweat again.
Time was creeping, air stagnant
The kids ran and jumped,
Their hair drenched.
Red-painted metal mondey bars,
Not a swing to be found.
Who forgot to build swings?
The sun was bearing down
I wondered if the mother was too.
Oh child, stop, rest, think!
Your face is the color of tomatoes:
Red. Too red. But you run anyway.
You must.
The baby must cry.
The baby must live.
So you run anyway.

This Dancing Virgin

2007-03-21T07:43:00.000-07:00

"The Lord has appeared of old to me,
saying:
'Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting
love;
Therefore with lovingkindness I have
drawn you.
Again I will build you, and you shall be
rebuilt,
O virgin of Israel!
You shall again be adorned with your
tambourines,
And shall go forth in the dances of those
who rejoice."
--Jeremiah 31: 3,4

Wow. That is justification. Guilt is merely a theory until you know it by experience. Grace too is merely a vague concept never truly understood until seized upon. Here I go again, shouting out the same old story: fairy tale forgiveness, irrepressible joy, remarkable restoration. I can't help it! God keeps doing incredible things, and as long as He continues, I shall have to sing His praises.

Shakespeare may have said that "silence is the perfectest herald of joy," but for once I can't agree with him quite wholeheartedly. God's grace is too glorious for silence. It just makes me want to scream with delight!

Presidents Day with Kylee

2007-02-19T17:50:00.000-08:00

Today Kylee and I took a walk in the rain under the protection of two enormous black umbrellas. We sang "I know an old lady" the whole way and somehow we got from, "I know an old lady who swallowed a horse--she's dead of course," to, "I know an old lady who swallowed an umbrella..."

--Later--

"My stomach is grabbling," quoth Kylee and clutched her belly dramatically.

"Surely not," I replied and ran in the general direction of the kitchen, whereupon we made a sandwich shaped like an elephant.

--Later--

"What game shall we play?" said she, looking inquiringly into my face.

"I don't know," I said earnestly.

"Let's go in Grammie's room and fink," she said decidedly, and would have marched ceremoniously thence if she hadn't been waylaid by my capturing arms and hauled over my shoulder potatoe fashion. "Let's go in Grammie's room and fink," she repeated, confused. And I laughed. And she laughed too.

Note: Kylee and I have been saying, "I could eat a whole elephant," whenever we're hungry. Thus the pachyderm-shaped sandwich.

My Valentine Rose

2007-02-14T16:36:00.000-08:00

Someone told me recently that the sole purpose of Valentines Day was to cause people with sweethearts the trouble of buying meaningless symbols of affection such as roses, candy, teddy bears, etc., and to cause single people unhappiness and discontent because they don't have an excuse to buy said meaningless symbols of affection. I also recently heard the radio tell me that roses are boring and sappy...so I should buy a Vermont Teddy Bear!

I think neither of the above examples of society's attitude toward Valentines Day quite understands. Today I recieved a very red, very beautiful rose from a friend of mine--no not a sweetheart--a friend named Sarah. This rose was my companion throughout the rest of the day. It stayed in my hand like a bold, sweet, beacon of red truth, defiant love. The rain could not wash away its brightness. The vulgar "Dating Game" and other such rituals carried out here at Whatcom Community College could not mar its purity. It reminded me of the unapolagetic nature of blood.

God gave me a gift of love today. He reminded me of the sweetness and absolute purity of a gift infinitely more beautiful than any I have ever been given before. This is what romance means to me. Yes, romance! That is what I said. God, the author of romance, is in Himself the essence of romance.

The blood of Christ has bought back His bride for Him and I find myself simply starry-eyed with the glory of it all. Yes, I am in love. I am childishly, naively, infatuatedly in love with my Savior. Somehow I don't think all the Vermont Teddy Bears in the world can match that.

Happy Valentines Day one and all, and may your hearts be fired with the romance of redeeming blood.

If you weren't Adam and I wasn't Eve

2007-02-10T23:33:00.000-08:00

If you weren't Adam and I wasn't Eve then maybe romance would mean more than teddy bears and valentine candy.
If Earth was not Earth but Pangaea instead, then maybe we could have united.
If Joy to the World wasn’t bought at the mall then maybe we’d really be singing.
If lemons were sweet without sugar added then maybe we would have really found the perfect diet.
If love was really amen never-ending then maybe lawyers would never have been invented.
If band-aids were only for pretending then maybe children would never cry.
If man had not desired what God did not give then maybe “contentment” would still be in our vocabulary.
If man still walked with God in the cool of the day then maybe we wouldn’t know what “maybe” meant.
If the world was perfect and the people were good, then there wouldn’t be Jesus and redeeming blood.
If we trusted without stint and kept in our place then there wouldn’t be Christ and amazing grace.

Disclaimer: "What shall we say then? Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound? Certainly not! Why should we, who died to sin live any longer in it? Or do you not know that as many of us as were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? Therefore we were buried with Him through baptism into death, that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life." Romans 6:1-4

In the Spirit on the Lord's Day

2007-01-31T18:34:00.000-08:00

"Day of all the week the best, emblem of eternal rest."

Heads are bowed, hands are folded. The body is at rest, the soul has taken flight. At last the week full of sin is over. The week full of labor has ceased. At last this frail being has found rest once more on the Lord's Day. Pure rest, from the inside out. Was there ever a delight as glorious as this? Was there ever a joy to equal mine today?

"My soul magnifies the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."

Such quiet joy this is. Such gentle peace. We sit, we pray, we stand, we sing. We listen. But most of all, we worship. Our hearts are open and being filled to the brim with new measures of understanding. Understanding of the grace of Christ our Lord. When our heads rest again tonight, we will say, "I have met with God today. I have walked with Him in the cool of the day."

"Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy."

I can't shake the conviction that one of God's greatest gifts to His church is the Sabbath. But then, I don't want to. The Lord's Day is not only a "perk," but also absolutely necessary. Mandatory. Commanded. Beautiful.

"Be still and know that I am God."

We are human--we need to rest and bless the Lord for His gift. What an incredible thing it is to be still. To stop everything and quietly be filled up by God.

"Thus may all our Sabbaths prove till we join the church above."

The Scientific Method

2007-01-24T09:37:00.000-08:00

As utilized in "The Case of the Vagabond Smell."

Having been utilized by many brilliant thinkers down through the yellowed pages of history, the Scientific Method seems to me to be a worthy recipient of my attention and study. Perhaps someday I shall be famous because of my groundbreaking discoveries. Perhaps someday I shall be in grave danger and be required to make quick, logical deductions based on evidence in order to preserve my health and happiness. Or perhaps I shall remain an ordinary Jane, and continue to solve household problems such as the one I am about to summarize—all with the aid of the simple process we call the Scientific Method.

One fine day, when the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and everything in general was going marvelously (as all things should), I walked by the kitchen on my way to the living room. Just as I was positioned opposite the doorway into the haven of culinary imagination, I stopped. I gasped. Something horrid was singeing my ten-year-old nose. A smell of incredibly revolting magnitude was assaulting my senses, thus I made one undeniable observation: Something smells terrible. Dozens of action plans raced through my mind as I stood there, nose wrinkled, sensibilities offended. Should I dash into the kitchen and frantically throw open all the windows, doors, and all such portals? Should I call the fire department? Should I take out the garbage? Should I call my shrink? Far from giving in to hasty tactics, I calmly deduced that I must first apply what I had learned in my fifth grade science class, namely the Scientific Method.

I realized that I had already made my observation: Something smells terrible. Therefore I proceeded to the next step as outlined by my teacher. Create multiple working hypotheses. Thus I began to guess as to what could be causing the ghastly smell coming from the kitchen. First, I proposed that the garbage was in need of “taking out.” One quick glance under the sink however, confirmed that the garbage had been emptied that very morning. Next I proposed to myself, “Perhaps someone left the limburger cheese open somewhere in the kitchen.” So I searched the kitchen from top to bottom—no cheese. Each time I eliminated a hypothesis, I realized that I was in effect, joining great scientists of the pasts in the common goal of finding out why and how things work. One by one, the possibilities on my list of hypotheses were confirmed erroneous and at last I was left with one, last, lonely, guilty-looking hypothesis. Warily I made my way across the room, past the pantry, past the refrigerator, past the sink and the items under the sink, until at last I was face-to-face with the big, black oven itself. The time of reckoning had come and I was ready. Before opening the door however, I called out to my sister who was blissfully reading a book—unaware of the momentous event occurring in her very own house.

“Anna,” I said excitedly, “I’m going to propose to you my theory,” I informed her and did my best to look important. This was a difficult task seeing that I was trying to stifle my giggles at the expression of disgust on her face and her fingers carefully pinching her nose shut. “You will notice that something smells terrible. I have been employed for the past half-hour, utilizing the Scientific Method in order to discover the source of this dreadful vagabond smell. After much careful experimentation, I am certain that there could only be one possible guilty party: the oven! I declare to you my trusted sister, my theory that the oven contains something simply ghastly.” She nodded, hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible. With a flourish I tossed open the oven door and bowed ceremoniously before the awed gaze of my big sister who would have clapped except that she was pinching her nose. There, in the oven, melted through the tray and dripping all the way to the bottom of the oven, was a mess of broccoli, cheese, rice, chicken, and plastic bowl, with a few bits of foil thrown in (for flavor no doubt). My theory was correct, and I walked out of my mother’s kitchen nearly bursting with pride at my use of the grand thing they call the Scientific Method.

Note: This essay was assigned for my Geology class. Don't believe a word of it--I seriously doubt that I gave the Scientific Method a second thought when I was ten years old.

Grace

2007-01-08T18:33:00.000-08:00

Through fog of fear and doubt
The Devil whispers, "Sin, sin, sin."
Standing outside the door of hope,
His taunts refuse to let me in.

"Go away!" my tortured spirit cries,
I remember sin of the past,
Tattooed on my soul like graffiti
Or a dirty word iron-cast.

Through fog of fear and doubt
The Spirit whispers, "Grace, grace, grace!"
I wonder why, and where, and how
But I dare not look up--exposing my dreadful face.

"How can it be?" I mutter through chapped lips.
No, my sin is too awful to be written off for free.
My soul shrinks back to count my good deeds:
Like pennies I count them hopefully.

Through fog of fear and doubt again
The Spirit whispers, "Grace, grace, grace!"
My dirty fingers grasp the last little copper
Then my pocket is empty of the last trace.

Pockets inside out, hands upraised
I try to grasp the door handle and enter
But the Devil says mocking,
"You're no better than me--despair forever!"

Through fog of fear and doubt yet again
The Spirit whispers, "Grace, grace, grace!"
I cry out in anguished, stubborn misery:
"I can't believe such a foolish grace!"

My mind is spinning like a child's top,
I'm trying desperately to comprehend
This foolish thing called grace.
"What fire has my brain for a friend!"

Through fog of fear and doubt
The Spirit whispers, "Grace, grace, grace!"
"You are dirty, but I will wash you--come as you are,
The Master delights to save in this very place."

A hand that is mine reaches up once more.
But the door is already open
I see myself as in a dream:
Expression screwed up, suspicious, like a wren.

Through fog of fear and doubt
My Master says, "Grace, grace, grace!"
"I have done it by grace,
Leave your pennies--lose them in my embrace."

A forgiven princess I stand:
Coronation robes surround me with grace for thread
Perfect obedience of the Master
Crowning my transformed head.

And the Spirit whispers, "Grace, grace, grace!"

"Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer..."

2007-01-08T08:47:00.000-08:00

"Son of a motherless goat!" -Ben Miller

"Kenton, you poop alot." -Katie Miller

"It was a mosquito!" -Mary Robbins

"The baby rarrs like a lion." -Katie & Andrew Miller

"Raarrr!" --Kenton Miller

"Church showers are very important because cleanliness is next to Godliness." -Joel Robbins

"Where is that blasted park?!" -Me

"Excuse me sir, could you tell me where the park is?" -Me

"I think if you go to the end of this street and turn right you might hit on it. I don't know though--I haven't been there in twenty years!" -Nice Old Gentleman sitting in his front yard

Shadows

2007-01-06T15:02:00.000-08:00

"We live in the Shadowlands." --C. S. Lewis

A revelation--sudden as it is brief. Insistent as it grows in my mind--refusing to fall into the abiss of incomprehensibility. Just one sweet, painful moment of enlightenment among so many more of dull, dark ignorance. My mind falls back to the laborious, though painless existence of apathy. I cannot bear this nothing feeling for long. My heart longs to be fired by conviction, fired by joy, fired by love. Fired by God.

I love Mondays

2006-11-24T12:13:00.000-08:00

What a glorious day! Number 26 has just screached to a halt at the bus stop behind the Heiner center at Whatcom Community College. I sling my side-saddle pack over my shoulder, stand up warily and wave a cheery "Have a lovely day," to the driver. In a moment my shoes have touched pavement and I am on my way. There is nothing better than a Monday. I have just come from my tutor's warm kitchen where I spent the morning as usual studying wonderfully dreadful pre-calculous in the comfortable familiarity of her presence.

Now I march forth, back straight, head up into the next item on my schedule. Today I meet Sarah from ceramics class at 12:15 for coffee, sharing, and prayer under the stairs in Kulshan (our science center). Sarah is a lovely girl, full of passion for Christ, for life, and for service. After purchasing our drinks from the Dockside Cafe in the Student Center, we trudge off to our spot under the stairs and spend the better part of a half hour simply enjoying each other and God. Soon 1:00 is upon us and Sarah departs to her classes as I am joined by other dear friends.

Monday afternoon is the time for Christian girls from all over campus to convene in the very same spot, our spot under the stairs. Their for another half-hour, we share and pray before it is necessary for us to scamper off to classes. Mandy and I were the two that came up with the idea, and Mandy it was that provided the amount of attendees who faithfully arrive at 1:00. Our group currently is comprised of eight to ten girls most of which are new to Whatcom. Only three of us are returning students from last year. Our beliefs range wide in the spectrum of Christian churches, and yet we gather for the single object of encouragment, fellowship and dialogue with our Lord and Savior. In the face of the pagan world in which we have been called to study, nothing could be more wonderful than to rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep--just as we have been commanded. That little, dusty corner under the stairs acts as the hearth for the gospel to go forth in a very special way at Whatcom Community College. God has blessed us.

And now you know why I love Mondays.

Abolish sibling superiority!

2006-11-06T22:32:00.000-08:00

I hereby declare my dedication to the cause of the little people--namely younger siblings in general. I pledge to champion their rights, intelligence, and equality. Older siblings must recognise the plight of we underlings, and seek to bring us up--up to the dignity of responsibility. The Association for the Advancment of Younger People (AAYP) seeks to gain acknowledgment from elders of their human-hood and desires to impress upon them the truth that younger does not mean stupider. Give us respect, give us nurture and we will indeed cease to annoy, frustrate or defy you. We will instead become valuable friends and loving companions.

Yours for freedom and for fellowship,

Rebekah Reimers

"For he's a jolly good fellow..."

2006-10-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATHAN!

Many happy returns of this blessed day.

I talk too much...

2006-10-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

...so I'm letting other people put their oars in for once!

"Can I be used to help others find truth when I'm scared I'll find proof that its a lie?" --Nickel Creek, Why Should The Fire Die?

"Of all letters, the love letter should be the most carefully prepared. Among the written missives, they are the most thoroughly read and re-read, the longest preserved, and the most likely to be regretted in the afterlife." --Professor Thomas E. Hill, The Essential Handbook of Visctorian Etiquette

"Who makes the waters of my sorrow part and leads the gladness into my heart...its You." --Jaci Velasquez

"Men of sense don't want silly wives." --Mr. Nightly, Emma

"Winter must be cold for those who have no warm memories--we've already missed the Spring!" --Terry McKay, An Affair to Remember

"I heartily believe in equality of rights as between man and woman, but also in full and emphatic recognition of the fact that normally there cannot be identity of function. Indeed, there must normally be complete dissimilarity of function between them, and the effort to ignore this patent fact is silly." --Teddy Roosevelt

"They've eaten the baby!" --Nanny Wetstone, Nanny McPhee

"I did knock." --Nanny McPhee, Nanny McPhee

"The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." --Aslan, The Last Battle

"All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page; now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read; which goes on forever; in which every chapter is better than the one before." --C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle

"The Autumn can color me gold and the Winter can dress me in snow but its You I see, the timeless part of me. In the Springtime I'm young once again in the Summer I dance on the wind but its You I see, the timeless part of me." --Levi Kreis, Timeless

"BIG Z, little z, what begins with Z? I am a Zizzer Zazzer Zuz as you can plainly see!" --Dr. Seuss

"Its hard to stop a soprano--or was that a train?" --Gerald Rutgers

Thoughts of today

2006-10-11T18:52:00.000-07:00

Whatcom would be ever-so much more inspiring if it had a more dignified presence. The look of old buildings, the smell of old books, the sound of old, echoing halls would all roll themselves up and read themselves to my senses like a poem to the heart of a romantic schoolgirl.

I need Christ every minute.

The spring of work, of accomplishment feeds the stream of my joy. Now, more than ever, I realize that man was indeed created for the dignity of God-glorifying labor, and thus the joy of it all.

Bus drivers are often very nice dears.

The sleepy-eyed child of Summer seems to be struggling obstinately for wakefulness. It had a particularly lucid moment today. Blessed sunshine did indeed warm our bones, toes, and everything in between.

My brother shouldn't spend his hard-earned money so recklessly on me. I'm an accomplished consumer.

The hawker

2006-10-08T16:18:00.000-07:00

"I want to show you something," she said in a conspiratorial murmer, her eyes bright with the mischief we were foolish enough not to notice. A moment before we had been weaving our way warily through the crowds of shoppers in our very own Bellis Fair. What caused us to turn aside to sample her wares, you may wonder? Simply the pleasing sight of a smiling young woman innocently offering a dab of hand lotion to anyone who would accept its soothing smoothness. With an answering smile of acceptance, the dispensation of a small pat of lotion, and the ensuing delighted relief of weather-worn hands, we had been ensnared.

"I want to show you something," she said. Her voice was warm and delightfully tinted by the lilt of some unrecognizable eastern accent. In, in to the lare of the hawker we were drawn and there she began to weave her crafty spells upon we poor, unsuspecting gentle-folk.

"Have you ever been to Israel?" she asked, and looked enquiringly into first my mother's and then my eyes.

"No," said my mother

"No," said I.

And then it began. Perhaps we are more gullible than most people--more easily taken in. Or perhaps (this option being my preferred choice) she was more clever than most sales-creatures. I don't know which is more accurate, but I do know one concrete, undenyable fact: My mother was cajoled into paying $____.__ (amount witheld to protect privacy of persons involved) in exchange for the bane of every penny-pinchers life--stuff. The rest is a blurr in our befuddled memories. The next thing we knew, we were walking away from the hawker's hut with dazed expressions on our pitiable faces. All I could say was,

"She's brilliant!" and all my mother could say was,

"Haaaaaaah..." in a manner disturbingly like the oval-opening mouth of a fish out of water. Her eyes were glazing. I can only imagine that mine were over-bright with a strangly delirious tendency. We then began to mutter simultaniously something imcomprehensive about mud, the Dead Sea, and gypsies.

Thus was the wreck of our pocket-books. Oh that mortals may be spared such a fate!

Home?

2006-09-16T19:09:00.000-07:00

How many Rebekah's does it take to live a "normal" life? How many times can I divide myself on this life calculator before I mush into a thoughly mushy and incomprehensible decimal that rambles on with no meaning or purpose--something like 2.333333333333333333...

"There is always someone to miss-no matter where you are."
--Sarah, Plain and Tall

I wish I could send a piece of me everywhere I want to be--although if I were to be so unwise, I suspect that neither I nor any of my loved ones would receive full benefit or satisfaction from any ensuing actions I may undertake to accomplish. One does not want half a girl. Or a quarter of one for that matter. I don't know if God will ever grant me a place on this mission island we call earth that I can sink my toes into and call "home."

Home is overrated. It is distracting, has a terrible tendency to stand in the way of whole-hearted service to God (or progress of any kind), selfish--it has a shocking habit of taking priority when making decisions. It is also a very beautiful, warm and security-filled place where we are nurtured faithfuly by loving parents for the first two decades-or-so of our lives. Nevertheless, home is given its value by the people who dwell therein. Without this human element, home would be a hollow shell of emptiness, easily cast aside and exchanged for the excitement on a perpetually new horizon.

I would like to separate myself, not from the love of home, but from the need of home--from the desire of home. If I could free myself of this one finite need, perhaps I would be happier, and more effective as a child of God than I ever could have been clutching to the feeble, sinful cave I call home. This is a study in letting go. This is a study in trusting God with the very ground beneath my feet, the roof above my head. I want to say to God:

"Blow me on your wonderful, hurtful winds of change wherever I should go--just come with me all the way. I know you will come with me all the way."

In retrospect--

2006-09-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

For the sake of all those third graders who tell their Summer tails long-sufferingly on their first day back to school.

My Summer:

diversity...100%
excitment...80%
enjoyment...100%
enriching...95%
productivity...75%
accidents of a serious nature...0%
fatalities...0%
accidents of a trivial nature...80%
fatalities...0%
romance...5%
urbanity...95%
rurality...5%

A virtual picture diary of my Summer is to follow. Emphasis on "virtual."

I was born to be vibrant--

2006-08-05T12:01:00.000-07:00

Laugh at me--I'm whistling in the rain.
Look at me--I'm dancing through the pain.

I was born to be vibrant--

Simple, simple joy
So foolish, yet so wise
Reckless, reckless love
So carefree, yet so strong

I was born to be vibrant--

I used to cry in shame
Now tears flow & I am unafraid
I used to be giddy & empty
Now I laugh & am full

Look & see--what love has done to me
Take & taste--what food has made me free

I was born to be vibrant--

I am a thunderstorm personified;
Made by God
Electrified by God

I was born to be vibrant--

Sweet, sweet Christ--
You are water to my desert soul
Purest, purest Jesus--
Your love has loved me whole

I was born to be vibrant
But I was born depraved & dull
I was born to be vibrant
And love has made me so

At last, love has made me so

2006-07-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

Two adoring siblings.

2006-07-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

The entrance of Kenton

2006-07-20T10:58:00.000-07:00

The entrance of Kenton

2006-07-20T10:38:00.000-07:00

Another entry in my Auntie Book:

Kenton Douglas Miller
July 14, 2006
9 pounds
20 1/2 inches

Anxiety excitement, longing. The feeling of doom or expectation--like the stale quiet before a storm. A fateful Rook game that never was. A fateful mixed drink the existence of which unfortunately could not be doubted or denied. Torn between duty and an unnamed desire to know, to see, to feel. A long, hot day. The sun bearing down on a playground that served as the necessary distraction. The sun was to serve as a metaphor of a woman bearing down determinedly--giving a child safe passage--birth.

Two children: One wants a pink baby, the other no doubt would have chosen a blue one if he had been asked. They both were granted their wish. Kenton was blue, then he was pink. His mother objects to "Kenny." So do I. I shall call him Mr. Kenton for now. The baby sceams--no, he screaches. But he looks so sweet when he is sleeping. Long fingers, deep nail beds--manifestations of our Kenton. He is long all over.

The lil' clowns

2006-07-08T16:23:00.000-07:00

The sage speaks

2006-07-01T19:46:00.000-07:00

Yet another Joelism:

"Do you mind?" I asked audaciously, and giggled as I wiped my hands gleefully on Joel's shirt-sleeve. My hands were quite wet and grimy after my run-in with the depths of Davy Jones Locker you see.

"I don't mind," said the incorrigable fiend, and went on to explain, "ask my wife--she'll tell you that I never mind." His eyes twinkled in such a manner that I could not help but laugh.

Some days later this same gentleman informed me that he minds none but his mother.

Hmph. I don't believe a syllable of it, and neither should you.

Swing on--

2006-07-01T10:51:00.000-07:00

The backyard swing at the Robbins house in Penryn, CA.

Melissa Sweet

2006-06-27T13:30:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time
In a land where life is rhyme
Where breezes traverse
In the manner of verse
And dew-drops ever long
To be singing in their song
There lived a young maiden
With blessings full-laden
Her name was Melissa Sweet

Often in the summer glow
Her vassals saw her row
Down in the river
That ripples so clever
And trips with prideful notion
Far down to the ocean
Down from her bower
Above in a tower
Would row Melissa Sweet

Some called her foolish
Some rhymed her ghoulish
Because of her wishing
Down to go fishing
There in the sunlight
And even in moonlight
But those who knew her
Could do ought but woo her--
The fair Melissa Sweet

The tawdies who tattled
And through their teeth rattled
Would have been better
If they saw a letter
A writing in rhyme
Which told of the climb
The climb m'lady had ventured
Merely to visit the indentured
Outside the castle of Melissa Sweet

There was one thing however:
The thought of a lover
That caused her heart pain
Even causing the rain
To cry on that land
Where all was so grand
For long, long ago
When down in the lilies low
Rowed Melissa Sweet

She met a bold prince
Who, pausing to rinse
Had dipped in her pond
Of which she was fond
With just but one glance
She was caught in a trance
And never thereafter
Was heard the gay laughter
Or the smile of Melissa Sweet

Mayhap if you wander
Out in the wide yonder
You may see a fair maiden
With blessings full-laden
And grant her a wish:
That she may forever fish
Free of a bold prince
Who, pausing to rinse
Stole the smile of Melissa Sweet

Inspiration: Tennyson and Poe. Don't ask.

Quotes and Chronicles

2006-06-22T14:01:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, 21 June, 2006
10:25 p.m.
Penryn, CA

Quotes of Joel:

"Those dry heaves will get you every time."

"Church showers are very important because cleanliness is next to Godliness" (whispered confidingly into my startled ear).

A Mary Chronicle:

It was evening--that was evidenced by the bright, mystical glow of the many lamp-posts that were keeping their stations in a gratifyingly faithful manner, and also by the tell-tale sizzle of the many moths who blunderingly came to their pitiful ends after having been lured by a dreadful pest terminator contraption. Mary and I were looking out upon these things from inside the deck door with much curiosity in the frank, open manner of children.

Suddenly, the serenity of this idyllic scene was snapped in one cosmic moment. Mary was having a fit of some kind (I know because I have had many a fit in my long life), complete with thrashing arms, stomping feet, and over-exerted vocal chords. I hadn't decided whether she was especially happy, sad, frustrated , or merely insane when I heard her proclaim in a piercing voice, "A mosquito, a mosquito!" thus dispelling my ignorance and enlightening me to the true nature of the crisis at hand. Presently, Mary calmed considerably and informed me that there was indeed a mosquito in the house. I, needless to say, remained unaffected, unruffled etc. That is, until my darling neice warned me in a startling melodramatic tone:

"There's a mosquito on you--right there!" and pointed ominously at my shirt. How could I supress the prevailing impulse longer? I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances--I danced. Much to the satisfaction of my fiendish companion, who laughed.

The End

This crazy wonderful family of mine

2006-06-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

Pan: quotes from J.M. Barrie's tale

2006-06-11T14:24:00.000-07:00

"All children, except one, grow up."

"Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the others but himself, and he said happily: 'Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the end.'"

"'Wendy,' remonstrated Michael, 'I'm too big for a cradle.'
'I must have somebody in a cradle,' she said almost tartly, 'and you are the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a house.'"

"Next moment he was standing erect on the rock agian, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, 'To die will be an awfully big adventure.'"

"'He sighs,' said Smee.
"'He sighs again,' said Starkey.
'And yet a third time he sighs,' said Smee.
Then at last he spoke passionately.
'The game's up,' he cried, 'those boys have found a mother.'"

"'It is a princely scheme,' cried Hook, and at once it took practical shape in his great brain. 'We will seize the children and carry them to the boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and Wendy shall be our mother.' Again Wendy forgot herself. 'Never!' she cried, and bobbed."

"To see Peter doing nothing on a stool was a great sight; he could not help looking solemn at such times, to sit still seemed to him such a comic thing to do. He boasted that he had gone walking for the good of his health."

"When she sat down to a basketful of their stockings, every heel with a hole in it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim, 'Oh dear, I am sure I sometimes think that spinsters are to be envied!' Her face beamed when she exclaimed this."

"The bed was tilted against the wall by day, and let down at 6:30, when it filled nearly half the room; and all the boys slept in it, except Michael, lying like sardines in a tin. There was a strict rule against turning round until one gave the signal, when all turned at once."

"Then all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried, 'O Wendy lady, be our mother.'"

"'Curly,' said Peter in his most captainy voice, 'see that these boys help in the building of the house.'
'Ay, ay, sir.'
'Build a house?' exclaimed John.
'For the Wendy,' said Curly.
'For Wendy?' John said, aghast. 'Why, she is only a girl!'
'That,' explained Curly, 'is why we are her servants.'"

"'All I remember about my mother,' Nibs told them, 'is that she often said to my father, "Oh, how I wish I had a cheque-book of my own!" I don't know what a cheque-book is, but I should just love to give my mother one.'"

"Slightly was the first to speak. 'This is no bird,' he said in a scared voice. 'I think it must be a lady.'
'A lady?' said Tootles, and fell a-trembling.
'And we have killed her,' Nibs said hoarsely.
They all whipped off their caps.
'Now I see,' Curly said; 'Peter was bringing her to us.' He threw himself sorrowfully on the ground.
'A lady to take care of us at last,' said one of the twins, 'and you have killed her!'"

"In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared."

Tink was not all bad; or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be one thing or the other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a time."

"'Second to the right, and straight on till morning.' That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even birds, carrying maps and cosulting them at windy corners, could not have sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said anything that came into his head."

"'I say, how do you do it?' asked John, rubbing his knee. He was quite a practical boy.
'You just think lovely wonderful thoughts,' Peter explained, 'and they lift you up in the air.'"

"'I think,' she said, 'it is perfectly lovely the way you talk about girls; John there just despises us.'
For reply Peter rose and kicked John out of bed, blankets and all. This seemed to Wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and she told him with spirit that he was not captain in her house. However, John continued to sleep so placidly on the floor that she allowed him to remain there. 'I know you meant to be kind,' she said, relenting, 'so you may give me a kiss.'
For a moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses."

“The lateness of the hour was almost the biggest thing of all. She got them to bed in the pirates’ bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure; all but Peter, who strutted up and down on the deck, until at last he fell asleep by the side of Long Tom. He had one of his dreams that night, and cried in his sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tight.”

"It is a nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day."

"Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner."

“When Margaret [Wendy’s granddaughter] grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter’s mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.”

These quotes, taken from one of the grandest books ever written by the pen of man, must be sufficient testimony to the truth of the matter. Who am I to expound on a work so near perfection?

Fears of Spring

2006-05-17T18:52:00.000-07:00

The sun is beginning to seep its gently insistent warmth into our bones. Shorts have ressurected from the sad graves of long-forgotten corners in our drawers. Freckles have once again made their unapolagetic presence known after months of hybernation. There is a lazy haziness about everyone--students and teachers alike; who could resist loitering a few minutes longer under the comforting rays of God's natural greenhouse?

To quote the bard: "Ah, there's the rub!" There are only a few things that I can truly say that I fear. Really, honestly fear. For your enjoyment, the following list has been provided:

-Bees (Not honeybees--wasps. I'm getting over this one. Slowly.)
-Darkness (Sometimes. This one always depends on circumstances.)
-Being alone (I have found that for the benefit of my mental health and general well-being, I should avoid aloneness as much as possible.)

Now for the killer:

-Apathy. Dullness. Luke-warmness. Lack of inspiration. Lack of passion. Lack of motivation. Lack of joy. Lack of God.

This is my ultimate and extreme fear. I fear boredom and sulleness. My breath catches in my chest in the utter pain of frustration at the mere thought of such a dreadful state of being. God has not called me to be dull, lifeless, boring. God has made me vibrant, and I will grow more so every day of my life-- so help me God.

Spring has brought on an epidemic of restless non-productivity. The prime topic of conversation among students at WCC is as follows:

-Summer plans, and oh how dreadfully unmotivated I have become academically.

People are bemoaning their lack of dedication during this infuriatingly beautiful season. We alternate between bubbly, upbeat playfulness during weekends and supposed "study time," and complete dulness in the classroom. Scores of good folks are taken to sun-bathing--I included. We say to ourselves, "I'll sit out in the sun and do some homework for a while."

Somehow it just doesn't happen that way. As soon as the seat of my pants hit turf, I'm lost. Taken captive by the distracting beauty surrounding me. Who can read their Poly-Sci textbook when weighted down by the softly suffocating, intoxicating loveliness of nature?

But then guilt inevitably comes. Like the grim reaper he persists in wounding us with much-needed, enlivening conviction. The moment of reckoning comes like a sweet, however painful, rebirth. Thank God He does not leave us wandering restlessly with every breeze that blows for too long. He steps in and severs unhealthy, maddening, deadening complacency from our wayward hearts.

Perhaps this season of frustration serves as a prod to wake us up to the realization of our humanity once again. This trial too shall pass, and when it does it shall leave behind a more beautiful, more vibrant me behind.

Oh Brighter Lord!

Ever brighter I shall grow--
Brighter still till all of me is aglow.
Who can abide the sullen dullness of sin,
When the light of His glorious person calls you in?

Closer to His arms I shall fly--
Till all else fades in my besotted eye.
His charms have wooed me sweetly,
I can do none other than fly to Him fleetly.

Always wrapped in His cloak I shall hide--
Till all covered and hidden is my pitiful pride.
All you can see of me,
Is the glory of Christ reflected and free.

Sanctified evermore, I shall be--
Till in the rapture of glory, His faithful face I see.
No more to chasten shall He appear,
Rather to glory in the now perfected bride who has shed all her fear.

My dearest

2006-05-14T21:40:00.000-07:00

What I have to say has already been said beautifully by my big brother in Bosnia. Thank you Nathan for your blessedly concise, heartfelt words. Oh how I love you!

Like my brother, I love my Mother. She is my role-model, my confidant, my counselor, my comforter, my friend. She possesses wisdom by many, many more years of experience than I. She has learned to love each of her children as the individuals they are. She loves them each the same, and each differently. She stretches herself beyond the limits of human possibility. She abandons her human tendency to serve her own needs in favor of serving ours instead. Who am I ever to judge her? Who am I ever to rebuke her? I, who am so frail, so brittle, so very hard to bend. She is the epitome of flexibility and grace. God bless her as we do. Or rather, may we bless her as God will surely do. And has. And does. Amen.

Praise God that His wisdom saw it fitting to create mothers. He didn't have to. But He did nevertheless.

Jounal entry

2006-04-23T16:39:00.000-07:00

April 23, 2006
Sunday
1:12 p.m.

Not a cloud remains to dare try obscuring the view. The "vista." Their season of triumph has passed and they now retreat--acknowledging defeat. Our Creator has once again allowed dear Pan to enter the stage of our charmed lives. Our hearts are full now. His grace has filled them with joy that exceeds all limits. His majestic mountain stands as ever, the symbol of veracity. The symbol of faithfulness. God could not have manifested his nature more clearly than in the ever-present mountain. The mountain that changes never. Beside it, Baker's sisters gaze, as lovely as ever in their sweet simplicity, upon our valley here below. They seem to smile on us, challenging our petty worries and squabbles, with all-knowing, quiet joy. They are so still. Yet they are bursting with vitality nevertheless. I wonder now, whether they can resist just dancing a little bit. Our valley is humming with the innocent, wondrous activity of Spring. Sometimes in my fanciful mind, I wonder if perhaps the mountains are skipping with the pure joy of it all, each time I look away. Perhaps if I look long enough, they will not be able to bear the stillness, and begin to dance, despiting my curiously impertinent gaze.

Bless the Lord, Oh my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name!

I am beautiful!

2006-04-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and gay--and I pity any girl who isn't meee toooooday..." -Maria

Well. So I suppose I owe you all a sufficiently reassuring explanation for my oddity of a title. Never fear, I shall oblige. Perhaps not quite so fully as you would like, or with so great abandon as you would wish.

Congratulate me! For as of Tuesday, 20 April, 2006, I have suddenly, instantaneously, and quite miraculously, become beautiful, unique, quite bright, and very pious. That is, I am all these things if indeed the word of charming seventeen-year-old gentlemen in general may be given credibility. Enough said. Let me assure you all that I hardly attribute all these scintillating qualities to myself.

Fret not, this too shall pass. As too, shall the young gentleman in question, once I turn him down with as much kindness and tact as I can muster.

Come see the grand opree!

2006-03-22T22:40:00.000-08:00

Well! Are you ready for some prime entertainment? Come see me perform along with Anna in the musical, "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." We are merely dancing and singing in the chorus, however the entire show is sure to be a smash! Do join us won't you?

Just go to this cite and get the scoop! Don't forget to order tickets if you want a relatively good seat. Otherwise you may be able to buy tickets at the door and aquire some acceptable, but not so prime positions. I can't wait to see y'all there!

Who are you waiting for?

2006-03-08T22:06:00.000-08:00

Our soul waits for the Lord; He is our help and our shield. For our heart shall rejoice in Him, Because we have trusted in His holy name. Let Your mercy, O Lord, be upon us, just as we hope in You. Psalm 33:20-22

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in His word I do hope. My soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning--I say more than those who watch for the morning.
Psalm 130:5,6

So. Who are you waiting for? Oh my dear sisters, I could probably make an educated guess with regards to your day-dreams on this topic. If they are anything like my own that is. He wears armour that gleams in the sunlight as he rides toward your waiting and outstretched arms on his milk-white steed. Perhaps he will swoop down from the magnificent animal's back and kneel at your feet, begging for the favor simply to kiss your fair fingertips.

I delight in day-dreams, fantasies, pink clouds and the like. What true girl hasn't at one time? However, somehow I think there must be something better for me to accomplish in this world than elaborately spun yarns concerning my beloved Prince Charming. Let's face it, far too often, we daughters of God lose our vision for His glory in masses of billowing pink clouds. Ever-so-beautiful pink clouds, but clouds nonetheless. You know them: big, puffy, foggy, muddlingly confusing, disorienting, pink fluff.

God says, "wait for Me," not "wait for the dude on the white horse, he's totally hot." God says, "delight yourself also in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." Emphasis on "delight yourself...in the Lord." What must it be like to truly delight in the Lord? It sounds to be a state of being so very far beyond my knowledge or ability to achieve. Yet God commands it. It is a glorious imperitive, one that I desire to fulfill, however unattainable it may seem.

God says through David, "My soul waits for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning." Have I ever desired God so intensly that I would wait for Him more than for the relieving pink of a morning sky after a sleepless night? Have you? Prince Charming may not be a reality for you right now. He isn't a reality for me. God is. He always has been, He always will be. God is for always.

The question of college

2006-02-16T17:25:00.000-08:00

To go or not to go...

...that seems to be the question among many Christians today. Should Christian youth, seeking to serve God and know His will for their lives, even consider attending universities in this corrupted, secular world? I have been running into this question repeatedly, and I think it is one that needs to be addressed by all. My decision to post on this subject was aided when I came across a post by a young woman named Meg whose aquaintance I have never had the pleasure of making! Visit her post here to read my inspiration. You will find it dated Tuesday, January 24, 2006.

I am a student at Whatcom Community College. I am attending this school because I believe God would have me excell in knowledge and the ability to discern truth, not to mention the ability to communicate effectively. College seemed to me to be the most logical place for a person such as I--on the verge of exiting the academic realm (if it is permissable to use such lofty terms for high school)--to pursue these goals.

The realization that college certainly in not for everyone, and that many have successfully lived productive, God-honoring lives without it, has made itself clear to me. However, I would like to challenge those persons who are afraid to set foot in the door of a college classroom for fear of contamination to rethink their stance. Many seem afraid that to analyze, consider, and learn the beliefs of others will cause them to be confused about their own--perhaps even cause them to abandon their own. I reply: this is a fearful and, dare I say it, lazy attitude. If competency among Christian youth in the area of apologetics is lacking, then perhaps we should be focusing inward at our own spiritual dullness. Istead of shutting ourselves off from the world, perhaps we should be prying the bushel from off the top of the light, stoking the flame into renewed brightness, and showing it for all the world to see.

Speaking of lights: college for me is a daily mental, and spiritual excersize in doing just that--shining my light. College to me is not a place of stagnant, shortsighted acceptance of all things socially acceptable. College is not to me a time of falling away, but a time of strengthening. How can one be "in the world, but not of the world" if one refuses to confront the world? All my life I have lived in a wonderful, nurturing, Christian atmosphere. I have had a Christian home, with a Godly mother who undertook my early education. I have had a strong, Bible-believing church, and of course, Christian friends. Now, while still reserving the comfort, shelter, and guidance of these strongholds, I have ventured out into "the great beyond." At last, I am challenged to manifest Christ as I have never been challenged before. I ask myself the question daily, "Do they see Christ in me? How am I different from my classmates, instructors, peers?"

I realize that my arguments thus far have been based around my own personal fallible experience. I also know for a certainty that many who read this will have very different stories to tell regarding this subject. However, I believe that college is in many respects, a truly missunderstood concept among devout people. I merely seek to incite discussion. Therefore, do not hesitate to make your voice heard!

As a commentator on the previously mentioned blog posting explained,

"I think attending college can also be a means to strengthen our faith, and it gives us an opportunity to realize why we believe what it is that we believe. I'm not saying we need to purposefully surround ourselves with temptations on all sides, but we need to know where we stand. We are told to be in the world yet not of it, and I think a lot of times Christians shut themselves off so much from the world, to the point where they and their children become naive about it's realities. At the same time we are called to be light, but how can we let our light shine if we shut ourselves up all the time? This is just a thought, but maybe part of the reason college campuses are so anti-Christian is because we haven't done our part in getting out and speaking out? Of course if we withdraw compeletely from the college campus, it is going to be swimming in a swamp of ugly, worldy ideas with no answers and no direction."

Cassie--this may sound cliche, sorry--you literaly repeated some of the exact points I made when discussing this issue with a friend no more than three days ago! Thank you for your concise eloquence!

New York charm

2006-02-04T23:53:00.000-08:00

Thanks for sending the pictures Sarah...

"...and they all lived happily ever after, as it were."

*************************

The Shades Show

"Hi guys! Welcome to the Shades Show!"

"Wanna sing a song, Katie?"

"'L' is for the way you look at me...'O' is for the only one I see..."

"Tune in next time for the Shades Show on the Super Shades Network!"

The Second Love

2006-01-25T20:55:00.000-08:00

This was an assigned poem for my Literature--I thought it turned out splendidly actually. I said what I meant to say, in the way I meant to say it. We were required to present our poems in class on Tuesday. Needless to say, that experience was positively thrilling. (!!!)

P.S. It isn't suppose to ryhm, just in case you were wondering. It is a "list poem."

The Second Love

The strains of “Beautiful Dreamer” are floating down the alley, played by an amateur violinist.

Debussy is dancing his way across the ivories in the concert hall on Main.

The eloquent echoes of forefathers long passed are ringing in my ears, and “Give me liberty, or give me death!” in all its thunder, continues to resonate through all of our souls.

Life tastes sweet to me here on Liberty Street.

In the harbor a lady stands, stately and majestic in her glory, she is ushering in the boats of a host of foreign searchers, searchers who must find their hearts desire.

Black, white, red, yellow—they all come with vision, and are welcomed by the lady’s beacon of glory, and book of truth.

Far beyond human knowledge was a land yet untried, yet untamed—in the imagination of men’s hearts it was bursting with blessings unbounded.

The call of the unknown became irresistible to the searcher—he must continue on in boldness of purpose—or die in restless curiosity.

The deafening sound of leave-taking rose up in the East; westward ho, the forty-niners go, on to the bitter brightness of the coast.

What can be said of these relentless wanderers?

What is this passion so strong as to tear them away from every warm hearth of familiarity?

It is that which continues to urge our feet forward, not now in conquest, but in a quest born of the freedom fires in our veins,

It is that status as the guardian of liberty that has led infantry to foreign fields of bloody battle, there to fight for freedom with every breath breathed.

It was by that same spirit that the dreadful swastika was destroyed in fire and brimstone.

It was by that same spirit that the Saddam statue fell.

And it is by that same spirit that we continue on, here in the land of the free, living out our lives as conscience dictates.

Up the marble steps go my eager feet; up the steps and through the foyer, they lead me, finally coming to rest as I settle in a mahogany bench.

There is a window here, the panes of which are colored and collected into a kaleidoscope of brilliance; the form of a lamb is visible in its pattern, and my eyes trace its fleece lovingly.

The organ swells, the people sing praise to the peak of a loud crescendo—and then all is quiet.

The preacher begins with a prayer, and all present have faith that the Lord of all is there.

The people have no fear of penalty or persecution—that which their forebears have borne.

They live in a land where faith is honored, and not punished, is worn proudly, and not hidden in the darkness of midnight masses.

Here is the haven where no tyrant may penetrate.

Here is the haven where dreamers dream unstintingly, and with greater abandon then ever elsewhere.

Out of love and devotion was this haven born.

Out of faith and fealty to the Master was it established.

So it is that by the workings of the first love has the second been given life.

My soul comprehends that suppressed, yet sacred phrase, “one nation under God.”

This is the second love, offspring of the holy first.

This is the first love made manifest—that firm foundation upon which this haven was built—thus the first love gives birth, then life, and then growth forevermore to that second love, so precious.

Musings on a midnight shuttle-bus

2006-01-10T20:18:00.000-08:00

~The Something Chronicles~
By Bekaboo, Markie, and most recently, Annabell.

Bekaboo: I am going to tell you a story my dear boy--one which surely must be told.

Once upon a time, there was a Something. This something was not your average, ordinary something. On the contrary, he was as different as he could be. Thus he was sufficiently diverse for your average, everyday human. However, I probably shouldn't have mentioned humans, for they are relatively rare in the world of Somethings and therefore do not enter this story very much.

As I was saying, this Something was quite different from all the other Somethings in his neighborhood. As a matter of fact, he was down-right anomalous. He stood a full twelve inches in his socks, and was almost as wide as he was tall.

Markie: Before you stop and just assume that this Something was Spongebob Squarepants, be assured that he was nothing of the sort. On the contrary, most who have caught a rare glimps of him have reported mistaking him for Humpty Dumpty. Indeed though, for as much as he resembled other special and famous Somethings, such as Squarepants and Dumpty, his uniqueness rested not in anything so obvious as his size and shape.

Bekaboo: On the day of this Something's birth, his mother (who was a very nice, upstanding sort of Something to be sure) finished weaving the Trans-Tower Tapestry. This truly was a momentous day, for this very nice, upstanding Something had been weaving the Trans-Tower Tapestry every day since her tenth birthday.

Markie: In that first year of her work, she began with a single yellow strand which, oddly enough, she had pulled from the fringe of her neighbor's Something-shawl. Before her Something-son's eleventh birthday she had proceeded to make a curious pattern, extending into a dramatic oval around her center yellow thread. By the time our hero turned twenty-one, the Trans-Tower Tapestry was the best-kept secret in Somethity, their hometown.

Bekaboo: A secret I say, because no ordinary Something eye could pierce the shroud of pure, clear, translucent fog surrounding the TT Tapestry. Thus, its beauty was withheld from the citizens of Somethity, and all went about their pleasant Something lives, untouched by this secret. For what a Something does not know cannot hurt them--or so "they" say.

It had long been rumored among the great seers of the surrounding region (which the Somethings called Thingamy) that some wonderful and even perhaps, fantastical force of good held Thingamy in a perpetual state of content and goodwill.

Annabell: This wonderful state of harmony began right about the time that the TT Tapestry began to be woven in all its intricacy. Nobody knew why or how this feeling of peace began or how it was maintained--but our hero Something had a suspicion that the weaving had Something to do with it.

Picture of the Year

2005-12-28T08:56:00.000-08:00

The Katie and I (will you check out that puss)

Martin

2005-12-08T18:57:00.000-08:00

Today I watched as young man carried out his tasks on the velvet lawn of a local
business.
In his hands he held a modern tool of convenience--a weed whip is what
they call it.
Meticulously, he trimmed around the edges of the grass, and as he
did so a strange thing occured.
No longer was the industrious young man grasping
the fuel-run machine.
It had quite simply transformed into the rustic-but-comely
form of a scythe.
The gardener was swinging its blade smoothly across the surface of the unruly ground.
The grass now had lost its unnaturally smooth finish, it grew with a look of greater wildness--yet still with an aura of civilization and dignity.
The man by now had changed considerably as well.
The hoody that had formerly ensconsed him was now replaced with a rough cotton shirt overlaid by a shabby overcoat.
He seemed to have aged approximately ten years, and yet his eyes appeared a good deal brighter, and more lively to be sure.
I have since decided that it must have been Martin.
His look was so very wholesome that you couldn't help liking him from the start. And that is just precisely how I always knew Martin would be.
So there you have it.
It certainly was him, and there is an end on it.

"Over the ground lies a mantle of white..."

2005-11-29T06:02:00.000-08:00

Oh joy!

Last night the first bold snowflakes flew with determination into my unsuspecting face as I exited 1st Christian Reformed Church. I was so impressed by the vigor of their appearance that I was struck with a sense of the mere joyfulness of the occasion.

This morning I peeked out my still dark window to discover that a mantle of white was indeed lying over the ground! It is beautiful, the quarter is almost over, and I am one very happy girl.

The very first snow of the season. Oh let it snow! And it isn't December quite yet either. ¡Es mui bonita!

"Sleigh bells ring! Are you listening--in the lane the snow is glistening, its a beautiful sight, we're happy tonight..."

this little girl

2005-11-18T18:48:00.000-08:00

"Toy land, toy land,
Little girl and boy land,
Once you cross its borders
You may never return again."

Today is my birthday. Today I am eighteen...and somehow, I am sad. But also glad. Now at last I am no longer play-acting. Could it be? Am I really grown up? I think I have been playing at woman-hood all my life--but I never knew it. Sweet sixteen is now so far away, so very long ago. Some voice within me speaks--whispering urgently to me, it says, "Stop, cherish, remember!" It tells me that now is the time. It is time to reflect, time to record. I must not forget--I must remember this day, this age, this feeling. For it will never return. It cannot. For all children must grow up--that is the tragedy of it...

...and the beauty.

Trusting

2005-10-26T06:23:00.000-07:00

Today is the day. At 2:45 on the dot, I will be sitting down to an hour long mid-term exam in my Spanish classroom. In fact, I should be studying for it now. I just had to ask for some support before I go for it. At this point I'll be happy to get a C. But anything higher will be much appreciated. Wait a minute, sounds like I'm puting in an order to a catalogue company!

Just pray if you please. If you happen to think of me, just pray. One truth that has really come to bear upon me in the past weeks: no matter how long and hard I study, no matter how hard I try in the "hour of trial", I would always fail if it weren't God who was allowing my brain to work in a sufficiently logical and clear manner. If He wasn't calming my anxiety every time I sit down to an exam, I would be on the verge of depression by this point. He's teaching me to trust Him, like I've never had to trust Him before. Praise the Lord!

Today will be a momentous challenge, so please pray with me. God will hear, and work all things to His glory and my good. That's more than I could ever hope for otherwise.

Thank you my friends, and go with God!

storytelling~the lost legacy

2005-10-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

Exerpt from a recent essay:

With books beginning to record the old tales, and now television and movies having become the primary source of entertainment, storytelling has become somewhat of a lost art. But in my imagination, I can still hear the lyric sound of the old peddler's melodic voice, as it rose and fell on the tide of heroic deeds, terrible tragedies, and a joyful "happily ever after"...

...One member of the family reads, and others act as the listening audience. Let us zoom in as it were to the brain of a child as he is sitting in rapt attention to his mother's voice. We will call him Max. There is a constant frenzy of activity as Max establishes the scene in his minds eye. Each character is formulated, and to a certain extent created masterfully as the lively sound of his mother's voice relates dialogue, descriptions, and narrative. Her voice at times is hushed to a mere whisper as great and marvelous wonders are communicated. Her eye beomes sparked with fire as she dives into a tirade of heated dialogue, and Max's heart drops in dread--for those same beloved eyes have grown dull with remorse as the hero is broken in sadness. At last, as the final triumphant verbal trumpet has been sounded, the leather cover is closed softly. Max, heaving a deep sigh of contentment, leaves his former post at his mother's feet, stands, stretches, then wraps dovout arms around her neck, and says cheerily, "G'night mummy."

Please pardon the lack of context--most of you are no doubt scratching your heads, pulling your ears, and commiting all sorts of other horrid outrages. I accept the blame for this utterly and completely. The above passages are simply two from my most recent essay for English 101, and they happen to be very dear to my heart. I am rather proud of them you see.

Psalter Hymnal #394

2005-10-10T21:34:00.000-07:00

Spirit of God, dwell thou within my heart;
Wean it from earth, through all its pulses move;
Stoop to my weakness, mighty as thou art,
And make me love Thee as I ought to love.

I ask no dream, no prophet ecstasies,
No sudden rending of the veil of clay,
No angel visitant, no opening skies;
But take the dimness of my soul away.

Didst Thou not bid us love Thee, God and King?
All, all Thine own: soul, heart, and strength, and mind.
I see the cross--there teach my heart to cling;
O let me seek Thee and O let me find!

Teach me to feel that Thou art always nigh;
Teach me the struggles of the soul to bear;
To check the rising doubt, the rebel sigh;
Teach me the patience of unanswered prayer.

Teach me to love Thee as Thine angels love,
One holy passion filling all my frame--
The baptism of the heaven-descended Dove;
My heart an altar, and Thy love the flame.

~George Croly, 1854

I would give almost anything to have been the author of this transcendant poem. I cannot help but feel that it was written for me exclusively--but then there are many about which I feel the same. Lord, "take the dimness of my soul away"! "Wean it [my heart] from earth...one holy passion filling all my frame...my heart an altar, and Thy love the flame"!

Big woman on campus? (Haha)

2005-09-22T06:27:00.000-07:00

Hola!

As of Monday, I am officially, a college miss. Thus I retain the envyable title of "freckle-faced, romantic school-girl." I can't believe that this is my fourth day of classes, and I have not as yet made any mention of this momentous happening! People will begin to wonder about me...

I am adjusting to college life very nicely I think. Although, I can't be certain of seeing anyone I know on any given day, so sometimes its a bit lonely at lunch time. My ever-so-loyal best friends were not able to accompany me in this new phase, therefore I "am a lone reed". (Meg Ryan, You've Got Mail) =)

English 101 challenges me--that's good.
Spanish 101 confuses me--that's bad. (no comprendo)
History 103 ...makes the joints in my right hand hurt very much.

God is being faithful as I knew He would be. His mercies are truly new each morning! I would never have been brave enough for college without Him. So...PTL!

Goodness!

2005-09-19T08:04:00.000-07:00

Life is good.

Now, I know how debatable that statement is, but I truly have a firm belief in the goodness of life. Now I realize that there is "none good, no not one", and I also am aware that this world is full of sin and evil. I am made more aware of that tragic fact every day of my life as I struggle against temptation. I don't have to mention the sorts of things you hear every time you turn on the news.

My validation, my proof, my confidence that life is good stems from one unbreakable truth:

God is good. He is the essence of "good". He is the epitome of righteousness, holiness, justice, love. He is the only one who possesses these attributes perfectly.

Because He is good, he created a good world. And it is still good, even after the taint of sin. The rain still falls in torrents, the sun still dazzles with every rise and set, the moon is still romantic as it bathes us in silver light. If that is not sufficient proof, consider this:

The beauty of Christian fellowship as we gather for worship each Sunday, relationships full of love and commitment, the ability of the human mind to study, to learn, to excel, the cry of a new-born child into this world, honest labor, the glory of the seasons, the alarm clock that awakens you insistantly each morning, food, individuality, humor that sends you to the floor gasping for air, the richness of time spent in God's Word, times when we pour out our souls to Him in the closet...I could continue this list all day...

All of these things are good, and beautiful, and we revel in the rich joy of it all every day of our blessed lives. And there is one reason for it all. God gave us these things to show us His goodness. God created man to enjoy Him. And in all these things we ought to be recognising that fact. We ought to be enjoying Him. This is such a glorious thought, could it get any better? But it does.

I heard an illustration taken from Spurgeon this summer, my newest brother used it in a sermon. No doubt I am paraphrasing:

An old, pitiful, pauper of a woman, huddled in a corner with a little crust of bread, and she is saying rapturously, "I have Christ, and all this too!" That is enjoying God. And if we don't say that after surveying all the richness of our lives (see above), we're some poor excuse for Christians. We have Christ, because His love is so great, that He gave Himself up so that He could save this world full of base, cruel-hearted people (us). This is so glorious!

In view of all these things, it needs to be said, that our good lives should be reminding us hourly of the love of Christ, of His goodness, and consequently we can enjoy Him in everything. You know as in, "Hallelujah!". We have Christ, and all this too. Ayyymen!!

This is so exciting, it fuels my life, my motivation, me!

New York Chronicle VI (P.S. as it were)

2005-09-15T21:57:00.000-07:00

I have been remiss in relating to you one of the most thrilling, and momentous happenings of my sojourn in New York, and therefore I must beg the forgiveness of the several people from whom I have recieved complaints. Yes, I know that I have surprised you. After all, this blog has been entirely taken over in the past months with the business of relating my New York experiences. How could I possibly have more to say? Brace yourselves.

I began Chronicle number IV with every intention of mentioning this little trifle--but somehow managed to become carried away on the tide of my delight in expressing so many other things. I will now do so:

Manhattan. Yes the very same city the wonders of which so many singers have sung, so many writers have written. It is all that you have heard--and much, much more. In the harbour, a great lady stands, the simble of our liberty, watching in proud silence the thriving business of The City. She seems a guard of sorts--but a defiant one, daring any to try and extinguish the flaming torch in her hand. A massive bronze bull is in the square on Wall Street. Intimidating to say the least. Little Italy is enchanting--there are resturants everywhere, and they almost always spill out onto the sidewalk. China Town is a bit of a shock, suddenly signs are written in Chinese characters, and you feel as if you just stepped into downtown Hong Kong. The Brooklyn Bridge has a special place in my heart. Built at the turn of the last century, its great, slightly pointed arches and sweeping lines are simply exquisite.

Now, let us pause for a moment as I take a deep breath.

There is one thing I wanted to do. There is one thing I wanted to do very, very much. I went to see a Broadway show. No. I went to see a Broadway Musical! Never did I dream that I would be given such a grand opportunity--but there it is, my program sitting demurely on my dresser at this very moment to bear witness that it truly did happen. A dear lady with a fabulous New York accent (one of the elders wives), purchased tickets for Sarah and I when she discovered towards the end of my stay that I enjoyed theatre. We took the train into the city and dissembarked at Penn Station. As we emerged from the semi-dim depot and up into the light of day, my first sight was tall buildings. Everywhere. Very tall buildings. I couldn't keep the smile of delight from stretching my face. We walked to Broadway, the stretch of street that harbors many historic theatres, and made our way to the entrance of the New Amsterdam Theatre. Very historic. Extreemly breathtaking. We walked through the long foyer, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from the stunning portraits that lined both walls. Picture after picture of famous stage entertainers of the past greeted my reverent gaze. Wonder piled upon wonder as at last I entered the theatre itself. The sight that greeted my eyes was simply stunning. Everywhere I looked I saw frescos, carvings, paintings--the walls and ceiling were covered with them. When I got over my initial amazement, I was able to notice a large balcony, an even larger pit, and several boxes on each side. Someday I'll get a box seat. As it was, Mrs. Warnock had aquired for us third row seats on the left side. Outragiously wonderful.

The show was the hit musical, "The Lion King". Lets just say, I'm spoiled for life. I'll never be able to appreciate a high school production in quite the same way. *Ahem* It was world class. And brilliant, and one of the most enjoyable of any trivial experience I have ever had. The singing was out of this world, as was the dancing, acting, etc. The actors actually traveled to Africa to study how to move like animals. I thought initially that I might see a guy in a lion suit running around stage roaring idiotically. I couldn't have been more wrong. It was way beyond what I could ever have imagined. I wish somehow I could get inside your minds and show it to you like a slide show. There is really no way to communicate such a phenominon.

I hope that in some way you may have caught a glimmering of the glory of this experience. If you did then perhaps there is hope for me as a writer after all. Loves!

New York Chronicle: Issue V [over & out]

2005-08-24T07:18:00.000-07:00

The sweetest thing
I have ever known:
A little pixie face
peeking out in glee
from the folds of a
giant bath-towel.

The greatest thing
I have ever known:
A face and heart upraised
in passionate devotion
to the Lord of Lords.

The loveliest thing
I have ever known:
contentment and
submission in duty
and in love.

It has been one of those times. When you stand back helplessly, simply because you know there is nothing you can do. You stand back and watch amid the fuss and flurry, and you feel as if your heart is preparing to walk out of the door, and board a plain bound for a destination beyond the bounds of your ability to
retrieve.

We have said the last goodbyes. They have gone. And somehow, I felt that I should have been there. There in that truck, squeezed once again between those two car seats, reading about a goldfish for the entertainment of the dearest children alive.

The past two months were possibly the best spent of my life, and yet looking back, I only wish that somehow I could have squeezed even more out of every minute. I'll never stop thanking God for this time. I'll never stop thanking God for life. For breathe. For intellect. For relationships. For peace. For passion. For goodness. And most of all, for the love of Christ.

And now it is all up to me. It is a frightening thought. But nonetheless true. It is up to me to take what I have learned, to take the abundance of wise words bestowed upon me, and follow on. Follow on to know God.

"Then you shall know, if you follow on to know the Lord, His going forth is prepared as the morning, and He shall come as the rain, as the latter and former rain upon the earth." ~Hosea 6:3

Follow on day by day in patience, pleasure, perseverance, passion. Till at the end I will have the glorious words proclaimed triumphantly over me, "She has not wasted it!"

Go with God my friends.

New York Chronicle: Issue IV

2005-08-07T12:37:00.000-07:00

The Big Apple (as it were).

New York, New York. Or to be more specific: Manhattan. There is no place on earth that is quite like it. From performing artists on the street, to cab drivers who will virtually run you down if you don't watch you back, to some of the tallest buildings in the world towering above you in seemingly austere loftiness. Have you ever seen such a congestion of humanity? People everywhere, you are truly carried down the street by the mere force of the mob. Have you ever tried driving the wrong way on the freeway? Neither have I. But battling upstream in a crowd of New Yorkers is about as bad.

Despite what you hear about the coldness, "savvy", and suave attitudes of New Yorkers, I have found them to be remarkably warm and sincere people. And I mean sincere. They are what you might call vibrant. They are very much alive and thriving, and (believe it or not) caring. Now I hesitate to throw a blanket statement out into the void about these "wonder people". It is true that New Yorkers are insanely busy, and probabely most ailments here are caused by the essence of that little word, stress. And yes, New York drivers are outragiously reckless.

Having lived here has made me appreciate the country much more than I ever could have. But something irreversable has ocurred here. New York State had found its way into my heart so thoroughly, that for the rest of my life it may be nesessary to identify myself as a New Yorker. There is such contrast and stark differences in this one state of the Union. Consider Manhattan, the five boroughs, and then turn eastward and see Long Island in all its beauty. And then to shock you further, look upstate at the miles of lush farmland, and the heart of Mennenite territory.

There is a tremendous amount of cultural diversity in this place. Franklin Square OPC is a prime example of the good old melting pot. There are at least three or four Asian families, there are members from the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, India, many Italians, and quite a few African Americans. Pastor Shishko himself is Greek. Coming from Dutch Town, USA, myself has little prepared me for such a phenominon. But I can tell you truly that it is absolutely fabulous meeting and getting to know all these very different people. It is one thing to throw all these cultures together into a group--you can imagine the results. But to have Christians, children of God, saved by grace of so many different backgrounds contained in this one church "produces vibrations" (as it were). I can't get away from that wonderful word, vibrant. It seems to sum it up more eloquantly than I ever could. Never have I heard so many amen's uttered so furvently in a Reformed congregation. (If I ever heard them at all that is.) Never have I seen such an passionate responce to the gospel preached faithfuly week after week. Never have I been so challenged, so motivated to not only persevere, but to live a life above the ordinary, beyond the call of duty, past the bounds of mere comfort and security.

Needless to say, I will be dreadfully sad to leave this place. God was so good to bring me here. He was so good to give me a new brother like Ben Miller, a sister like Sarah, a niece like Katie, a nephew like Andrew. I have learned so much just by having lived as a member of their little family for a season. In Sarah's case it still baffles my mind, how a woman who helped to raise me from infant to teenager, is now so gracious as to recognise me, her baby sister, as a woman, as an equal. I only hope that I will be a friend to my nieces and nephews when they are grown. Ben has shown me how wonderful it is to be a part of a household that is under the guardianship, the guidance, and the spiritual leadership of a man of God. He has encouraged me and challenged me as no person ever has to excel, to push onward and upward, to not waste my life.

There is so much more to be said, so many wonders that have not as yet been communicated. Please be patient and bear with my slowness, and sad neglect of you my dear friends. There is more to come.

New York Chronicle: Issue III

2005-07-21T20:06:00.000-07:00

Burnt and festering!

Have you ever seen what the sun can do to two fair, freckled, women? Particularly when those same two women are not particularly conscientious in their use of the sunscreen bottle. Ach! Will not I ever learn? Must I always remain so foolish a mortal?

Tuesday, 19 July, 2005. The fatal day of our destruction. We went to Jones Beach, on the south shore of Long Island. One of the best stretches of sand in the United States so I'm told. We spent a good portion of the day there, during the hottest hours naturally. I spent my time alternately rolling with the mighty waves, and attempting to build sand castles. Periodically, after having been beaten by a few too many breakers I retreated to the sand and the sanction of our very own umbrella. But, oh woe to me! I had not the wisdom to retire to the shade of that mercifully large essential. Instead I delighted in casting myself down onto a towel and giving the sun its due amount of attention.

Kristi, I repent in dust and ashes. Pray forgive my ere in judgment. I really should have listened to you. I utterly and completely admit that I was in the wrong.

And now is the part where I give you full leave to laugh at my expense. I only took the trouble to apply sunscreen to a few vitally important areas of my extremely Caucasian body:

-A smattering on the backs of my knees.
-A blob on the end of my precious nose.
-Just a pat on as much of my back as I could reach.

And that was all.

And now I am in anguish. Utter, hair-raising, extreme, agonizing, anguish. Or so I was yesterday and the day before. Its beginning to heal at last I do believe. My poor sister had an itching fit in her back today that sent her into spasms. Even little Katie, whom we dutifully slathered with SPF 45 did not completely escape some redness.

Now to make you (and I) feel better about the entire situation:

Perks to having a Sizzling Sunburn:
-Due to the fact that my entire face is the color of scarlet, there is no need for make-up except perhaps for a dab of mascara.
-I can already recognize the distinct signs of a deep tan starting beneath the dominating boiled lobster look.
-I now have every right to moan or groan or be a complete weeny if I wish. (Note: this is not intended to intimate that I am in any way succombing to the temptation.)
-I have virtually been living in my swimsuit for the past three days and will no doubt continue to do so. I cannot abide contact on my poor abused skin.

But...I enjoyed the day! The soveriegnty of our God was so evident there as wave after wave swept over me, and as I rose with the ebb and flow, the constant crash and then the inevitable under tow continued. And continues still. Faced with such great power, such a feeling of helplessness. Such an awareness of God's majesty. He created it all. He sustains it all. And this is our God. The one who predestined His Son to die for our transgressions. That kind of love belongs to that kind of power. There is no beating that.

And I know God has a plan even for sunburn. If only I knew what it was...

New York Chronicle: Issue II

2005-07-09T05:18:00.000-07:00

Date: July 4, 2005
Time: 5:30 p.m.
Location: Upstate NY

Directly in front of me stands a barn--this towering structure is painted brick red, and planted round about its base, are coral-colored Day Lilys. A sweeping panarama is to my back, the amber glow of the crops, and nestled in between hills and valleys and clumps of trees, are farmhouses dating back to the turn of the last century. There is always the inevitable big red barn.

I am sitting at a picnic table, set in this very spot to sanction our own private al fresco supper. I am among friends. I am lingering over a savory meal (props to Mrs. M.). At this moment I believe that I couldn't be more glad, more content. A gallon jar is resting on the ground adjacent to our table. Perspiration is dripping down its smooth sides. It contains oh-so-glorious ice water. Earlier today I took Katie with me to the side of the barn where the tall circular silo stands erect. Together we poked our heads inside its cool, dark interior and sang up into its dome. Sang a song to our creator.

"Let all things now living a song of thanksgiving to God the creator triumphantly raise. Who fashioned and made us, protected and staid us, who guides us and leads to the end of our days."

Katie loves music. She also loves to sing. She may be heard projecting her babyish voice loud and clear during the hymns in church. It is simply enchanting. Her favorite song (incidently the only one she knows), is "All People That On Earth Do Dwell". It is number one in the red Trinity Hymnal, and is sung to the tune of the doxology. And she really sings it. She knows the tune, but doesn't quite get the words out yet.

But back to the al fresco dinner. In due course our idyllic meal came to an end, and, together we set about clearing, cleaning, and carrying everything back to the house. And as the day was coming to its restful close, so also was our brief sojourn in this beautiful place. And as I lingered to feast my eyes for the last time, the sun in all its glory, was making its final descent into the horizon. As it sunk low, I was dazzled by the hugh eminating from its core. Pink. Hot, golden pink gazed back at me for long moments, and then it was gone.

That is a taste of the beauty to behold in this state, and that was our celebration of Independance Day. Perhaps New York in some way represents the whole of this country, I cannot presume to say. But I believe that our celebration was more beautiful and more joyous than most. We were free and happy in the heart of the country. True there was no big show, no fireworks, no fuss and botheration. And that suited me fine.

And now we are half-way through July, and I have much, much, more to say. Next week is the proposed time for our trip to The City (Manhattan). But I will save that for another time. For now, life is good, because God is good. And that is all anyone need know about anything.

New York Chronicle: Issue I

2005-06-22T07:10:00.000-07:00

The dust has begun to settle and we are all beginning to recuperate from the past week of unpacking. Ben and Sarah moved into their new house on Thursday (incidently the day we got here), and it took us a few days of hard work and mayhem to get settled in, get the kitchen in functioning order, etc. etc. It is quiet now--I am writing this from Ben's office. He is gone for the day, otherwise I probably wouldn't have a chance. Haha--actually, he quite generously offered to let me come up and blog for a while.

It is balmy weather here, and if I was brave enough to open the window shades up here at the top floor, the sun would be bursting in upon me with irresistably dazzling rays. When Mom goes home next week I will move into the spare room on this same floor and will leave my shades open constantly! Splendid. For now I am inhabiting the basement with her. This house really is shockingly roomy I must say. There is a full basement with a kitchen and bathroom, an upstairs with two rooms, two bedrooms on the main level, and a decently-sized kitchen and living room.

Life for the most times is tranquil, and very interesting. Andrew is a darling child, and has the biggest appetite in the history of the world! He took a few steps yesterday--I felt so privilaged to be able to witness such a momentous event. He didn't think it was so very wonderful--he was only interested in getting from Mama's arms across the floor and latching onto the pretzel in Daddy's hand. Anything for food. Katie is a little slip of a girl with a silliest laugh this side of Pitsburgh. I am afraid she relishes the title and calling of "big sister". It can be very amusing at times. "No Adew! Adew, No! NO ADEW!" Bath-time is another adventure which perhaps I should chronicle in some future issue.

On our third day here I had quite an extraordinary experience. I walked into Ace Hardware, only to be met by what looked like a miniature doberman pinscher. Jenna, maybe you could help me out here? It was the size of a Chiwawa (sp?), and seemed to enjoy jumping up as far as its little paws could reach on any given victom. Just two more steps into the store saw me face-to-face with the biggest dog I have ever seen in my life. I tell you truly--it was massive. Gigantic. And black all over. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't much worried--it was a New Foundland. Very gentle, and at this particular moment--very lazy. The whole picture just struck me as odd. And histerical.

Until next time~

Clarification...

2005-06-10T22:34:00.000-07:00

Dearly beloved~

I would be much obliged if you, my dear friends would drop me a note on my email to inform me of your home addresses. It would be extreemly helpful. I'm making an effort to keep contact--and I would dearly love to send you all lovely little post-cards as well! Please see my profile if my email address is needed.

Yours truly,
~darling little me
xo

P.S. You can disregard the "darling" if you want.
P.P.S. For that matter you might consider disregarding the "little" as well.
P.P.P.S. On no account must you disregard the "~".

Stress, laughter, anticipation, tears, gladness...and everything in between.

2005-06-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

I have seven days--no, less than that (today is almost over). As the time grows nearer, I am growing more sad, glad, apprehensive, and...oh it is so hard to articulate a woman's emotions! And that is another frustration.

I am just realizing how many people I have built my life upon and around. And how many people I have so intricately woven into my heart who must be missed this summer. Oh yes, it is only a summer. But what a summer it is to be! I will officially graduate when I return in the Fall, and then comes adulthood (my eighteenth birthday) and responsibility. Where has Beka, that little girl run off to? Will she ever return? Can she ever? This is such a turbulent and unpredictable time. Will I be happy? Will I be strong enough to face my dreaded nemesis, "real life" without flinching? Most of all, will I serve my Master faithfully, and persevere.

Many of you have been so kind as to wish me well, and bestow on me such tokens of faithful friendship, now in this short time before my departure. You all are so precious to me. I, who call myself a writer, can scarce find appropriate words to express it. What a grand send-off you wonderful people are giving me--full of warmth and love and good wishes.

I am flying into the unknown. Although I have visited New York before this and loved it, people are what make a place worth seeing. Yes, I will be with my dear sister and brother, and their sweet babies, but other than they, my whole world will be new. Unexplored. Unfamiliar. You must pardon me, I am feeling just a trifle sentimental at present. But you must promise me one small thing:

Don't forget me amid you summer delights or trials, inrigues or drudgeries. Remember that I haven't moved to Mars, I'm still sufficiently accesible here in the capitol of the world. And if you happen to think of me sometimes, present me to God in your hearts.

That was more than one little thing, but I am sure that after you have thought it over and pondered it you will find it within your hearts to forgive me. And now--if any of you would enjoy hearing from me other than on this blog while I am away, I would very much appreciate it if you would give me your home addresses, and I promise to drop postcards, letters, notes, whatever I have time for at any particular time. Some of you no doubt have already bestowed such information upon me in the past, but please do so again so I may be sure of having it all written in my little book. Email would be the most convenient of the modes of communication--if you would be so kind?

Note: See my updated profile if my email address is needed.

The pangs or perhaps joys, of a petty poet

2005-05-29T16:50:00.000-07:00

Sitting beneath this willow
My chosen place of retreat,
My mind was open--ready to create.
But somehow when I long for a gift
It is most unwilling to be given
And soon I must be content
With rustling wind and a pink hair ribbon.

There is a time for every purpose--
This is a good and right decree,
But when I am wanting something I cannot see,
It most often remains elusive.
And as I was despairing of ever gaining a prize,
Inspiration sweet being withheld from my eyes,
I looked back up my page and found--not empty words,

But the very thing coveted--gold.

Falling...

2005-05-17T12:26:00.000-07:00

...no, not in love.

You are struggling for a foothold
Your hands reach to grasp mere air
Your heart tells you to let go
But you fear the result of despair

Falling, falling, releasing
The demon with reckless abandon
Eyes glaze in total surrender
Drenched in sin, you grieve but cannot shun

Will no one save you from yourself?
You feel it would be useless to try
A cry comes forth from the depths of your soul:
"Oh help God, send reply!"

Falling, falling, will God forgive?
You have no other hope--
He reaches with scarred hands to catch
You are saved from this wretched slope

Discover new strength in temptation, and praise the Lord!

Note: this was written out of faith as well as personal experience. I originally wrote it in the first person, but changed it for publication.

Angel of Patience?

2005-05-10T20:22:00.000-07:00

I believe its time for a little explanation. When I first gave out my blog address, I recieved comments from people who wanted to know if I was the "angel of patience." No. Afraid not. This sublime celestial is my mascot. And I'd like to tell you why. Please read on:

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest angel gently comes:
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love our dear and
Heavenly Father sends him here.
There's quiet in that angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.
Angel of Patience! Sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will!
Oh thou that mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be resigned:
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"

-John Greenleaf Whittier

This poem speaks to me like no other that I have ever read. Its eloquence is not lacking in any respect. And I--I struggle to be patient, to temper my longings, fears, frustrations with pure, simple peace. I truly want to "be resigned" and "make (my) own our Father's will". What could be more beautiful than to live in such tranquility and patience!

terrible tact!

2005-05-06T14:53:00.000-07:00

Note: I understand that truth must be tempered with tact, but I find that for me, it would be better if tact were tempered with truth.

How many times has the perfect moment come, but my words failed to come with it?
How often have I abstained from telling truth, and settled for tact instead?
And how many moments have slipped through my fingers--lost forever?
Moments when I could have touched a soul, but flattered instead?
That terrible nod and smile of supposed understanding has too often belonged to me, and I have listened silently as others have explained and reasoned--trying desparately to justify their wrong-doing.
And I so afraid of offending my fellow human being, simply let it pass, terrified of the result should I speak.
Others tell me that tact and sensitivity are my gift and should be cultivated.
But sometimes I think it would be more appropriate to call it cowardice.
I would rather be called sincere.
I would rather be known as a woman who means what she says and says what she means. What a truthful life I would lead!

~full and free~

2005-04-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

My father died of a brain tumor when I was still in the womb. Since Jesus took him my mother has raised my six siblings and myself on her own. She even made the descision to educate us almost completely at home. I will never forget an occasion when she had taken a job as a waitress. I was still young and didn't like it one bit. After only a few days of work she quit and came home to me. Yes at times I've wanted my father--wanted him like you wouldn't believe. But how could I be so ungrateful for long, when God has blessed me with such a fantastic mother? This is for her.

She's here, she's there
It seems to me she's everywhere.
She's picking up toys,
She's feeding little boys.
Even though she's tied all through,
She still has a hug for you.
Her love is full and free,
For my brothers, my sisters, and me.
~~~
Sometimes things are rough,
Even through sickness she's tough
For there's meals to be laid
And there's beds to be made.
Play is hard for some kids--
Sleep is falling on heavy eyelids.
Her love is full and free,
For my brothers, my sisters, and me.
~~~
We're grown, some have gone away.
She hopes that some are here to stay.
No one will ever know how long
She's prayed that we would keep from wrong.
All alone she raised us, but did she?
I think there was help--from the Trinity.
Always her love is full and free,
For my brothers, my sisters, and me.

Some cherished ones

2005-04-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

Here's me sister and me niece for your enjoyment! By the way, its Anna and Kylee. Just thought I had better clarify that.

Blogs: leanings and meanings

2005-04-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

It is precisely six months yesterday since I began this blog, and in view of that fact I believe it is time for a little evaluation—an overview of what this blog has been and continues to be to me. It started as a new and exciting undertaking. It has turned into a learning experience.

It may seem a bit strange and perhaps even a little self-centered to some, but one of my main struggles is simply to understand myself. Have you ever felt the torment of having started a new friendship and being terrified that the person in question will somehow “find you out” and will shun you because you were found lacking? My comfort is that God knows me inside out—and loves me anyway. But people aren’t always so unconditional, and I have felt the pain (however imaginary it may be) of failure and rejection. I suppose the less time spent stewing about such things the better.

I was talking about self-discovery. Who am I really? Is what I write really and truly a manifestation of the real me? And is it really that important to search out one’s self? But forgive me, my eloquence is becoming not so very eloquent.

Another of my interests is to understand others. All these people around me, my family, my friends—even my fellow bloggers. I seek to understand what makes them tick so to speak. What causes their actions and reactions, their emotions, their values? What is important to each individual? To become acquainted with this myriad of characters, and hearts is not un-useful to such a predominantly intuitive person such as I. I am concerned that I will offend, will be the cause of grief or discomfort, and so I work to know how I may avoid such blunders. I don’t know if you would call this a science or an art form, but it certainly is somewhere along those lines.

But too much ado about my interests. This blog has provided a means of self-discovery, and others-discovery in a very nice manner, and I can only hope that my ramblings will have really meant something and not have been just a bunch of words on a page somewhere in cyber-space.

Correction...

2005-04-19T13:25:00.000-07:00

Oops! The link for "Feminine Frills" was going to the old address--sorry about that folks. It is now corrected, and I invite all to visit and see the changes that have been made(improvements I hope).

Grace I don't think I misspelled anything...but then my eyes may be playing tricks on me--I'm becoming so terribly old and decrepit you know! =)

Have a lovely day!

We're in business!

2005-04-15T20:53:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, may I turn your attention to the links on my sidebar, and more to the point, the particular link named, "Feminine Frills". This is the team blog which I have started in association with my dear friend Erin. We would be glad of a visit from you periodically!

Jenna and Sara--I have a bone to pick with you!!! You know what I'm talking about. =)

Immortality of lake, cabin, and fire-side

2005-04-14T13:42:00.000-07:00

Recently written by a friend (thank you again, its lovely!), this epistle describes the sojourning of Kat and her fellow adventurers. Other summarizations of the proceedings can be found with Mark, Kristi, and Drea.

The Chronicles of Nothing Else...

There's nothing else like seeing your clothes and your friends' sprinkled with tiny yellow constellations of dandelion pollen because of a flower tossing war.

There's nothing else like punting through sunken forests of mossy trees with new spring buds, with four friends in a sturdy enough little boat and pushing off marshy goose nests, just to see what's around the next corner.

There's nothing else like the delicious spooky chill you get from being out in the same boat, shiver-cold water lapping at your feet, playing a flashlight through tricky fog, trying to figure out if the human figure about twenty yards to your left is alive or not.

There's nothing else like the voice of a friend quiet in the dark, telling a story about ancient faraway people who fully lived.

There's nothing else like the shreiks of a friend who can't stand crawly things suddenly discovering that the previously well-contained crawdads on the picnic table have miraculously achieved their liberty and are beating a hasty retreat under her chair.

There's nothing else like lying in your sleeping bag and knowing that if you start singing something, anything, even Brahams's Lullaby, someone will join in harmony, and it will be beautiful, even if you mess up the words.

There's nothing else like coming in off the lake at ten-thirty in the morning, having been through the gates of Narnia and back, knowing that you have the entire rest of the day ahead of you, to a full breakfast with sausages cooked over the open fire pit.

-a timeline-

2005-04-11T15:10:00.000-07:00

"Things that were..."

I am a dreamer. Truly I am in the fullest sense of the word. But it is such a lovely word is it not? I have been dreaming all my life long (which hasn't been so very many moons). I have also been wishing for with great impatience the time when I may at last make dreams realities. Now what would you call this? A juvenile discontent for present blessings? Or simply the restless wandering of a spirit ever in need of change and new discoveries? I always see the wonders of what could be, the glory of what has been--but fail to cherish what is sufficiently enough. I am sad to say that this is my life story--my disposition is fixed and I am blind to the wonders and discoveries of today. But this situation is not hopeless. As I grow perhaps I am learning that all the wonders of past and future at one time were contained in "today".

"...things that are..."

Now I stand in the open portal of the adult world, listening transfixed to the voices of that world calling me to join them. Join them in striving, in joy, in sorrow, in pain, in glory. And suddenly as the things I had hoped for are finally coming to pass, I long to hide my face like a child in a mother's embrace and stop the clocks for one immortal moment. For it seems such a great and awesome responsibility to me--to live and work as a subject of the King and be about His business. But I remind myself to wake from my dreams of yesterday and move forward with the future in my eye, on the ever present path of today.

"...and some things which have not yet come to pass."

What is in store? And what does my future hold for me? Has not every person living in this world pondered that question? This reflection certainly isn't unprecedented. I fear that I sound like a freckle-faced, romantic school girl--alas, this is what I am. Some part of my immediate future has been revealed to me. If God wills, I am traveling to spend the summer in New York with my sister and brother-in-law, Ben and Sarah (I love you guys!). This means aproximately two months of my life devoted exclusively to my East coast family. You must imagine my excitement! I am to go and take care of my neice and nephew, and generaly help out in any way I can--in exchange for my passage east and a salary per week. Can you imagine that?! I am going to be payed to do what is my dearest delight! I can't decide if someone handed me the moon or sewed me some wings. Think of it--just two months from now, I'll be on my way. What terrible glory this is! I feel so very timid--and blessed.

Now you must be thinking that I am making too much noise over one brief summer in the history of the world. But I am determined to make this trip live up to its fullest potential. I want to grow and to learn and to serve with all of my might. And that with the help of our Lord, most esteemed ladies and gentlemen is what I intend to do! Excelsior--onward and upward!

Fred the brave and true

2005-04-02T20:54:00.000-08:00

I would like to say at the outset of this post that the only reason that I discovered Fred in the first place was to entertain a six-year-old child with similar fantasies. It worked. Now I seek to entertain you.

Fred is my friend. He has brown hair like me, he is short like me, and the only difference between the two of us is that his eyes are a warm shade of brown (not to mention the difference in gender). Fred is at my side constantly and has strong opinions on many aspects of my daily life. I like to think of him as my twin brother--you see I couldn't get away from him even if I wanted to, and nor could he, seeing as we're connected at the hip.

When I first became aware of Fred's existence, he was greatly persecuted by a good friend of mine, who quite frankly should have known better. Poor Fred, to have been ignored for the first seventeen years of his life, and then having at last emerged from obscurity, only to be scoffed at by such a person. But enough said on that subject, I have since forgiven this good friend of mine because she has provided a companion for my dear Fred. Yes, she at last surrendered to the truth--her good sense has finally triumphed over her synicism and Fred has met his bosom friend...Timmy.

Timmy is connected to my friend at the hip and therefore, he and Fred have become "kindred spirits" so to speak. But that is neither here nor there--I must tell my story, or should I say, Fred's. Fred loves sushi, algebra, hockey, buz cuts (which I absolutely will not allow), thinks that Tennyson and Shakespeare stink, and generally hates all my loves, and loves all my hates. But then, what are little bros for? Nevertheless, he is extreemly loyal and very attached to me (no pun intended) his devoted and loving twin. This is a very natural feeling for him to have seeing as he owes his very existance to my extreemly well cultivated imagination.

And now at last I get down to the wire. Yes, I must aknowledge that Fred exists chiefly in my own curious mind. I say chiefly because I know a very cute little six-year-old girl who has unshakable faith in Fred. And now you may return to your daily activities knowing for a fact what you have suspected all along--that Rebekah the blogger is just a little dotty.

I must apologize if this post is a trifle immature. You see in the face of many unhappy and sometimes disturbing events occuring in our world today, I find relief and great enjoyment by escaping to a wonderful world of make-believe. It is a lovely world of creativity and imagination. And I wouldn't part with it for any amount of common sense. I hope you have enjoyed this brief journey with me. Come again!

"...deeds of love and mercy..."

2005-03-23T15:47:00.000-08:00

"He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?"
Micah 6:8

These words have been copied from God's Word and printed on a simple sheet of printing paper. It hangs on a bulletin board for all to see. My mother put it there--this is just one out of many deeds of love bestowed on us, her children. There it is, right next to our computer, reminding us like a beacon through the fog of essays, papers, email, and yes--blogging, of the simple, beautiful duty of each of us servants of the Master. It never ceases to fulfill it's purpose, for every time I sit at this desk, it speaks to me with compelling arguments.

"He has shown you, O man, what is good...". What more do I need? What more can be said? There it is, shining brightly from a few little words. No matter the questions to be asked, or the complexity of future choices, this stands strong and clear. It is strange how words that have no meaning on their own, can be brought together and weaved to create such wisdom.

This epistle would be more lengthy if it weren't for the sad fact that I must not be on the computer longer than fifteen minutes--Mark's orders. I have already exceeded my limit. We have to be careful of the hard drive you see, don't want it crashing on us--again.

her parting shot

2005-03-09T16:18:00.000-08:00

"Drive carefully!"

These are the words that I hear every time I leave my teacher's house--drive carefully. It would be quite a normal thing to say to a student as they left your house except...I don't drive. I don't have my license or a car, and I don't think I'll be getting either for a while (you need money for such things).

Dear Judy knows perfectly well that I will walk across her lawn and down Grover street for about a mile before I reach the Lynden Library. She knows perfectly well that I don't drive, that I don't have my license or a car. But still she says these blessed words: "Drive carefully" in her cheerful, sunny voice. I complain too much. My family is well aware of that fact. But it reminds me every time she says it. I reminds me to...

"...be resigned, bear up, bear on the end shall tell, the dear Lord ordereth all things well!"

You may not see the connection between the use of a funny little illogical phrase and my contentment, but it makes plenty of sense to me. What if I couldn't walk at all? As much as I hate, despise and loath having to ask for rides of people, what if I wasn't able even to walk one mile in order to get across town?

But aside from all this, I want to share with you all the simple preciousness of a person who must impact my life very deeply. Judy is the image of endurance and cheerfulness. She is my dear Mother's age and she took a job nobody else would keep just because they needed her. It is not exactly the ideal, wonderful, nice pay with benefits job. Her employers are ridiculously tight-fisted. And what hard work and dedication they get from my wonderful Judith Lynn! When she's breaking her back, all she'll say is, "am I doing this to the glory of God?" and goes back and does it better. She shall have her reward--her children (Drea and me) shall praise her in the gates!

~PINK~

2005-03-07T12:36:00.000-08:00

Pink. Seemingly the essence of girlish femeninity, chickly weakness, and babely pride. Pink is my color. It is the hugh that every girl child by default makes its grand entrance into society wearing. To some it is shallow and wimpy--but hey! Its just so pretty! You can express so much in this perfect color:

Powder pink--you're calm, a little shy, very sweet.
Fuschia--vivacious, bold, a teensy bit rompy.
Petal pink--soft, but lively, lovely in the fullest extreem.
Pastel pink--a trifle niave, happy, girlish.
Magenta--(not from Blue's Clues) rich, mysterious, but charming.

To all my pink hating friends--remember that it takes allot of pink and blue to come out with your precious purple.

Now you may be thinking, "Why so much ado about a color?". Well most everyone has their color, for instance--Sara and blue, Jenna and red or black, Mark and yellow...these colors are universally loved for their brightness, and basic boldness. They are on every color pallate. But what about pink? Its not even included in the rainbow! Someone has to sing its praises--so why not me? A girl who really does appreciate it in all its splendor.

opinionated little me...

2005-03-03T13:54:00.000-08:00

Okay, after leaving a rather lengthy and adamant comment on my big bro's blog I decided that it was time for me to address such issues here, full blown on mine, instead of shooting out pathetically small little fireballs to gum up everyone else's. So here we are.

I can't understand people who insist that a person must be over eighteen in order to fully understand and take responsibility for crimes they have committed. How can this make sense? Do they really believe that a seventeen-year-old cannot understand his sins, but a few short months later, will understand completely and be responsible--simply because having turned eighteen, he is suddenly an "adult"?

Don't they remember being kids? Hello! Teenagers are not stupid. They know just as well as any human being, made in the image of God, the diffence between right and wrong. And its not just teenagers either. I believe that even an eight-year-old child who has wilfully murdered another human being should be subject to the same punishment as any other criminal.

I know kids. I make my daily bread caring for kids. (yes I'm a baby-sitter--I prefer the term "care giver" actually) I also love kids. They make life so much more wonderful. I'm an auntie five times over, and I like to make and maintain friendships with kids of all ages. I have never met one child who did not know that hitting is naughty, and who didn't know that he deserved to be punished for it. They all know--even down to the last two-year-old baby.

I'm a seventeen-year-old conservative--no, more than that--I'm a seventeen-year-old Christian, and you can believe me when I say that if I went out tonight and hacked someone to death, I pray that I would be executed for this terrible crime. This terrible sin.

"I have a dream..."

2005-02-28T15:17:00.000-08:00

At last! My subconcious has provided me with a dream decent and interesting enough for public consumption. Well, I suppose you will have to judge if it really is that interesting--it was to me.

I was in a house I have never been to before, and apparently this house was ours. I can remember a great deal of the layout--in fact I drew the floor plan on graph paper this morning. There was a hall-way with two doors on one wall. These were Anna's bedroom door and my own bedroom door. (Yes my own room at long last!) My mom, Anna, Mark, and myself lived in this house, which had a large kitchen by the way. I remember all of us saying that when Nathan came home it would be such fun showing him our new house--and what a shock to him it would be! Ben was there with Kylee. I remember that she had run off somewhere into the kitchen I think, and Ben had asked me where she was. I couldn't locate her for some time because the sound of her voice seemed to be coming from several different places. But in the end, there she was in the kitchen, playing on the floor while Mom was cooking dinner on the stove. I remember being quite annoyed because as usual my room was a huge mess and Anna's stuff was taking up my space.

If you're still reading, then you must have nothing else to do--for anybody besides myself it must seem rather dull. Oh well--perhaps someday my dream maker will crank out something thrilling for you. Till then, you shall have to be content with my agravating and unceasingly dull periodicals.

grumbling

2005-02-24T12:20:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago, I had decided that my life was pretty pathetic. Yeah, I was really bummed. Don't ask me why. I guess it was just one of those days when you let your guard down and Satan comes marching in. I vocally ranted and raved to my poor family--complaining about everything from "I need a job" to "I'm dying without a car" to "My wardrobe stinks". It was a real humdinger. I can just imagine my silly voice whining away like the mice on Cinderella. Ach!

That night as I attempted to sleep these poor, pitiful thoughts continued to roll through my mind. In vain I strived to relax and let go of it all. And then...enlightenment! I remembered back to last year when I had researched the life of Martin Luther. I had read then that this great reformer had many times gone into severe depressions, seemingly worried about everything under the sun. His resourceful wife, Katherine Von Bora had put on mourning clothes and a vale. She put a handkerchief to her eyes and wept sorrowfully. When doctor Luther came home that day, he naturally asked her why she was so sad and she replied with something like this:

"I am sad for the good God in heaven has died!"

The dear doctor got the point and so did I. If I may quote a movie: "God is in His heaven, all is well with he world." So why are we complaining??? We have every reason to be joyful in every curcumstance of our lives!

Pierced! (for better or for worse)

2005-02-18T15:00:00.000-08:00

Its gone! Its done!
-Frodo

My time came at last exactly nine days ago. And now I have but only thirty-three days and nights before these silly studs can come out. It seems an absolute age, but no doubt when all that time has passed I'll be so attached to them that I won't be able to part with my constant companions...

Jenna is being a good girl and using the prescribed dissinfectant consistantly three times a day--I'm afraid I haven't been as consientious as she. But I don't think that infections or sensitive ears run in my family so...or is that hereditary?

If you must know, I'll tell you that I almost chickened out. Yes shocking isn't it? Me, a pillar of resolve and determination...uh, ha ha, that was a little joke. My dear Auntie picked numbers to see who should go first and what do you know? I chose the exact number! What a coincidence!! But I squared my shoulders, climbed onto a VERY tall chair, and sat like a statue as the lady with the gun prepared for the operation. I told myself that this was no big deal--people do this everyday don't they? But as soon as the dissinfectant-soaked cotton balls touched my lobes, I suddenly told myself that I was the biggest sucker in the universe and that this woman no doubt was going to butcher me right then and there. Irrational, but understandable I believe. I recited in my mind, "You are NOT a coward, you ARE not a coward, YOU are not a coward...". I sat stiff and straight as a statue and felt the sudden sting with a couragious, crusader-like expression on my face. And then it was over. My frame relaxed as I said mildly, "Ow." And then I promptly began laughing histerically. Thankfully there was only family present, for I am sure that I presented an accurate picture of pathetic woman-kind.

As with most events in my life, something so thought on, and meditated and worried over, was over in an instant and left me wondering what it was I was so afraid of...

-simple pleasures-

2005-02-02T17:03:00.000-08:00

Well, maybe its a silly pleasure.

But if you were 17 and had waited ALL you life for this one very trivial delight, then you would be excited too.

Its a tradition in my family for all the girls to have their ears pierced on their seventeenth birthday. It all started with my oldest sister Rachel--actually I should say it was Sarah's idea.

It was fourteen years ago and Rachel was turning seventeen. Before this time nobody in my family had really thought about ear piercing or anything else piercing. But my second sister Sarah, in a fit of sisterly affection, decided it was time to work her wily ways on my mother and succeeded in convincing her to allow Rachel to have the deed done. Of course that meant the Sarah could do it the very next year...

And so it has remained from that time forward--once the precident had been set, ALL the Reimers girls simply HAD to do it. And ever since then and all my life I have looked forward to that glorious day when I at last would cross the border into pierced existance.

But as you all know, my birthday was three months ago now. So of course you must be quite curious to know why in the world I haven't gone for it yet. Well, one of my boon companions is my cousin, Jenna and her family has set the piercing date for sixteen. And since waiting only a few months would allow me to share this momentous occasion with her, I couldn't resist (besides, we had planned to do it that way since we were BABES).

So now I have but a few more days to wait until my moment comes, and the needle plunges through my time-prepared earlobe. No, I'm not nervous. Who said anything about being nervous?

~dear dreams~

2005-01-20T18:28:00.000-08:00

Dreams. Idyllic fantasies of the night hours.

They are subconcious yearnings that often take us by surprise. Yes, and sometimes even shock or amuse us.

I am one of those fortunate people who is supplied nightly with a new store of thrilling matters to keep me company during the day.

If ever I was to stop dreaming, I think that a great amount of joy would leave my life instantly.

As a writer, I see dreams as wonderful new stories that I don't need to work to invent--in fact sometimes I wonder if it is really my brain that spins these fantastic yarns at all. For it seems to me that your mind couldn't possibly create such situations all by itself without even being aware of it. But then, I'm no scientist.

Hey, wouldn't it be amazing if our dreams were inspired by God like in the Bible?

Well, I would be delighted to share my dreams here on this blog, but unfortunately they are usually a little too personal to publish. Maybe when my internal news anchor comes up with something decent and interesing for the general public I'll let you in on them. Until then my lovely night musings will have to remain a private delight.

I actually feel quite sorry for you all!

lovely ones

2005-01-19T16:09:00.000-08:00

What a balmy day it has been! A zephyre-like wind is blowing wildy for joy--triumphant at its escape from the bitter and resentful cold. The warmth is at last seeping into my bones and giving a Spring to my step.

I stepped out of my tutor's house at 3 o'clock this afternoon as usual. The wind was blowing impossibly warm air in my face, and I had just decided that it was a beautiful day. Judy and I said our farewells, and then I turned and started toward the sidewalk. I was a little put out of countenance when I saw that there was someone walking past just at that moment.

Balderdash.

I saw that it was an elderly lady and feared that I would have to take a painfully slow pace behind her all the way to the Library. But nothing could dampen my spirits on this day, so I smiled cherrily and said, "Hello!" She smiled back at me and when I would have taken my place behind her, she slowed, turned and said, "Are you homeschooled?" in a friendly voice.

I was surprised by her friendly interest and still more surprised at the energetic pace she was taking down the street. We talked pleasantly for several blocks, she asking me about my schooling, and remarking about the weather and such. I noticed a neat and elegant little accent in her voice that I couldn't quite identify. She must have been seventy at least and had beautiful snowy, silver hair. I think if I had to use one word to describe her I would say simply: lovely. After about three blocks, a light sprinkle suddenly began to fall on us, and she turned back. I wonder if she knew that she made my day.

What precious treasures are waiting just around the corner of every day! I can't help but think how God must make even such chance meetings come to pass for very specific purposes in His perfect plan. Its simply thrilling!

This Blessed Burden

2005-01-04T18:48:00.000-08:00

Well they're gone. They were here for four days this time, now they are returning to New York State.

We planned this Christmas season with care and anticipation--my sister Rachel and her husband were to come with there babies, as well as my aforementioned sister Sarah and her husband and offsping. My serviceman brother Nathan was also here on leave. I can say now that it must have been providence that took him away from us-- back across the country just in time. Believe me, I was sad at the time but now for his sake I am thankful for his "escape". The events of the very next day would not have been pleasant to awake to--as we did.

Now that I have my readers prepared, I will attempt to explain the cryptic language of the past paragraph. A few days before the turning of the New Year, my little niece, Mary came down with a flu that involved much heaving, hurling and more unmentionable distresses. She was considered "over it" when the whole family gathered on January first for our gift exchange. Unfortunately brother-in-law, Joel was doomed to catch the ailment from her that very night. Sunday morning was to see his wife laid out with the same. As they had been staying off the premesis we naturally thought that we were reasonable in our expectation to be passed over. This isn't Egypt and its not passover, but maybe blood on our door might have helped.

We made it till the wee hours of Monday morning. I was awakened to the news that Mom, Mark, and my niece Katie had all sucombed during the night. Anna was at work for no more than two hours when she also found it nessecary to come home and crash. By now the only adults left standing were Sarah, Ben, and myself. We cared for the infirm as best we could--made runs to town for food and whatever else needed and were cheered constantly by dear baby Andrew's unstinting happy healthiness. We made a pact among the three of us not to be laid out and thought that it couldn't get worse. Alas! It was not to be. The next morning Ben greeted me with the news that Sarah was down. DOWN. Two left standing. We wondered which one of us would be next.

You may be shocked to read that during this entire time I felt an abominable, unexplainable, guiltily healthy tingle in my bones. In the darkness of early morning, having just been informed of the sickness in the house, I felt that perhaps I was doomed. But I prayed. I asked God to make me the helper--the servant. And He did. Not at any moment after did it even occur to me to get sick. Ben ran himself ragged caring for and cleaning up after his wife and daughter, and I did my best to help where I could. Most often it was Andrew who gained my attention. Now that they are gone, my arms feel much too empty--my feet much too rested, and the house unbearably clean. Yes, influenza or no, it was a Blessed Burden.

Married: for better or for worse

2004-12-26T14:56:00.000-08:00

I recently made the sojourn with my sister and brother down the continent to Oregon (you may have read of it in my bro's blog). I will attempt to make known my take on the events of this trip.

The purpose of the journey was to attend my cousin Jalon's wedding. A good friend said of the event:

Another wedding! The world will be overrun with Neffs.

I reply to her incredulity: "Remember the mandate!" Well the wedding was carried out without a hitch, it went along smoothly and yes, beautifuly. There is nothing I could write on this subject that would shed an unpleasant or even blasse light upon the matter. It was altogether lovely, the kind of wedding you always dream of for yourself. Since it was so near this blessed holiday, there was many a Christmas theme. This gave a heartily festive air to the party. Everyone was in their best looks and on their best behavior. I must say that this behavior was that kind of wonderful sincerity that one looks for in humanity.

My dear brother-in-law Joel flew up from California exclusively to perform the ceremony and had myself and many of my relatives in tears at his job well done in uniting my cousin with his bride, Mandy. When at last the celebration was over, all things having been said and the deed being done, we the guests were given perfect little jingle bells in the staid of bubbles or pettles with which to send the couple off. We all rang vigorously and with great joy as Jalon escorted Mandy to the car and they drove away. And that was all. After many goodbye hugs to our cousins and Uncles and Aunts, we took leave of the party and went our homeward way, with goodwill in our hearts, bells on our fingers, and a five hour drive ahead of us.

I must say in conclusion that whether married for better or for worse, these two people could not have had a better start in their life together than they had that night, and I have much faith in they're productive and wonderful life.

a house, or a castle in the skies?

2004-12-06T16:07:00.000-08:00

Home is where the heart is.

Or so they say. I have this thing about houses and architecture okay? So I find myself sincerely pained when I see a house that no sane person could take pride in as their own. There it stands, a pitiful, run-down, sad symble of a thing of much nobler mettle.

I believe, and I hope that you will concur, that a house is a physical manifestation of a spiritual thing. It is the place where you abide--a place you come back to at the end of the day to kick off your shoes, relax and be. You are attached to this place, you love it. It is your--home. It should be a beautiful place--one that shows to the world your love for it.

So what kind of yahoo can have the nerve to think up and build the horrid and starkly ugly "homes" we see around us? I cringe every time I walk the streets of Lynden. The only thing that saves me from insanity is the few times when I catch a glimpse of euphoria. Like that perfect white colonial on Front street. Ahhh....

Perhaps I have been over-eloquent and bored you. I beg forgiveness and will write again when my humor is more suited to your taste.

mirror mirage

2004-11-28T15:19:00.000-08:00

Close your eyes. Take a deep breath....now let it out slowly. Relax.

Now imagine that you're looking in a mirror. What do you see? Are you pleased with the reflection? If your answer was yes then please discontinue reading this article. If you are even slightly displeased with the glass in front of you, by all means read on! This one is for you.

Now imagine that by some strange violation of the laws of nature, the mirror has transformed into a simple sheet of glass. And what do you think? Out of all the people in the world, the most beautiful is on the other side staring back at you. There is surprise-even shock on her face. You stare at her in astonishment for what seems like an eternity.

Finally you force yourself into action. Slowly you lift your hand and whatch as the woman on the other side raises hers. You had meant to touch the glass, but by its own volition your hand reaches your face and touches your cheek. Your mind races when you see the woman before you going through the same moves. Her face is now nearly stunning in its shocked and strangly curious expression. Slowly understanding is coming to her brilliant eyes.

You tap the glass. She is doing the same! It must be true! The glass is a mirror and you have become the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth! You are shouting with glee as you jump up with the intention of dancing the most beautiful jig (if there is such a thing) when suddenly you jerk to your senses. It was a dream.

You must have relaxed a little too much.