To-Do God

.

Morning devotions--something precious, yet so often skewed or misunderstood. When we're told as children, "Read your Bible and pray every day" instead of "Get to know the Lord and chat with Him", the idea of morning devotions or sitting down to pray can seem nothing more than vacuuming the house or washing the dishes. 

I woke up this morning with a task mindset. I threw God a "Good morning", walked downstairs, made some hot tea, and grabbed my Bible with the mental list, "Psalms, Proverbs, Ephesians and then I can get to some writing." I caught myself like a fly under a swatter. I don't ever want to approach friends, family, or Daylen with a task mindset, so why do I let that slip into my relationship with God? I think He enjoyed waiting folded-armed next to the kettle with me better than He'd like a brain-dead Bible reading. 

I apologized and decided to allow myself to get "distracted" without feeling guilty. An hour of computer-time later, I am joyful and have an un-interrupted mindset on Him. I read blogs. Blogs of people who love Him. Their verses, stories, hopes, and adventures inspired me to think about mine--to think about my love, my dreams, my God. And I'm closer and more real with Him than I would have been from to-do-list reading.

The key is to be real with Him. He's real with us, why do we think we can fake genuine time with Him? He calls our bluff. It's only now, with the right mindset, that I can enter into reading His words and really get it--really be with Him. And I'm excited.

NaNoWriMo Turtle

Why is it so difficult to sit and write 10,000 words about characters that I adore, yet so easy to write a research paper on evidence-based practice guidelines for prosody in dysarthria (bored yet?)? Day 1 of my November challenge found me completing dull, brain-scorching homework in the same amount of time it took me to spit out one word of lovely novelness.

Day 2 found me grappling with the keyboard at 10 minutes until midnight (still, success was mine!).

Day 3, I crouched between the wall and my bed with the space heater on high and the sound of outside drizzle for inspiration. I turned on my electronic coaster (dorky, but amazing!) and sipped Huckleberry Hot Cocoa (my writing drink!) with 35 minutes until I had to leave for work.

Day 4: Lost track of time writing--best moment of irresponsibility ever!

Day 5: Time ran away and not a single letter was birthed on my computer. :(

Day 6 was momentous, as if someone else was writing and thinking for me. Not only did my mental outline break through writer's block, but my fingers typed out a whoppin' 700 words! Compare that to day 5's giant glowing "0".

The conclusion:

We are at the halfway mark--us WriMo-ers (day 15). . The past four days have slipped through my writer-less fingers and I was jumpstarted by a pep-talk e-mail from the NaNoWriMo website. It kindly patted the backs of those who've been diligently writing and politely scolded those who have given up hope. It nudged those of us who've lost track of time amidst busy lives and encouraged us to start up again. So here I sit. The computer screen remains daunting, but I've had four days of inspiration build up in the storehouses of my mind. I will continue to push, though the going is slow. The turtle won the race, right? I can be a turtle. Steady...gradual. I am turtle.

NaNoWriMo Rhino

Welcome to November! A time of hot cider, pumpkin pies, red maple leaves, and crisp weather. Cloudy days with the temptation of words falling like raindrops and pre-Thanksgiving Christmas celebrators secretly blasting Christmas music. It's glorious. Normal people call it November. The writing world calls it NaNoWriMo.

Sound it out: Na-No-Wri-Mo

Sounds kind of dorky, doesn't it? Makes me think of Rhino's and noses. Still, this year I shall embrace the dork (only because it's the first year I've actually known what NaNoWriMo stood for). NaNoWriMo is the shortened version of National Novel Writing Month. I previously knew it as a weird name for a time when all authors-to-be freak out and try to write 50,000 words in a month.

People would ask me, "Are you doing NaNoWriMo?"

"No," I'd blurt, only because I didn't want to associate with a silly name and I hate forcing words out when my mental word-sponge is empty. *shudder* There's no less pleasant feeling. 

Once I knew the true name for NaNoWriMo, my writer-starved brain instantly conjured a set schedule and a glorious excuse to write for 30 days straight. 

"You don't have to reach 50,000 words," it said to me with a crazed look. "Just engage in National Novel Writing Month and try and write more. That's all."

"But it sounds silly," I argued.

"YOU NEED TO WRITE! Your high horse is collapsing anyway."

It's true. I've been dying to write. I fall asleep thinking about writing, I count down the days until I have that extra hour on Thursday to sit before my novel. *sigh* NaNoWriMo is an excellent excuse to work myself even more to the bone (and like it!). So I chose to humor my twitching, anxious, writer-desperate brain. I handed it a cookie jar of words and started scratching out a schedule and a strategy for the month of November. 

The plan: Write every day (even if it's for 5 minutes for 5 words).

The goal: REACH 50,000 words with my current novel, A Time to Die. (I wasn't going to have a goal, but it's no fun entering a challenge without one, right?)

Starting word count: 39,182 (10,818 words to go). To put you in perspective, I've written 10,000 words over the past 5 months. *shame*

According to the NaNoWriMo novel statistics word count tracker, I need to average 361 words in a day. That's one page a day. A single page. That's like a sneeze. Today I sit down at my computer with some Cheez-its and tea and enter my "Stories and Stuff" folder without a tinge of homework-guilt. God may have called me to Speech Therapy, but He's also called me to write. I will follow through (but I'm still going to call this month November). 

Expressions of Soul

.

If I could paint, I'd swirl my brush in the ocean and dip it in the sky to paint your eyes.

If I could draw, I'd sketch your hands that so gently shake the butterfly net inside my heart.

If I could dance, I'd twirl hopscotch-steps across our entwined story-lines.

If I could photograph, I'd snap a picture of your soul and frame it with a thousand verses.

If I could fly, I'd spiral to our King for an embrace of thankfulness...for you.

Share.

Many of us keep our days to ourselves.

They're not interesting. They're too crazy. They're depressing. They're too short.

But they're part of your life. I've creamed over a few thousand "How are you?"s with a bland, "Good" or "Fine" answer. Sometimes I think, They don't want to know about my day, what's the harm in keeping it to myself?
.

The other day I realized that sharing can glorify God, no matter what you've done with your day. Daylen and I sat the evening away together and shared our days. After I told about my sleepy morning of studying, my exam, my day of clinic, and my evening of painting, he shared with me how so much of what I'd done today had been answers to his prayers.

A bit startled that he took so much time to pray for me, I thought through what he'd said. Seemingly little events throughout my day--retention of information, calm before a test, recalling hard questions--were all answered prayers that I would have missed if I hadn't shared my day with him and if he hadn't shared his prayers with me.

Why do we usually prefer to be so reclusive? What is it that draws us to silence or fake sharing? Where is our realness hiding? In fear? Under the rug in shame?

I let mine out the other day. It loved the fresh air. I think I'll take it on another walk...soon.

Pre-Test Thoughts

Yesterday: the day before a giant test. Without fail, that day found me the most inspired to write, the most passionate to read about God, and the most anxious to devote time to those I love. Yet the only thing I was allowed to do was study. Or were my priorities off? I would have loved to ditch schooling and spend the day doing those three things with every ounce of zeal inside my veins. God calls me to do those things with my life, but He calls me to schoolwork as well. Sometimes I wonder if Satan is the one flaring up those desires in me every pre-test day...just because he knows I can't give in to them. Or maybe it's just the stress of a test that brings to mind the things I really find important and the areas my focus really needs to stay. Who knows?

Today: the day of the test. I wake up sick, sleep-deprived, and haven't studied near as much as the test demands that I do. YET...I feel like a drop of helium fire, floating and weightless with crackling passion for Christ. I'm always startled when I wake with instant passion, soul-drenching peace, and the contacts of hope in my eyes. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing really matters except for Him. I want nothing but joy and glory for His name.

I wish I could bottle this feeling up and control it in a way--spend a little each day. When it comes out of the blue like it does today, I just want to know HOW so that I can make it happen again. I'm calling it God's test-day gift. This isn't the first time this has happened on the day of a big test. God knows that my brain shuts down if I panic, so He fills me with unexplainable, giddy calm. In fact, an hour and a half long test given by the strictest professor in my department almost sounds...fun. I want to laugh.


Possible explanations:

1. I'm crazy.

2. It's God.

3. I'm crazy about God
.

Which one could it be? (That's a rhetorical question) ;) Back to studying!

Oh Christ, my Lord, You have been my dwelling place in all generations. As rabbits to their rock, so I run to You for safety; as birds from their wanderings, so I fly to You for peace. Chance and change are busy in my little world of nature and men, but in You I find no changing or shadow of turning. I rest in You without fear or doubt and face my tomorrows without anxiety. Amen.

--A. W. Tozer (The Knowledge of the Holy)

Double-Sided Truths

.
Satan's always whispering, "You're mine."
.

They're the most frightening and convincing words he can say. It attacks a fear in all of us--that we're actually dark inside and no amount of good-doing or Bible-reading will get us free from his sneaky claws.

He whispered these words to me last night, telling me, "You're incapable of love. You're messed up. You're broken."

But this morning I woke to God whispering, "I've taught you to love. I've vacuumed your mess. I'm the best super-gluer in existence."

One of the hardest parts of Satan's words are that they're usually true. He tells you words that are true without God. Without God, I am incapable of real love. Without God, I'm messed up. Without God, I'm severely broken.

People say, "Don't listen to Satan's lies." But he lies less than we say he does; instead, he tries to make us forget our Lord by telling us who we are without God. He knows that we fear being distant from God. If Satan can convince us that we are...oh the power he has. 

Take a look at the first time we hear him speak:

"And the woman said to the serpent, "We may eat the fruit of the trees of the garden; but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God has said, 'You shall not eat it, nor shall you touch it, lest you die.' " "
"Then the serpent said to the woman, "You will not surely die. For God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil." " (Genesis 3:2-5)

The Bible calls Satan "cunning"--having or showing skill in achieving one's end by deceit or evasion. Everything he said to Eve was true: she wouldn't die instantly, but they'd die eventually because of sin. Their eyes would be opened, but their hearts would be darkened (see what I mean by reading here). They would know good and evil, which is a knowledge that God also has, but God knew the pain that knowledge would bring.

You see--Satan told the truth, but shadowed their knowledge of God's character. He said they weren't close enough to God to understand the tree. He just covered the negatives of the Tree with the sparkly paint of desire.
.

The trick is to remember what/who you are with God, not what/who you are with Satan. With Satan, you are ugly, you are helpless, you are dark, you are unpleasant, you are incapable of right love. With God, your heart is a thing of beauty because it's given to His artistic hands. You have endless strength. You have life and light in Him (Psalm 36:9). You welcome others into joy and life. You have the greatest teacher of love in all forms.

These words may seem "feel-good" or over-used, but the main question right now is who are you with? That determines what's truth and what's not. Today I'm with God. Tomorrow, I may forget Him in the morning and remember Him in the evening. Satan's truths may be louder in the darkness of night, but I'll cling to unity in God the moment I remember light.

Faith is active. Choice is active. Let's defeat the enemy by being active children of our Master.

Meet the Browns

Loathing.

This word is synonymous with "Brown Recluse". When I think Brown Recluse, I think loathe.

I had a hatch-out a few months ago and went on a killing rampage, smashing here and there with no remorse, no screams, and definitely no tears. I thought I'd gotten them all, but no. The eight-legged beasts were brooding under broken plastic bathroom flooring, growing to the size of rodents, filling every crack, hiding in every corner, masquerading as little brown pieces of furniture...(am I going too far?).

Where were you on August 29th, 2011 at 23:09?

I was in my upstairs bathroom preparing to brush my teeth, but the sink was already claimed. Brown One crawled like spindly molasses across the white porcelain. I'd never seen a body so fat or legs so thick. This was the mother of all Brown Recluses.

I didn't jump. I didn't scream. I didn't fret or freak out. I went into my room and found my Nikon P90 for a memorable photo of the largest Brown Recluse I'd ever seen before I squished his brains out. I also snatched a quarter off my bedside table to compare against the spider. Returning to the bathroom, I zoomed the lens on Brown One a few times, but it wouldn't focus. When I moved to drop the quarter into the sink, my courage wavered. What if I startled Brown One and he escaped?

As if reading my thoughts, Brown One zipped into super-spider-speed and scurried across old toothpaste residue like he was fleeing for his life (or charging an attack).

I screamed bloody murder (something I never do).

My black Sketcher took the place of the camera and I attacked Brown One like Serena Williams playing tennis. 

It took around 7 misses and 3 hits to stun him enough so I could smash him. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder in my attempts, but it was worth it. Brown One sailed down the drain in a curled ball of death. 

Just before the toothpaste mde it to my toothbrush (yes, I still had the stomach to scrub my teeth clean after that), my eye landed on a spikey shadow behind my toilet--holding still. Too still. 

I peered at the form with a glare and let out a "No way...".

Sure enough, Brown Two (only half the size of Brown One) had witnessed the slaughter. I used the toe of my shoe (still in my hand), to end his measly little life. During this murder, I disturbed the plastic overlapping the bathroom flooring under which had been lurking...(drum roll, please)...

...Brown Three--the mother of the mother I'd just killed in the sink, practically the size of Shelob from Lord of the Rings. I was so stunned (and busy shrieking again) that I allowed Brown Three to escape back under the flooring. I then spent ten minutes smooshing the linoleum, hoping to crush Brown Three beneath it. One of its legs popped out of the crack, so I figured I'd done a thorough job, but now my bravery was shaken. Spider carcasses everywhere, paranoia at every black spot on the carpet...

I slept at a friend's house and called pest control the next morning.

The Beginning: "OPENED EYES & DARKENED HEARTS"

"You're so close-minded."

"You're so naive."

"You're so ignorant!"

I'm willing to bet that if Satan had just whispered one of the above phrases to Eve, she would have eaten the forbidden fruit much faster than when he used his lengthy, wordy, trickery. No one wants to be viewed as dense, close-minded, naive, or ignorant. No one wants to lack anything, especially knowledge. Many of us spend our lives pursuing knowledge of some sort: psychologists want to know more about the human mind, astronomers about space, doctors about medicine and the human body, etc. Adam and Eve pursued knowledge and they got it.

Genesis 3:7--"Then the eyes of both of them were opened..."

If their eyes were opened at the beginning of the human race (thus passing down to all of us), then why are we still spending our lives seeking something more? Why do we still seek knowledge or an "eye-opening" lesson?

Because when our eyes opened back in the glorious greenhouse stage of the world, something in us closed. Something more crucial to our spiritual walks and our existence than knowledge:

"This I say, therefore, and testify in the Lord, that you should no longer walk as the rest of the Gentiles walk, in the futility of their mind, having their understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God, because of the ignorance that is in them, because of the blindness of their heart..." (Eph. 4:17-18)

In the opening of our eyes was the closing of our hearts. Our understanding was darkened. We closed a door to open a window and now we spend the rest of our lives trying to close that window and open the door again.

Often times, in bible studies or church teachings, we mute the importance of the "fall of man". We focus only on the fact that man sinned and jinxed us all (thanks a lot, Adam and Eve). Though their disobedience is important, I think it's more crucial for us to see that the thick cord bonding us to God was reduced to a tiny thread. We closed our hearts and understanding--the two deepest ways that we  commune with God. We use understanding in reading and absorbing His Word, and we use our hearts to talk with Him.

Ever heard the phrase, "heart knowledge vs. head knowledge"? You know how that feels, when you know that God exists, but can't seem to make yourself feel that He does? Some call these moments "dry spells" in the Christian walk or "feeling distant from God". That is from the fall of man. Yes, sin entered the world, too and we were kicked out of the garden, but we made it harder on ourselves--harder to connect with our Lord. It's a constant struggle, but there's hope. We always have more to discover about God and it is possible. Adam and Eve were there once--in His presence. I cherish the minutes I get to spend there, and I will live striving to multiply those minutes for the rest of my life. Maybe someday, my understanding will be lightened, and my heart will not longer be blind.

 

 

This ends my "Beginning Series". Read the other entries here:

Genesis Recipe

The Beginning: "ALONE"

The Beginning: "MARRIAGE"

.

Invader

The following is a rather unique entry from my old journal, written February 21, 2011:

I have an invader.
He's taken siege over my mind and is setting up his armies to overtake my heart. You told me he's one of Your men, but I still didn't give him permission. How dare You give him leave to attack? I've spent years building my defenses. I've gathered all the materials--rock, stone, fire. I built the fort myself and then I gave You the password and You let this invader in! I told You no one. No one is allowed in. You didn't listen. You never seem to listen.


Now the invader is in my mind. His spear pokes at every thought that crosses my threshold. He never sleeps and has the audacity to swim in my dreams. His words line a bookshelf in my eyelids and I'm forced to re-read them every time I close my eyes.


I feel him fishing in my heart. His hook is sharp--I know You gave it to him. Only one of Your hooks could pierce me like this. I see You whispering tips on fishing to him sometimes--and he's already skilled. You're the best and he's a quick learner. That's not fair. I can't believe You're giving him lessons. I feel my walls growing weaker. Is that what You want?


But then...this invader is different. I think he has walls, too--walls to which only You know the password. Sometimes I try and peek over them. Sometimes I sneak a glance at the invader himself. He's intriguing. And...he's spreading with the speed of a virus--like a smile. Before long, I'll have to let him completely in if I want to keep any remnant of defense. *sigh* I thought I was invincible, but because of You, I'm being defeated. Because of You I'm forced to endure something...

...beautiful.

 

Funny how God works. Now, I will be marrying this invader in three-and-a-half months. And it is beautiful.

The Beginning: "MARRIAGE"

.

Not much is said about the first wedding. God swirls some dust and "poof!" there's man. Then He swirls a rib and "poof!" there's woman. "...And He brought her to the man." (Genesis 2:22)

That's the first wedding.

Come now. What girl doesn't want to know Eve's wedding colors? The flowers? Whether it was sunset or sunrise? The style of her dress? For the guys in the room, don't you wish marriage was still that simple? No stiff tuxedo or bridezillas? No waiting once you found that girl of your dreams?

So what if? What if weddings were still that simple? Prayer and promises, then God gives the woman to the man. This question arose in my marriage-centered brain after God introduced me to my future husband last November. Only a few months passed before I started saving up for my wedding and planning my life around Daylen Brandes. It was such a clear progression to knowing we were made for each other, but that progression came to a sudden halt thanks to modern requirements--marriage licenses, big productions, caterers, wedding drama. Now we're stuck knowing we should have been married yesterday, but it can't happen without a white dress, preacher, and a lot of relatives.

I spent several days daydreaming about Eve. God just presented her to Adam, they knew they were meant for each other (granted, they were the only two humans on Earth at the time), and voila! they're "married" under God. I would love to just pray with my man and open my eyes as a married woman.

No wonder physical intimacy is often a struggle for Christian couples prior to the wedding--the world says, "Oh, you've realized you want to get married? Okay, hold that thought and wait for 10 months." Suddenly a natural progression of closeness is halted and, whether the couple likes it or not, they're forced into a situation of ultimate, ridiculous, stressful patience.

I just keep thinking, "Hurry up, time! We need to get our life started! God has so many great plans for us once we're married!" Imagine if we started acting on those plans today. Instead, I'm just hoping that I live long enough to make it to my wedding and get going on God's blueprints.

(Be sure to read the introduction to "The Beginning Series" and "The Beginning: Alone")

If Insomnia Was a Casserole.

.
Full mind, empty stomach, and the AC's too high. Cue insomnia.

My little bouts of insomnia have never been predictable, but I like to pretend they are. Usually I require a good 9 hours of knocked-out sleep to function like a below-average human being, but sometimes (like now) my brain shouts, "Go swab decks, you lackey! No rest for you!"
.

Tonight is a momentous night. I've changed my coping-mechanism. Instead of wallowing in my own sleepy frustration for three hours or more, I allowed myself a 45-minute test run. When those 45 minutes passed and I remained nowhere near the Sandman's residence, I leaped into action.

I flipped on the light (burned my eyes), made a large mug of malted milk (drool), turned on some Natasha Bedingfield  (her clean songs), and cooked up a 10-minute tuna casserole (my new favorite, quickest, and cleanest meal).
.

In my past insomnia hours, I used to think, "What if I just got up and did something productive instead of trying to sleep and failing?"

Tonight is the night. It's a quarter past 1am and I plan to write like an inspired madwoman until my eyelids mutiny.

Cheers, mate.

The Beginning: "ALONE"

.
"You're never alone."
This common Christian 'feel-good' phrase is often heard when someone, in an act of honest vulnerability, dares to express that they feel alone.
The generic, watered-down response of, "You're never alone," rarely provides comfort or reassurance; instead, this vulnerable person now feels like a failure.
If God is always there, why do I feel alone? Is it because I'm not seeking Him enough?
Good question. Many would say, "Yup, it's your fault. Better step up those morning devos."

The term "alone" has fallen into the sin pool. I view the sin pool as a pot of words the Christian culture has thrown together and labeled as "sin" or "evil" when these words/feelings/actions aren't really sin unless in occasional contexts.

Epiphany: God created the feeling of being "alone" before sin even entered the world. Take a look:

"And the Lord God said, "It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him a helper comparable to him."

-Genesis 2:18

God labeled Adam as "alone" during a time when Adam spoke with, walked with, and spent every second in God's presence. Still, God deemed him in need of a helper. A supporter. What does this mean? Can we be alone even when we're with God?

Recently, God's impressed upon me the importance of a Christian support system. He's showing me it's okay to need someone. This doesn't mean that I doubt Him. He designed His body as a support system, not as a red pen divvying out judgment.
When I first moved to Missouri last autumn, I had no one. During that time, God chose to fill every role I needed. He was my support system, but then He trickled some of His children into my life and allowed them to fill some of the needed roles, all the while remaining the Leader.

My support system was absent this week, depriving me of the two people I turn to most for encouragement and Godward-pointed binoculars. The enemy (not necessarily just Satan, but doubts, fears, questions, worries, etc.) stood on my doorstep with me, waving farewell as my support system departed their separate ways for the next week. Then he invited himself into my apartment with a confident step and set up camp. I tripped over his tent the first two mornings and wondered aloud to God why my joy, smiles, and reassurance seemed to be super-glued to the carpet.

"Support system," He whispered.
"But they're gone!" I whined.
God didn't buy it. He's a fan of modern technology. It only took one large swallow of pride and a couple texts to contact my support system and ask for prayer. The responses were instantaneous and uplifting...lifting my enemy's tent right off its pegs and out the window.

Thousands of years later, God is still whispering to us, "It is not good for you to be alone."
Are we turning to our support systems? Friends? Family? Spouses? Church? Are we establishing support systems in our lives? Equally as important, are we being a support system to those close friends, family, spouses, etc? Or are we uncapping the red Sharpie and scribbling, "You're never alone. You're just not focusing on your morning devotions enough."
.

Genesis Recipe

On occasion, a theme will take hold of my musings and cling to them like a vine-swinging monkey. Thanks to a fine mixture of finals, relationships, questions, and life over the past several weeks, a recipe has emerged from my mind and I'm cooking it up over the course of the next three blog posts. This recipe is entitled, "The Beginning".

Only this morning did I realize that my recent mental self-lectures all link back to Genesis. This surprises me because I've always been a little bored with Genesis, due to growing up in the church and enduring the repetitive Sunday school classes that often water down the more weighty points of the Bible. But recently I've been seeing several "Genesis-Events" with a blinking light-bulb over my head, so starting next Friday, the three-course meal begins:

The Beginning: "ALONE"
(Some Ingredients: Why do we tend to assume that feeling "lonely" means you're far from God? Is feeling "alone" wrong?)

The Beginning: "FIRST WEDDING"
(Main Ingredient: What if marriage was still so simple as that first one?)

The Beginning: "OPENED EYES & DARKENED HEARTS"
(A Garnish: What really opened and what really closed when they took that first bite?)

Hopefully all dishes will emerge unburned and cooked to perfection. You're the judges and I'm the chef. I hope you're hungry.

Softball SLPs

Somehow, all things I currently love I once hated for a time. Speech therapy was one. Softball was another. On Tuesday night I united the two with double-sided tape. The result? A really smart, all girls, just-for-fun-but-we're-really-competitive-on-the-inside softball team that knows exactly what to do if someone gets pegged in the head mid-game and receives a traumatic brain injury (bonus: we do follow up speech evaluations! All for a small fee and a free softball).
Yes, my speech-therapy graduate department has put together a softball team. I couldn't be more pumped. My name was close to first on the sign-up list and my glove was already in my trunk. Our first double header was Tuesday.

I pulled out the hair-ties, extra-powerful deodorant, and athletic shorts (they're new. I'm branching out from Wyoming-garb and now own two pairs of shorts). As catcher, I've bonded with softballs in the face, the ankle, the head, and the knees. Bats aren't as friendly to meet, but they've knocked their overbearing personalities into my skull before.

Naturally, my head was more prepared than my body for the physical exertion. I took a few practice swings in front of the mirror (vain? Yes.) and popped-out my shoulder (not in a good way). My back already hurt (what am I, a grandma?), but at least I looked good. In fact, I looked ready to run four marathons with weights on my ankles and no water bottle without growing tired. A jog to my car and back (about eight yards total) trampled that delusion.

The games were exhilarating...until we started playing. We all matched. We were ready to have fun. We even had a new bat.
We lost 20-0.
Game two went better. We played four innings instead of three, but still lost 23-0. Not a single run. Not even a player past second base. I consoled myself with Relient K and grapes. Still, you'd be hard-pressed to see another graduate speech-therapist softball team do better in a double header before the night before an 8am exam. Hard-pressed, indeed.

Firefly Soul

.

My first encounter with a lightning bug was a glow splotch on my car windshield. I paid little mind--I thought maybe random bug guts were reflecting the moon or another car's headlights. Fireflies are insects in Disney movies that are big enough to fly mice through the Australian back-country. Fireflies are bugs that Adam Young used to conjure a perfect electronic Owl City melody. Fireflies are only imagined.
That's what I thought until they surrounded me like infant stars, flickering nature's giggles across the breeze. I wanted to dance in them. I did dance in them. They bobbed over whispering fields like helium wishes. I mentally blew every one of them heavenward.

My mental list of favorite insects shuddered and "butterflies" sank to second place. Lightning bugs crawled innocently to position 1. I plucked one from a blade of grass and allowed it to crawl across my skin, illuminating freckles with every pulse of yellow-green light. I imagined hundreds of them landing on my outstretched arms and upturned face. I don't think I would ever stop laughing.

Some things in life take your soul on a Ferris wheel, around and around in elated rapture. It's been several weeks now and my soul is still riding with hands thrown in the air and giggles taking flight.

Bliss.

Dear Professor

.
What is it like, standing invisible in front of a class? Does it hurt your heart knowing every student looks through you with mental ear-plugs? Do you feel like your life is dripping through your clenched fingers like suffocating raindrops?

I would.

Put those drops in a glass. Don't waste them, you only have so many. You're watering the linoleum with your monotony. I would be watering it with tears--tears for time ticking by without kissing a single person's heart. Don't you miss it? Don't you miss that time? It could have been so meaningful. It could have changed lives, thoughts, hearts... Instead, it's tossed to the breeze like wish-less dandelion fluff. Students work on homework or plan their schedules while you speak. Can we call it 'speaking'? It comes off as a mechanical drone, memorized and spewed out every other semester all for a paycheck. I want to cry for you.

Is this the future you wanted? When you were out playing soldier-hero with your neighborhood best friend, did you aspire to be a distant impersonal lecturer? No. No one would desire to be dull and ignored. You had passion at one point. You dug it up with the earthworms before casting your line into your future. Where did it go? You dropped it on the way to the fishing hole. Now you're here with the world's tackle-box and a cemented lawn chair.

But your pond is drying up and you're catching nothing. You need to go back. You need to crawl on your hands and knees until you find that muddy, trodden passion. It's still there. It's crying, waiting to be held and attached to your fishing hook. You'll catch something. I promise. So why aren't you moving? Why aren't you seeing? Why aren't you living?

Oh professor. Pause for a moment. We won't mind the silence...it's much the same as your lecturing. But in this pause, answer my question--internally, externally, written with chalk...I don't care, but answer it. Your soul needs you to. Your passion needs you to. Your dry dwindling future begs you to. Answer it or at least take a precious second to think it.

Are you who you want to be?

Adventures of a Gender-Confused Dare-Turtle

.
"I've always wanted a turtle."

I told this to my man and, next thing I knew, a teeny box turtle had "accidentally" crawled into a bucket for me.
Missouri is a land of crunched summer turtles that dare to play chicken with shiny four-wheeled giants-of-death. I saved one once--jumped out of my car and placed the four-legged rock on the grass. My friend, Seth, had the courtesy of informing me that, "...in the time it took you to save that one turtle, five others got killed and crunched somewhere else."
Thanks, Seth.

Due to confusion (or lack of interest) in my new turtle's gender, Daylen and I christened it "Heeshee" (didn't know if it was a "he" or a "she"). Heeshee sat in the bucket like a grouchy paperweight, munching the grape tomatoes when no one was looking. After lugging a fishtank from the attic, we brought Heeshee to his new home. He spent the first night crawling toward the tank's glass corners and just staring out at my messy living room.

I pulled out an old toothbrush and scrubbed Heeshee squeaky-clean. His grouchiness washed down the drain with the greenish-brown soapsuds and he squirmed in my hand, examining the pearly bathroom setting. Only the sharp, nagging word "salmonella" stopped me from planting a kiss on his curious head.




Determined to be a faithful pet-keeper, I looked up all there is to know about caring for box turtles. Rule number 1, don't keep it in a tank.
Drat.
I moved him up to my second-story porch garden. His minuscule stature could never scale to the surrounding walls of the planter, so I plopped him among the lily and daisy jungle. One turtle-sized pool, a pile of turle-ish food, and five decorative rocks later, I bid Heeshee goodnight. I drifted to sleep, free of guilt and dreaming of Heeshee skipping and tromping through his new homelike environment.

Morning found him wandering among the greens. Early afternoon found him floating sleepily in his pool. Late afternoon didn't find him.
I returned from class and my motherly turtle-instinct screeched in alarm. I searched the planter like a seasoned Safarimonger (it should be a word), scoured the porch with Sherlock Holmes scrutiny, and yet...no Heeshee. Only one conclusion existed: He climbed out of the 2-foot high planter, leaped off the second-story porch, and frolicked away.

Heeshee, the mountain-climbing, free-falling, dare-turtle.

A couple hours later, every afternoon gardener and neighborhood child knew Heeshee was missing. They presented me with toads, snakes, a monstrous box-turtle (I wondered if he'd eaten Heeshee), and one kid kindly suggested that, "Maybe Heeshee got picked up by a hawk."
Nice kid.
After a good hour of searching, I resorted to just hoping that Heeshee stays safe and enjoys his independence. The apartment porch is much more lonely and sniffly (especially the planter). I am, too.

Heeshee...you were a good and brave turtle. May your daring feats inspire and encourage the rest of the car-crunched turtle world.

The Sunset's Vibrant Echo

"Look at the rainbow!"
The shout comes from my dad, mid-movie. I glance up from my sewing, my aunt from her cross-stitching, my brother from his computer, and my mom from her coffee. A collective gasp issues from myself and all six family members in the room. A pause of wonder and awe passes, then a stampede.

I sprint downstairs to fish my camera from my suitcase, one aunt runs to her room, the other scrambles through the contents in her purse. Everyone is yelling.
I shove my feet into my little sister's extra-small abominable snowman slippers and sprint into the rain. The rainbow stretches like a colorful math-compass curve, measuring the sky. A lighter rainbow lurks behind it like a shadow of paint. One side ends in my neighbor's yard--I almost see the pot of gold. Instead of chasing the leprechauns, I turn the other direction and leave the shelter of the porch. I'm determined to capture the entire rainbow span in a single photo.

Across the soaking yard, into the sunlit rain, and through the mud-covered alfalfa field. It takes me ten steps to realize my sister will make me eat her slippers for my impulsiveness, so I leave them behind. As she puts it, "You left them in the pouring rain in a pile of mud!"
I'm so thoughtful...

In slipperless wonder I continue my escapade in my white No Nonsense socks. I trip over collapsing mole-tunnels and sacrifice my soles to half-grown crunchy alfalfa stalks. I'm reminded a half-acre later, that my lungs can never keep up with my feet so I slow and turn around to catch my breath and my rainbow. Sadly, as I ran, so did the sun and my rainbow arch grew twice its size. I'm in danger of losing my picture.
With a desperate breath, I continue the sprint and I learn a lifelong lesson--you can't outrun the sun. As the sun curls under its covers, it takes with it my rainbow--silencing it's vibrant echo. All that's left behind are grey clouds and drizzle.
Multiple snaps later, I trudge back to the house muddy, soaked, and suffocating, but exhilarated. Though I missed the magnificent, artshow-worthy photograph I envisioned, the sunset in itself almost matched the glory of the rainbow.

I peel off my mud-coated socks in the entry-way. My family has returned to the sappy Hallmark movie and my mom to her coffee. I trudge downstairs to spew my thoughts and euphoria onto my blog when my iPhone dings a hello. The message holds a picture caught and dominated by my dad's panoramic expertise. He had the decency to send it to me and I wish I could claim it as my own. Still, he caught what I chased and, as long as it's captured for eternity, I won't complain. Ten minutes later, I still can't breathe, but I count the sacrifice worth the prize as I stare at my personal rainbow.

Backward Bad Luck

Black cats, spilled salt, shattered mirrors, and rickety ladders.
I've seen and done all, jinxing myself with supposed superstition. By this point in life, I've tallied enough "7-years of bad luck" that I couldn't possibly outlive it all, so I've contented myself with the idea of a luckless life, whether luck exists or not (*cough* not).

Friday the 13th instills worry upon the superstitious population. Wikipedia--my never-ending source of shaky knowledge--defines fear of Friday the 13th as friggatriskaidekaphobia (don't fret, it took me three tries out-loud to pronounce it, too).
I do not suffer from friggatriskaidekaphobia (or any word that could pass as a scaly syllable-snake); in fact, I tend to spit on the calendar date and wait for it to spit back. So far, the spit of Friday the 13th has been made of sugar and surprises. On August 13, 2010, I attended a lovely wedding, I successfully packed the contents of an entire house into a shoe-box sized trailer, and I started what turned out to be a delightful drive to Missouri.

Today (May 13, 2011), I experienced a "2011 highlight day". It's joined my list of top 10 favorite days (roughly around fifth place) and filled every ounce of my water-and-blood-filled body with joy and urges to dance. My self-control and poise are both panicking at my antics. Sunny skies (after two days of snow), a writer's conference that's writing its way into my heart of cherished memories, and half-priced Starbucks frappuccino's. That's only the beginning. If this is bad luck, I'm it's biggest fan.

Cocawydamo Surprise

I knew something was wrong when my morning cereal tasted like dirt and acid.
My Honey-Bunches-of-Oat flakes looked crunchy and smelled delectable, but something about the aftertaste rang red like a tornado siren. Was it the cereal or was I borderline sick today? I opted to dump it out rather than force it down and then brushed my teeth more thoroughly than during a panicked pre-dentist hour.

The remainder of my Cocawydamo morning (pronounced: koh-kuh-why-duh-mow) flew by with good music and disjointed packing. In the next two and a half weeks I shall travel to Colorado (CO), California (CA), Wydaho (WY & ID), and then back to Missouri (MO). The word Cocawydamo reminds me of tropical things like coconut and Beachboy songs.

During the delightful, yet bittersweet ride to the airport, my man and I got Boba Tea (my favorite) and I snagged a Wendy's chicken sandwich to subdue my growling stomach. I thoroughly enjoyed every sip and bite. Hugs, prayers, and waves later, I entered the KCI terminal alone and reached my gate in approximately 7 minutes (trained in airport-efficiency by my world-traveling dad).
The flight progressed the same as my previous hundreds--polite hello to the person I'll be rubbing elbows with (unintentionally) for the next two hours, computer-voiced instructions for survival and safety, take-off thirty minutes later, Sprite with a few extra napkins to doodle on, pull out a good book and forget about the time.
The pre-descent turbulence came before I finished my current chapter. I pushed the limits of air-sickness tolerance, relying on my clean track record of no-hurling on airlines. Today, the limits pushed back.

I closed my book mid-chapter, cranked the plastic air vent, and shut my eyes--a foolproof way to avoid air-sickness. On a rebellious whim, my half-digested Wendy's and Bubble Tea decided to dance hip-hop. I've never been good at hip-hop and my stomach is clearly not a fan because it kicked out the dancers.
As the food-dancers meandered out of the stomach-door, my brainwaves turned frantic. I ripped open thought-drawers and rifled through papers of distraction (if you don't think about barfing it won't happen, right?). My brain settled on stringing together beautiful descriptive words for a blog post about throwing-up (no joke). For some reason, this didn't distract me (sarcasm). My breathing turned deep, loud, and desperate--embarrassing, but necessary. In a last plea, I mentally threw out frantic prayers that looked like, "God, please don't let me throw up!" on repeat.

We landed. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my stomach delivered a kick to the meandering dancers. Wendy's and Boba Tea raced hand-in-hand for freedom, emerging into the fresh air of a United Airlines cabin. I pulled out the blue sick-sack just in time to catch them. By God's grace, I made no sound (usually I'm very loud in this area of bodily functions). I could share many details, but I'll spare you and just say that I thank the Lord for my velum, for plastic lining, and for the spare napkins I never ended up doodling on (but put to good use).

Mortification, n., "the feeling one gets when throwing up on an airline elbow-to-elbow with a stranger after the plane has already landed."

I was thirteen the last time I threw up from motion-sickness (this includes cars, planes, ships/boats, and amusement parks). For eleven years I prided myself on my delayed gag-reflex--even bragged about it sometimes. Today it gets a spanking.

My row-neighbor said it was "okay" in response to my apology and asked if I felt better (if "better" means shaking, pale, and sweaty, then yes). The old lady across the aisle patted my arm and gave a sweet understanding smile. I ended the flight with a weak stagger to the exit, a personal vow to never fly after sketchy Honey-Bunches-of-Oats, a glare at the smiling pilot (though I know he's innocent), and a whisper to the nearest flight attendant:

"There's a sick-sack under a seat in row 13. Just letting you know."

Royally Unforgettable

.

"A royal wedding doesn't just happen every year."

The girls in my graduate program have been more excited about the marriage of Prince William to Catherine Middleton than all of England (including the couple and the Queen). They counted down the days, they finished homework early, they followed every update (dress design, wedding location, etc), and woke at 4am to revel in girly sighs and fluttery hearts on the TV screen.

Their excitement was contagious, though not enough to peel me from under my covers before sunrise. Unlike every girl in my program, I slept through a "not-so-often-in-a-lifetime" event. I know that next class I'll hear more details than the Prince's personal news reporter.
A royal experience may have passed me by in the morning, but come afternoon I threw on cleats and chased it down with a camera and baseball jersey. What I caught was, in my opinion, a bit superior to 4am royalty:

American royalty.
April 29th marked my flamboyant introduction to the Kansas City Royals baseball team. The Royals and I were a little awkward at first--unsure whether to shake hands or have a sunflower seed spitting contest. We beat around the bush until I finally succumbed to loud cheering and binoculars. The perfect mixture of sunlight and green grass equaled instant patriotism and cravings for a baseball cap. I welcomed it with open arms and a polished camera lens.

Prince William and his lace-bedecked bride would be hard-pressed to trump my first KC Royals experience. My "royal day" started with free parking, inexpensive tickets, good seats, perfect weather, and marvelous company. Then I received a free pop (Mountain Dew--they didn't carry Coke products), was given a baseball cap (that actually fit my pea-sized head), cheered my birthday number (27--Brayan Pena) around the bases, won a dollar, was announced (out of 31,407 people) as the evening's designated driver (and awarded a quality snazzy blue shirt), wore a giant jersey like a dedicated fan (while cheering like one), and had my face blown up on the jumbotron (the largest TV screen in professional sports--80 by 105 feet). My cherry on top was not the illuminating post-game fireworks display or the fact that the Royals won by a single run, but the joy of sharing the entire evening with a certain handsome gentleman dear to my heart.

Nope, Prince William and Kate ain't got nothin' on this. In the end, it's safe to say the KC Royals and I are on our way to being best friends.

Internal Reflection

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall.
Make me slimmer, make me tall.
Make me who I'm not at all.

The person I see in the mirror is a distraction. She never lets me see who I really am, instead she bullies the Internal-Nadine and makes her sit in the corner while she points out minute flaws that can only found in a pamphlet of the world's imperfections.

There are many days when I feel beautiful until I look in the mirror. Then my focus slips from my head like jello down a windowpane. I forget that I'm fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139). I forget that God looks at the heart (1 Samuel 16:7). I forget about the part of me that matters. All I see are my silly flaws sticking their forked tongues out at me.

"Well I think you're beautiful."
You're my mom/sister/best friend, you have to say that.

"Who you are inside makes you beautiful on the outside."
Yes, but that doesn't count.

Why doesn't it? Who was the first to stand up and say, "The inside of a person is a cheap card. That's a given."? Whoever it was must have been a great orator because the world believed them.

My old roommate, Julie, and I owned a shoddy full-length mirror our senior year at college. It sat propped on an overturned shower-caddy, draped with a tacky curtain that we couldn't fit over our single window. The mirror had warps and flaws in all the right places. No matter how groggy, frumpy, or grungy I felt, "the mirror" fixed it all. Just a glance in its spotted, smeared pane turned an XXL sweatshirt and holey sweats into a cute, flattering, study outfit. We were always thin and perfectly curvy in the mirror. No one was allowed to move it.
You and I both know it's reflection was fake. It didn't show how I really looked, but the confidence booster was enough to push me through the day with a smile. So why was I content with a lie that I didn't even believe?

We don't look in the mirror to see if our make-up is even, or if our hair is smooth, or if our smile looks genuine. We look into the mirror to judge ourselves, to fix already perfect things, and to tell God He messed up. To ask, "Hey, did You mean to make my nose crooked?" or "Did You know that my teeth aren't even?" or "This is the wrong skin. You misread my order."

If I had a choice, would I choose to be beautiful on the inside or the outside? Why can't I have both? Because one comes from the other, no matter what the world says. The inside transforms the exterior of a person. I know many people--men and women--who are far from super-model-stipulations, but they exude beauty beyond external understanding. Their beauty fills my soul. It makes me see God's creativity.

That is real beauty. It's not a "cheap given", but we've tainted the view of internal beauty. Inner beauty is Christian phraseology that allows us to judge actors and actresses. It's an excuse that helps us ignore our discontentment with our looks. We're missing the point (as we usually do). Internal and external beauty are holding hands, but we must talk to Miss Internal before we can understand Miss External's language. Then, and only then, will we see the whole. We're stopping at the exterior when the interior is screaming for recognition.

To uncover internal beauty takes effort. We're a lazy world. No wonder we resorted to easy fading beauty. Internal beauty transforms the exterior--we just need to put forth the effort to know each other. You'll rarely find deep beauty in first impressions. It comes through deeper searching. Through quality time. Through things that our hollow culture avoids.

We're a superficial nation not because we focus on the external, but because we're ignoring the internal.

Let that sink in. It's not because of our focus on the external, it's because we choose to ignore the internal--it's too complicated. Too time consuming. Too raw. Too real.
But everyone wants to be known. Everyone wants to be seen--really seen.

God has made me beautiful. He's given me a deep beauty. I know this because that beauty is Him. He is inside me and He is ultimate beauty. I distract myself from Him by reading the world's list on my mirror.

Mirrors aren't bad. It's my reflection that needs a firm spanking. I can't see past it, so I'm taking Internal-Nadine out of the corner and we're putting Reflection-Nadine in time-out.
No mirrors.
I'm covering each mirror in my apartment until my heart remembers I'm beautiful. My head understands, but that's not enough--not enough for me and not enough for God. I won't look into a mirror again until I'm certain my heart will see God's creation.

.

Picture Hunting

In the early snowfalls of this Missouri winter, adventurous photographs started their migration. I caught them flying north with the geese, hiding beneath frost-laden branches, and skipping across the sun-reflected snow crystals. I ran to my closet, dressed in proper excursion attire, and retrieved my butterfly net.
A perfect day for picture hunting.

This is what I caught:

Super Villain Hero

Bissell. This name is synonymous to Hercules. Equivalent to Achilles. Comparable to Superman.
My new hero.

When I was a child, "vacuuming the house" was a torturous villain my sister and I hid from, fought against, and failed to destroy all our lives. We would have rather scrubbed the walls with pipe-cleaners (oh the drama). If you were smart, you would run to Mom on chore day and volunteer to dust. This not only made you look like the better child (volunteering), but it doomed your sibling to lugging a vacuum twice size up and down the stairs all afternoon (mild exaggeration).
I was never the smart one.

Two weeks ago, I made a significant investment. Thanks to the tax refund I'd yet to receive in the mail, I counted my chicks before they hatched and bought the Bissell Powerful Turbo Bagless Vacuum (yes, I welcomed childhood-villain into my home). It came with a mini attachment called the Turbo-brush. Anything with the word turbo should receive instant brownie-points. In the moment when we shook hands and I signed the receipt, I realized I'd misjudged Mr. Vacuum my entire life. Beneath his mask and oppressive growl sits a cape and a shiny "I'm Super" badge.

This monstrous dirt-eating superhero entered my home to replace my sad little sweeper. The sweeper had a cute heart and gave a little wheeze every time I pushed it over my paper-thin carpet. That is, until it's wheezer fell out.

I attempted to fix it multiple times, but to no avail. So, my dear apartment went for at least three months with no dirt pick-up. Don't judge. I'm a poor college student (in a year and a half, I won't be able to use that excuse anymore, so I need to play that card while I have it). Today, after abandoning the "instructions" booklet and assembling all three pieces of my vacuum, I turned on the Bissell-hero. It growled like a revving-Harley.
All the tiny dirt particles (and then some) bounced around my living-room floor like panicked ants. They knew they'd be eaten in mere moments.

Bissell-hero's eating habits sounded like a Beech Baron Twin Engine flying through a heavy rain storm. I don't expect you to know what that sounds like, but just know it was a more-than-appropriate vacuum sound. Its headlight (yes, it has a headlight) illuminated the miniature dirt-bunnies fleeing from its black-hole suction. They didn't make it.

My long-held loathing for vacuuming skipped out of my apartment like a rejected piper. I vacuumed his footprints off my doormat and told him to never come back. In the end, I dumped out two hair monsters and a pound of dirt (no joke). I've been walking on that. And sitting on it. And lying on it. *shudder* I owe many apologies to my clothing, mainly my socks. My living room looks brand new--almost as new as my vacuum. It sighs. I sigh. Summer suddenly peeks in the window and shouts, "Can I come in?"
Why yes, yes you may.

Bissell-hero waits in the corner patiently, mysteriously, and handsomely...eliminating one dust-bunny at a time with super-vacuum stealth.

This Ain't No April Fool's

.

I had a miniature meltdown at school yesterday--possibly induced by lack of sleep or my choice of coffee for breakfast. It may have been an overreaction or just an overflow of pent-up emotion. Either way, it happened and there are witnesses.
A series of unfortunate UCM traits brought me to this point--sketchy charges, having to retake classes, conflicting schedules, unhelpful workers, vague answers.... All this led to a severe mixture of pure sharp frustration and deep soul-twisting concern for future speech therapists. I don't know if they can leap through all the pointless hoops UCM sets up and come out with any compassion or heart for speech therapy left.
After tears and an embarrassing explosion on a fellow clinician, I drove home and ate pretzels with cream cheese and two spoonfuls of Nutella. The repercussions of this coping strategy produced the following nostalgic letter:

Dear Biola,

I didn't realize what a good friend you were until I said goodbye and left you in California. We had our spats and arguments. I complained about you and you stuck by silly unrelenting rules, but you were always good to me. You sent me Godly professors who cared about their students more than upholding strict reputations. You pushed me to grow and learn. You stimulated imagination and passion. You went above and beyond what the average speech-therapy program demands. I didn't realize that, you sneaky undergrad university, you.

You and God have been in cahoots for over 100 years now. I should have seen. It's so obvious now that I'm not with you anymore, but isn't that how it always goes? Children don't appreciate their parents or family until they're away from them. Christians don't appreciate fellowship until they're in situations without a single kindred spirit. Speech-therapy graduate students don't see how wonderful you are until they're brought to tears in the middle of the clinic workroom five states away.

It's been almost two years since we last saw each other and I just wanted to say these words: Thank you for staying as true to Him as possible in this crumbling country. Thank you for housing professors and God-based classes that polished my life and sand-papered my soul. I'm two years late in saying it, but I deeply appreciate you and all that you entail. I miss you terribly. I wish you'd come and visit or teach UCM a few of your moves. I can't come back to you because God wants me here, but you will forever be on my "thank you" list to Him. I sincerely mean this. This ain't no April Fool's.

Yours truly,
Nadine

Pictures Painting Words

.

Head-butt the wind,
Pole-vault the horizon,
Polish your destiny to reflect His glory.

Race the moonrise,
Drop-kick a thundercloud,
Poach your beliefs in the ocean and swallow them whole.

Scrub your skin with snowflakes,
Spit in a volcano's eye,
Nock an arrow and shoot the shadows beneath the topsoil.

Drive a herd of tidal waves,
Startle a falling raindrop,
Imitate a paw-print and then follow it home.

I can't explain how my mind's-eye works. To the reader, my words come first and slingshot pictures into the imagination. To me, my mental pictures paint the words and snail-mail them to ink-and-pen. What is understandable to me often comes out in mystery-form on paper...such as the above "poem" (or is it prose?).
Over the course of several weeks, phrases like "pole-vault the horizon" and "poach your beliefs in the ocean" tiptoed into my head, carrying with them a substance far too jumbled to explain. Yet in the photo-gallery of my mind, their meanings sit politely around a tea-table, organized and clear as a July sky. Someday I'll explain every seemingly-silly phrase, but for now I'll file them in what looks like the order of poetry and smile, knowing that if I dare to imitate a paw-print, my destiny will take the next polished step toward Matthew 5:16.

"Let your light so shine before men,
that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven."

An Adjective Life

.
Words are everywhere--in our eyes, on our lips, on a page, in the sky, in our thoughts. They can be written with more variation than snowflakes--beautiful, sloppy, crooked, smooth. Soft, small, joined, separate. I love rearranging words. I love poking them and watching them come alive.
But some words rub me wrong. I have a list of words that I don't want in my life--words that never get tacked to the cork-board of "Nadine's Story".

Mundane
Routine
Boring
Stagnant
Safe
Average

Flip the paper over and you'll find a list of words I hope and pray paint themselves across my story's stained glass:

Believe
Impact
Frontline
Courage
Love
Unique
Action

I want my life to be the furthest from ordinary as possible. I want the faith of Hadassah from The Mark of the Lion Series. I want the heart of Jean Valjean from Les Miserables. I want adventure like Christian in The Pilgrim's Progress and courage like Joan of Arc. Determination like Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games. An ending worthy of pasting between the covers of Jesus Freaks Volume 1.
If an author chose to write about my life, I'd want her to have to pull out a thesaurus. I'd want her to grow frustrated because she can't find the right words. I'd want her to search through different languages for the perfect descriptors. In the end, I'd want her to never find them.
I want my life to be so unique that no one can ever doubt it's God. I want absolutely everything to point to Him in a way that His power and greatness are unmistakable. I know it's possible. I believe it's possible. Only He can balance His glory with my own desires.
He can do it. He will do it. With His words and His language...it can't go wrong. He has His own thesaurus. In it, my very name is an adjective.

"My brethren, delight yourself in the Lord,
And He will give you the desires of your heart."
Psalm 37:4
.

Amputee

.
. . .The Surgeon reviews her chart. "Why are you here?"
. . .Her pale fingers clench the thin, sweat-soaked sheet. "I want to let go of past wounds, but they're bleeding into the present." The faded red stains spread like a yawn, tickling the hem of her future. "I've tried band-aids, I've tried stitches, and I've tried tourniquets. The blood won't stop."
. . .He places her file on her bedside table and sets cloths and medical tools beside it. There is no need to wash His hands, they're already clean.
. . .Her gaze fixes on His scalpel. He doesn't bother to hide it. "You're a specialist?" she chokes.
. . ."The best."
. . ."What's your price?"
. . He moves aside a crinkled pamphlet on Phantom-Limb Syndrome. "No anesthesia."
. . .She touches a shaking finger to the bead of sweat slipping down her temple. "And will it be gone forever?"
. . ."Some days you will feel its shadow more than others, but I offer your last--and best--option."
. . .Her breath crawls into her lungs in tentative wisps. She lies against the pillow. Her eyelids close, but their thin film can't shut out the terror.
. . .She holds out her pulsing heart and whispers, "Goodbye."
. . .His smooth experienced hands peel her blood-coated fingers from around the rhythm of life. Her heart trembles as He places it beneath a guillotine. The cord tightens, raising the blade to the peak. A quiver of anticipation. A twitch.
. . .Slack.
. . The glinting metal plunges like a stone into the ocean's abyss. With a dull clunk, cold-edge meets soft life-tissue. All color in the heart bursts like a mighty splash and drips over the guillotine edge. In its place, rests a pale white heart.
. . Silence twirls through the air like stunned smoke tendrils. The white heart releases a single beat. It grows louder. Faster. Stronger. There is no seam. There is no stain.
. . It shudders when the Surgeon's thumbprint brushes its surface. He leans over and breathes flakes of snow over it like a winter whisper.

. . ."Be whole."

"Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Make me hear joy and gladness,
That the bones You have broken may rejoice.
Hide Your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me."
(Psalm 51: 7-10)