Pictures Painting Words

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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

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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
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Amputee

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. . .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)

Plagued by a Question

"Ask! What shall I give you?" (1 Kings 3:5b)

If these words rumbled through my heart like shock-waves in the dreams of a cool, calm evening, I doubt I would have spewed as elegant an answer as Solomon.

"Therefore give to Your servant an understanding heart to judge Your people that I may discern between good and evil..."

Definitely not the response that would have left my shaking, sputtering lips. I'd ask God to hold that thought and come back later (as if He ever leaves). Then I'd hunch over my blog with a nervous peek over my shoulder, open a "What Would You Ask For?" questionnaire, and choose the most popular responses (preferably those from pastors); dial God's call-back number and presto.
Perhaps not. But I'll be the first to raise my hand (a daring feat) and say I wouldn't know what to ask. Do you ever wonder about your response, had you been Solomon? Some pastors say the fact Solomon asked for wisdom proves that he already had great wisdom to start out with. I don't know about that. I gather he just glanced at his mental list of "good spiritual traits to have" and picked the one on top. We all have that list:

Wisdom
Strength
Humility
Patience
Goodness
Generosity
Self-Control
Et Cetera
Et Cetera
Et Cetera

Toss on the fruit of the spirit and a little holy dressing and you're set to run that race we're all signed up for. These are the attributes we know we should have, but we don't have; we desperately want them, but aren't sure how to get them. In fact, it'd be much easier to scribble on the spirit-chalkboard at night, "Lord, give me patience." Then wake up the next morning to the word:

Done.

Poof. We're more patient. Poof. We're wise.



But God's not old-school--He doesn't use chalkboards anymore. When I was younger, I figured "wisdom" was the fool-proof answer and I harbored a little bitterness toward Solomon for using it before I could. I prepared myself every night for God's rolling echo: "ASK!" I was ready to pull those covers to my chin and squeak out "Wisdom!"
But the question never came, so I started praying for wisdom. The naive-girl thought process behind the prayer looked something like this:
If I pray for more wisdom, He's got to give it. Then, when I ask for wisdom (in response to His booming question), it will just be the topping on the cake and I'll be extra-wise. After that avid praying I learned something about myself:
I'm not wisdom's biggest fan.
I've never stood in the bleachers with a #1! foam finger, waving and hooting for Wisdom's attention.When I started praying for it, it skipped to my side but didn't skip alone. Clinging to Wisdom's hand with interlocked fingers came an intruder--someone I hadn't asked for and didn't know very well.
Strength.
Knowing the right course of action is far from actually doing it and I wasn't the most obedient doer. It grew increasingly obnoxious, having Wisdom as a friend but not Strength. I felt more and more guilty, seeing all the right choices that Wisdom pointed out, but not taking them.

In the end, I stopped praying for wisdom. If I remembered on a sunny Sunday, I'd pray for wisdom and strength, but secretly hoped for neither because they grew very tiring to keep up. Now that I'm a little older (possibly a little wiser ;), I can honestly say I wouldn't ask God for wisdom. Not because Solomon already did it (and who likes a copycat?). Not because it tuckered me out as a kid. Not because I feel obligated under "good-Christian" pressure to do so. But because I have a different request.
A good 15 years later, I know exactly what I'll ask for.
If God came to me tonight or tomorrow and said, "Ask! What shall I give you?" I could answer with a snap. It may take a few tries to push past the teeth-chattering and eye-twitching awe, but I have an answer--an answer to the question that plagued me as a child: what would you ask for?

So I turn the plague to you. Do you know what you would ask for? God's not a three-wish genie--He doesn't give you a two-wish cushion in case you ask for the "wrong thing" (if there is, in fact, a wrong thing). You may ask once. So if you had to choose, what would it be? What would you pick?

Someday I'll tell you what mine would be (personally, I think it's better the Solomon's), but here's another question: if you desire something that's pleasing to Him, don't you think He'll give it?
If so, why aren't you asking right now? Why do we wait for Him to command us, "ASK!"

I am no longer waiting. Instead, now that I underwent the process of discovering my answer, I bring it before him with a little more confidence than my frightened squeak.

Raisin Transformer

Like genuine country folk, we loaded the snow machines (aka. snowmobiles) the day after Thanksgiving. On the horizon sat a trek through the unknown, the growl of a mini chainsaw, and three-foot-deep snow angels....it was time to hunt down our Christmas tree.

Having traveled home with one tiny "overhead" suitcase (packed far beyond what's allowed) and a backpack, my snow clothes were doomed to remain in my Missouri dresser. This forced me to rummage through the "reserves" closet and pull out a full body snow suit that probably belonged to my great-grandmother. Once I zipped it up, I crept to the mirror and glanced in with a cringe.

I looked like a transformer.


Unable to resist, I stomped up to my brother, making robot sounds. He tried to force my arms down like little Randy in the movie "A Christmas Story".

Though I resembled a 70's hippie-dork, I found myself quite warm when tromping through the thigh-high snow to pull out the tipped snowmachine. No worries about a faulty powder-skirt in this onesie. But when our excursion ended and the snow melted through the thinning lining, my suit and I encountered a deal-breaker moment:

When wet, it smelled like raisins.

This may not bother some people, but I'm a picky raisin eater (meaning I pick them out of whatever I'm eating). I'm an even pickier raisin smeller. In conclusion, though my transformer-adventure was almost as thrilling as the movie, the suit remains in the closet for the next unsuspecting visitor.
I hope they like raisins.

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Hypothetical Soapbox

Let's pretend that someone gifts me with a bar of soap the size of my Jeep Liberty. I wouldn't ask the brand. I wouldn't ask the scent. I wouldn't even ask how they transported or found such a colossal slab of cleanliness; instead, I would pull out my Victorinox pocket-knife and carve the soap into a sturdy box. Then I would flip that box over in the city square, gather soap chips, and mash them into a reference upon the side of the box: Ephesians 5.

"But among you there must not be... ⁴ ...obscenity, foolish talk or coarse joking, which are out of place, but rather thanksgiving."



I would coax my inner extrovert to step upon this unique artwork and deliver a speech. This topic is important to her and the soap is passion-scented. She would clear her throat, plant her feet, and say something like this:

I hate crude-joking. I hate obscenity. I hate coarse comments. In fact, "hate" is too tame--loathe would be more appropriate. Detest. Abhor. Despise. Excessive vulgarity makes me angry and physically ill. It drives me to do impulsive things like blog about it, like ditch studying to internally rage about it, like abandon sleep to scratch thoughts on sticky notes.

"Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children ² and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God." (Eph. 5:1-2)

I do not feel loved when I'm the recipient of a coarse comment. I do not smell the fragrance of Christ when the topic of humor is something I fight daily to keep out of my thoughts. Our mindset is an hourly battle. Why do we choose to turn our backs on the enemy's sword just for the sake of a forced laugh? What makes crude joking funny? Are we laughing at the comment or the fact it's inappropriate and someone dared to voice it?

“Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things.” (Philippians 4:8)

Oh what an impossible task that remains dear to my heart. I wish, desperately, that I could do this on a consistent basis. Instead, I cherish the few seconds of true, noble, just, pure, lovely, good, virtuous, praiseworthy meditation I manage to squeeze into a single week...if I'm diligent.
It. Is. Hard.
And it's even harder when brothers and sisters (let alone non-family members) engage in active attack against the protective walls I rebuild every morning and afternoon. When I don't join in, I'm a "stick-in-the-mud". If it takes me a second to "get" a joke, I'm viewed as 'innocent'--a word used interchangeably with "ignorant" and "idiot".
No one wants to be innocent these days--it's seen as shameful, pathetic, young, naive, and dumb. Why such an aversion to purifying our hearts and minds? It's the hardest battle anyone could undertake, yet we ridicule those who dare to step out.

John Reuben's song, The Boy vs. the Cynic, contains lyrics that strike the core of a problem in today's mindset:

"Don't mistake innocence for ignorance,
Don't mistake purity for inexperience,
Don't mistake humility for weakness,
I sincerely mean this."

Innocence, purity, and humility are things to gain. They are not three traits that result from lack of knowledge, experience, or strength. They are the bronze, silver, and gold of the spiritual Olympics. All of us want to be champions, so why do we fight so hard to be mediocre?

My inner extrovert could go on, but the soapbox is growing soggy from her foot-stamping. Chances are, this soapbox will join the many others I have in storage, waiting to emerge for another bout of passion. Sometimes I sneak bubbles from each one into my pockets to pop on unsuspecting listeners. They are precious to me and I pray everyone would listen to their messages and inhale their scents with an open mind and heart. May they be the aroma of Christ.

I've never expected myself to change the world, but if I could I think I'd start with this hypothetical soapbox.

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Freeday

Today feels like Friday. I drove with windows down, music loud, and a sunglass-wink to the sun. Today is Tuesday, but it's the feeling that matters. Everyone sighs. Friday, on occasion, is even more enjoyable than Saturday. There are multiple reasons this applies to my life, four of which are:

1. I have no class on Friday.

2. "Friday" is the only day of the week with the letter i in it--my favorite letter (yes, I have a favorite letter, and I know it is looked down upon by teamwork-enhancing motivational speakers).

3. It is the day before Saturday (aka. a day filled with hope, anticipation, and growing smiles...and frantic traffic).

4. His Girl Friday, is a fabulous Cary Grant movie. His Girl Saturday just doesn't have the same ring.



The sun shines through my half-closed blinds and screams "good morning!" between bird-tweets and rooster-crows (or at least imagined rooster-crows). I relish the natural alarm clock only because my electronic alarm clock is hidden, smashed, or on silent. It's Friday.
"What do I want to do today?"
Ah, such open-ended beauty. Friday is my sworn "no-homework" day (unless I enter a state of desperation). I can do whatever I want (until I think of things I can't), stay up as late as I want (because tomorrow's Saturday! No alarm!), drive wherever I want (gas-funds permitting), and sing as loud as I want (but I do that anyway, Friday or not). It is because of these glorious options that I have nominated Friday as a blog-day.

I am trying something new: consistency.
Not consistency of food or liquids (sit in my Swallowing Disorders class for more information on that), but regularity, stability, dependability, reliability (yes, I used my thesaurus).
I'm attempting to post on a consistent basis, partly to keep myself writing on a consistent basis. When I don't write for a while, I'm forced to wade through elusive words and absent descriptions, squeezing the sponge of decent wordage. I don't like squeezing that sponge, I'd rather have an overflow. I don't like sponges much at all (unless they're sea sponges because they resemble brains).



In no way am I limiting my writing to every 7 days. I will write when I'm inspired and I won't force inspiration (is that even possible?). But I hope that, in announcing and taking on this endeavor, I will choose to act upon moments of inspiration that I have frequently shoved aside and let fade.

So toast-and-jam to a new goal. We set them to break them, but the process still molds us and I don't mind being clay for a time.