It's like standing on a stage with all the world to see me. Everything's okay until I stand in the living room with the people closest to me. Eye to eye. Face to face. My voice trembles. My prose wobbles.
Why? Those closest will forgive. Those closest already know.
that I'm human
12/19/04
12/10/04
chasing the sunlight: outrunning the shadow?
I was lying in the sunlight as it streamed in from the foyer window. It was warmer than other places in my house. But the shadows kept coming; was the light moving? I tried to write as the shadow raced down the page. Outrun it. Outrun it.
But I can't, I can't, I CAN'T!
Duh. No one can. Well... just One.
Not outrun. Overcome.
Come on. I need you to come over to my house. Help me throw all the doors and windows open. I know it's cold outside, but we've gotta do it anyway. We've gotta get so much light in here that the shadows hide. Come on. Hurry!
But I can't, I can't, I CAN'T!
Duh. No one can. Well... just One.
Not outrun. Overcome.
Come on. I need you to come over to my house. Help me throw all the doors and windows open. I know it's cold outside, but we've gotta do it anyway. We've gotta get so much light in here that the shadows hide. Come on. Hurry!
feeling dry
My Eyes are Dry
Keith Green, 1978
My eyes are dry, my faith is old.
My heart is hard, my prayers are cold.
And I know how I ought to be,
Alive to You, and dead to me.
Oh, what can be done for an old heart like mine,
Soften it up with oil and wine.
The oil is You, Your Spirit of love.
Please wash me anew in the wine of Your blood.
Keith Green, 1978
My eyes are dry, my faith is old.
My heart is hard, my prayers are cold.
And I know how I ought to be,
Alive to You, and dead to me.
Oh, what can be done for an old heart like mine,
Soften it up with oil and wine.
The oil is You, Your Spirit of love.
Please wash me anew in the wine of Your blood.
12/7/04
12/6/04
murder
They sucked the life out of my story. Then they stuffed it up with empty words and set it on the pedestal for which they said it was made.
I saw it there Friday, head below the torso, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I cried inside because its face used to have emotion, just like yours or mine. It used to cry and laugh; it had a soul.
But that's all gone now. And all that's left are its remains, set up on a pedestal for the world to read.
I saw it there Friday, head below the torso, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I cried inside because its face used to have emotion, just like yours or mine. It used to cry and laugh; it had a soul.
But that's all gone now. And all that's left are its remains, set up on a pedestal for the world to read.
11/30/04
sometimes I wonder
Sometimes I wonder if we really understand what it means to be a follower. Is it to silently hold back from the conversation because we don't want to step on anyone's toes? America is free; so... we keep our beliefs under tight security. Hush. Yes, that's what I believe, but I won't say it because although I believe you're going to hell because you don't believe it, you're entitled to believe what you want to believe. Hush. I can't say that. I can't say that you're condemned. But you are. Hush. You are. See it through my actions that I'm saved and you're not. See it in my eyes. Let the Holy Spirit tell you because He doesn't have to be politically correct. But I do. Hush. So I won't tell you. I'll just hope and pray. Hush.
!
"[I]n the congregations will I bless the LORD" (ps. 26.12 emphasis added). "I will wash mine hands in innocency... [t]hat I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all they wondrous works" (ps.26.6,7 emphasis added).
!
"[I]n the congregations will I bless the LORD" (ps. 26.12 emphasis added). "I will wash mine hands in innocency... [t]hat I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all they wondrous works" (ps.26.6,7 emphasis added).
11/29/04
detachment
For a moment, I was detached from this house. I couldn't see the little fists wrapped around the rungs of the staircase. I couldn't hear the laughter. The dining room was empty, but not in expectancy.
For a moment, it didn't matter that the huge expanse of wall still lacked artwork: an abstract painting, splashed with tan and red, purple and black.
In that moment, we were nowhere. Not here nor there. Just waiting.
Figure out what it all means, and you'll be doing better than I.
For a moment, it didn't matter that the huge expanse of wall still lacked artwork: an abstract painting, splashed with tan and red, purple and black.
In that moment, we were nowhere. Not here nor there. Just waiting.
Figure out what it all means, and you'll be doing better than I.
11/8/04
revelation: revolution
I have to write this before I forget. I have to write this before I lose this passion.
Let me start with an admission: I've been feeling dead for awhile now. Wanting to search, wanting to pray, I haven't been willing to fall on my knees -- crying -- and tell God I need help. Badly. I can't do this on my own. I can't expect to know where we're supposed to live, what step to take next in life, if I don't take the time to tell God how I'm feeling. I'll admit, I yelled at God today. My hands were in fists, head against the carpet, as I demanded that He help me out of this mess. Is he playing tricks on me? Why this dead-end relationship with Adam and Amy? Why this frustration with everyone except my husband? (praise God I have no hard feelings against him) What do you except me to do? Why won't you just tell me?
You haven't asked me, my child. I just want to hear your voice.
But I have prayed, God. What do you call all those mornings beside my bed?
Child, I love you. But... are you sure... you weren't just talking to yourself?
I guess you can say I broke this afternoon. Shattered is more like it. I still don't have all the answers, but I feel alive in Christ again. I know what He wants of me. He wants me to live for Him, and not for any man, not for any organization. Maybe some of you know what I'm talking about. You've cried and complained and fought the system, but you haven't done anything about it. And I haven't either. I mean, what is there to do? Quit. That's what I wanted to do. You don't know how badly I wanted to quit.
But you know what? Christ loves the people in the organization, and He wants me to love them too. He loves them so much he died for them. Earthly things are not worth living for, but Jesus Christ is. If we're going to stay together, we must be united in Christ. He must be our focus. Nothing else, in and of itself, is worth preserving. I want everyone to know that. I want to share the love of Christ with them, whether they're in or out of the system. I love them too much not to.
Will you join me?
Let me start with an admission: I've been feeling dead for awhile now. Wanting to search, wanting to pray, I haven't been willing to fall on my knees -- crying -- and tell God I need help. Badly. I can't do this on my own. I can't expect to know where we're supposed to live, what step to take next in life, if I don't take the time to tell God how I'm feeling. I'll admit, I yelled at God today. My hands were in fists, head against the carpet, as I demanded that He help me out of this mess. Is he playing tricks on me? Why this dead-end relationship with Adam and Amy? Why this frustration with everyone except my husband? (praise God I have no hard feelings against him) What do you except me to do? Why won't you just tell me?
You haven't asked me, my child. I just want to hear your voice.
But I have prayed, God. What do you call all those mornings beside my bed?
Child, I love you. But... are you sure... you weren't just talking to yourself?
I guess you can say I broke this afternoon. Shattered is more like it. I still don't have all the answers, but I feel alive in Christ again. I know what He wants of me. He wants me to live for Him, and not for any man, not for any organization. Maybe some of you know what I'm talking about. You've cried and complained and fought the system, but you haven't done anything about it. And I haven't either. I mean, what is there to do? Quit. That's what I wanted to do. You don't know how badly I wanted to quit.
But you know what? Christ loves the people in the organization, and He wants me to love them too. He loves them so much he died for them. Earthly things are not worth living for, but Jesus Christ is. If we're going to stay together, we must be united in Christ. He must be our focus. Nothing else, in and of itself, is worth preserving. I want everyone to know that. I want to share the love of Christ with them, whether they're in or out of the system. I love them too much not to.
Will you join me?
10/28/04
eisley
You know those dirt roads I told you about? Well, the only person with whom I've driven them is my dad. It's kind of his territory, out there with nothing to see for miles but farmland. I guess you could say he introduced me to those roads.
And he introduced me to Eisley. Eisley Cemetary. Eisley's located a good two miles from any paved roads, and it probably doesn't have any more than, say, fifty gravestones.
"That's Eisley Cemetary," Dad once told me as we were driving by.
I imagine I looked at him with interest.
"There used to be a huge city here, big as New York."
"What happened to it?"
"It died out. All that's left is that cemetary."
I smiled.
My dad knows everything.
And he introduced me to Eisley. Eisley Cemetary. Eisley's located a good two miles from any paved roads, and it probably doesn't have any more than, say, fifty gravestones.
"That's Eisley Cemetary," Dad once told me as we were driving by.
I imagine I looked at him with interest.
"There used to be a huge city here, big as New York."
"What happened to it?"
"It died out. All that's left is that cemetary."
I smiled.
My dad knows everything.
alvarado's
It's a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant on Davis Boulevard. Just to get in the place is a bit of a trick because you have to drive all the way around back to get to the parking lot.
So there I am, ten till three in the afternoon, ordering myself a couple enchiladas with rice and beans. Mexican food's been my default since moving down south, and my default off a Mexican menu is always chicken enchiladas with queso. The cashier kindly accepts my request for cheese instead of the traditional red enchilada sauce.
I settle down with my Pepsi in a booth near a window. (I've always got to be by a window. I think it's something about me and daydreaming... it doesn't work as well when all you have to look at is brick-shaped floor tile and Formica tabletops.) Someone said this place used to be a Dairy Queen, but the windows are now bordered with thick burnt-orange paint. I realize I could never bring my family here. Maybe my husband, but never my family. It's too personal. Too much like the dirt roads on which I used to drive home from work. Now, in the city, it's a new place to get away. No one's going to talk to me here. I might get a few stares, maybe a hello or two, but mostly just privacy... a place to relax.
But not today. Because I've just remembered I've got to be to work in ten minutes, and -- "no thanks I don't need salsa" -- I've just gotten my food. I barely dig into one enchilada -- burning my mouth in the process -- when I realize I've gotta fly if I'm not going to be late. I scarf down some rice and beans. The rest has to go in the trash.
I feel sick.
But it's not the food. The food was great. It's those eyes behind the counter, that Hispanic woman who took my specialized order, watching me throw that food away.
I rush out, too embarrassed to say anything.
So there I am, ten till three in the afternoon, ordering myself a couple enchiladas with rice and beans. Mexican food's been my default since moving down south, and my default off a Mexican menu is always chicken enchiladas with queso. The cashier kindly accepts my request for cheese instead of the traditional red enchilada sauce.
I settle down with my Pepsi in a booth near a window. (I've always got to be by a window. I think it's something about me and daydreaming... it doesn't work as well when all you have to look at is brick-shaped floor tile and Formica tabletops.) Someone said this place used to be a Dairy Queen, but the windows are now bordered with thick burnt-orange paint. I realize I could never bring my family here. Maybe my husband, but never my family. It's too personal. Too much like the dirt roads on which I used to drive home from work. Now, in the city, it's a new place to get away. No one's going to talk to me here. I might get a few stares, maybe a hello or two, but mostly just privacy... a place to relax.
But not today. Because I've just remembered I've got to be to work in ten minutes, and -- "no thanks I don't need salsa" -- I've just gotten my food. I barely dig into one enchilada -- burning my mouth in the process -- when I realize I've gotta fly if I'm not going to be late. I scarf down some rice and beans. The rest has to go in the trash.
I feel sick.
But it's not the food. The food was great. It's those eyes behind the counter, that Hispanic woman who took my specialized order, watching me throw that food away.
I rush out, too embarrassed to say anything.
10/11/04
to adam and amy...
...the couple we met at Barnes & Noble, of all places... two people we just bared our heart to, like we were fools, in desperate need of friends. And you know the amazing thing? You listened... you understood.
Maybe we are fools. But it just seemed like you are too... like your deepest pleasure is in being fools like us. Fools for Christ.
You've got our number. Maybe we'll never hear from you again.
But then again, maybe we will... because, although it was our night to need you, fools need each other sometimes, too.
Maybe we are fools. But it just seemed like you are too... like your deepest pleasure is in being fools like us. Fools for Christ.
You've got our number. Maybe we'll never hear from you again.
But then again, maybe we will... because, although it was our night to need you, fools need each other sometimes, too.
10/4/04
on rain
What is it with people, that they complain so adamantly about the rain? I love the rain, performing a symphony outside my window, accompanied by the rumbling bass of thunder.
"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby." -Langston Hughes
Rain is like a healing balm, blanketing the dry brown grass.
"Many a man curses the rain that falls upon his head, and knows not that it brings abundance to drive away the hunger." -Saint Basil
I love how rain announces the sovereignty of God without reservation. No one can silence the thunder or mellow out the lightning.
"Rain! whose soft architectural hands have power to cut stones, and chisel to shapes of grandeur the very mountains. " -Henry Ward Beecher
So you can look at me like I'm crazy when I say I hope for a storm, or when I admit that I wouldn't mind another shower. It won't change my mind.
"Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather." -John Ruskin
"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby." -Langston Hughes
Rain is like a healing balm, blanketing the dry brown grass.
"Many a man curses the rain that falls upon his head, and knows not that it brings abundance to drive away the hunger." -Saint Basil
I love how rain announces the sovereignty of God without reservation. No one can silence the thunder or mellow out the lightning.
"Rain! whose soft architectural hands have power to cut stones, and chisel to shapes of grandeur the very mountains. " -Henry Ward Beecher
So you can look at me like I'm crazy when I say I hope for a storm, or when I admit that I wouldn't mind another shower. It won't change my mind.
"Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather." -John Ruskin
9/27/04
trying to be honest
written on 09.august.2004 in my writing journal (as opposed to my personal journal):
I think that perhaps I do not love writing enough to make a career of it. This is a very scary thing to write because for years, I've been telling myself that that is what I'm going to do. Perhaps it's just the grueling word-count requirements I set for myself that [make] me want to throw away the pen forever. I get to [sticky] places, boring places in my fiction, and I just can't go on.
But now, NOW! I'm enjoying this, pouring out my thoughts and even sounding halfway intelligent (though perhaps not logical). Maybe it's just the goal, the aim, that intimidates me. Maybe it's just this whole, bustling career-minded world that has confused me into thinking I have to have a career -- one specific thing I'm physically or intellectually good at -- to keep me busy.
Maybe I just can't keep up with the world of today. Maybe my call to write comes sporadically and occasionally... like right now.
Maybe someday I can use these thoughts, and arrange them into something that can benefit others.
Or maybe what I've been experiencing isn't that silly theory of writer's block. Maybe there is no writer's block. Maybe it's just that sometimes I get the writer's itch, the writer's call, something. And when I don't have that, maybe God wants me to be doing something else.
Like cleaning house.
Like loving others.
I may be going through a change. For all these months -- and years -- I've been telling people I'm going to be a fiction writer. But maybe I'm something else altogether.
There may be a fragment of fiction writer in me. But not always. Not right now. Because right now, I'm a journal writer, a thought writer. And some days, I'm not a writer at all.
I think that perhaps I do not love writing enough to make a career of it. This is a very scary thing to write because for years, I've been telling myself that that is what I'm going to do. Perhaps it's just the grueling word-count requirements I set for myself that [make] me want to throw away the pen forever. I get to [sticky] places, boring places in my fiction, and I just can't go on.
But now, NOW! I'm enjoying this, pouring out my thoughts and even sounding halfway intelligent (though perhaps not logical). Maybe it's just the goal, the aim, that intimidates me. Maybe it's just this whole, bustling career-minded world that has confused me into thinking I have to have a career -- one specific thing I'm physically or intellectually good at -- to keep me busy.
Maybe I just can't keep up with the world of today. Maybe my call to write comes sporadically and occasionally... like right now.
Maybe someday I can use these thoughts, and arrange them into something that can benefit others.
Or maybe what I've been experiencing isn't that silly theory of writer's block. Maybe there is no writer's block. Maybe it's just that sometimes I get the writer's itch, the writer's call, something. And when I don't have that, maybe God wants me to be doing something else.
Like cleaning house.
Like loving others.
I may be going through a change. For all these months -- and years -- I've been telling people I'm going to be a fiction writer. But maybe I'm something else altogether.
There may be a fragment of fiction writer in me. But not always. Not right now. Because right now, I'm a journal writer, a thought writer. And some days, I'm not a writer at all.
a dream
I want to be a writer. I really do. My next blog may seem to speak in direct contrast to that, but you'll just have to deal with it. That's how I am.
getting myself out there
Blogging is so public. It's like setting a piece of myself out there for anyone to snatch, tear to pieces, cry about, or... perhaps... sympathize with. I realize my imperfections will be glaringly apparant. (Oh, there's an unnecessary adverb against which Stephen King speaks so furiously [oops, there's another] in his somewhat vulgar yet helpful book, On Writing.)
In spite of the implications of "getting myself out there," I'm going to do it anyway. And I'm going to try to be honest.
In spite of the implications of "getting myself out there," I'm going to do it anyway. And I'm going to try to be honest.
9/23/04
passage
passage <pas' ej> n. 1 a passing; specif., a) migration b) transition c) the enactment of a law 2 permission or right to pass 3 a voyage 4 a means of passing; road, passageway, etc. 5 an exchange, as of blows 6 a portion of a book, musical composition, etc.
:: Webster's New World Dictionary. Pocket Books: NewYork, 1995 ::
:: Webster's New World Dictionary. Pocket Books: NewYork, 1995 ::
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