How Do You Know I'm Saved?

I got the idea for this post during finals week, when I didn't have time to write it. I am finally getting around to it, you're welcome.

My concern is for people that think they're saved.

Matthew 7:21-23 "Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, 'Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?' Then I will tell them plainly, 'I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!'"

I've met several, maybe even "lots" of people who have said, Yes, I'm a Christian... but they have no idea what that means. Way too many people think that "Christian" is a person's religion, determined by whether or not they go to church (as opposed to the synagogue or mosque or none of the above). No. It's more than that. Just because you know the story of Jesus doesn't mean you accept it. It doesn't mean you believe it. It doesn't mean you apply it to your life. 

I remember being in elementary school when my friend asked me on the playground, "Are you Christian or Catholic?" I was baffled, because I thought Catholicism was a form of Christianity. I feel I was unsuccessful in explaining the word "denomination" to my friend when I told her I was Christian, but I was also Lutheran...as opposed to Catholic. 

Unfortunately not many people, even adults, are much more educated than my friend from elementary school. 

When I was a freshman in high school, I started dating this "Christian" guy. He's great, had/has a great set of morals and likes to keep the peace. He likes to smile and wouldn't hurt a fly. But whenever we talked about religion (which wasn't often), I took him at his word about his being a christian. His facebook religious views still say "Catholic", but I've learned from mutual genuine Christian friends that he really doesn't know what he believes, that he doesn't have a personal relationship with Jesus. Truly, I continue a friendship with him and still rarely, if ever, hear him talk about or mention God. A true Christian wouldn't be so detached from their faith, especially around someone else (me) they knew was a Christian. I don't think he was/is lying, I just think he was/is ignorant, although I have come across people that did lie to me about their faith...

I remember a year or two ago, I was talking with a friend who said he was a Christian, and I took him at his word as well. I asked him to pray for me several times, and since he was clearly living a "good" life, I praised him for his faith on multiple occasions. However, unlike the first guy I mentioned, I finally got the brilliant idea to ask him what his faith meant to him. To my amazement, I discovered that he had no relationship, or even genuine interest, in the man called Jesus, and that his only connection with Christianity was that his family used to go to church, and that he agreed with the morals in the Bible (which he never read). In a long, drawn out, and very gentle response to that, I told him that I thought his Christianity was not genuine, and that given he doesn't know what he really believes, he was more or less agnostic. He now has as his religious views on facebook, "Agnostic is about the best description right now." Interesting...

I think it's important for everyone, whether you're Christian or not, to analyze their faith. If you haven't really thought about it, you're doing it wrong. If you haven't questioned God, or his existence, or his character, you're doing it wrong. If you think religion is enough, you're doing it wrong. If you're settling for whatever your parents say and not making any of it personal for you, you're doing it wrong.

So, I'm a Christian. But how do you know I mean it? Do you dare ask me?

What do you believe? Do you dare ask yourself? Are you afraid of doubt? Don't be. Ask.

I truly believe that Jesus is the Savior of this world, but I'm not going to try to force you to believe that. However, I want to offer you this opportunity to email me at bennettmk@earthlink.net in case you're wondering what I think Christianity is, or talk to me about your spiritual journey, or even how you can accept Jesus as your personal Savior. Obviously that's a big step, but whatever you want to talk about, here's my email address. Have at it.

That's all.

God bless.

Stereotypes Are Bad: Dreadlocks (and other facts-about-me)

Hi, my name is Maryann. I'm white, I'm American, I'm a female, I'm in college, and I have dreadlocks. Many of you already know these facts.

Presumed Stereotype Before Dreads:
• Goody two-shoes
• Straight-A student
• Barbie-ish
• Boring
• Doesn't understand real life

Presumed Stereotype After Dreads:
• Smokes pot
• Dirty and smelly and trashy
• Undesirable/unsexy
• Liberal, hippie (or is it hippy?)
• Strange lifestyle, i.e. pagan or vegan or something else ending in -gan
• Complete wannabe
• Lesbian
(I believe that this website, where I got the idea for this post and which includes many of these stereotypes, is made up of nothing but white males)


Uhhh, so I have something to say about this. But I have to start with the fact that I love my dreads.

I recently had a revelation about myself: I like to be different. A lot of people I know probably knew this about me a long time ago, but I am just now realizing it. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I don't like to shock people, but I like to throw them off a little. I like to make them question stereotypes. For example, I grew up in the suburbs/almost city, but I drive a pick-up truck. I am raising a bamboo plant in my dorm room; who knew? I play a pretty weird instrument (how many non-musicians here know what a bassoon is?). I love fire (earlier today I burned a piece of tape to see what would happen and it made Gavin panic). I'm dangerous because I carry pepper spray around with me after dark. I still wear high heels when I dress up even though they're out of style and I love long skirts (okay, that one's not a very big deal). I want to learn sign language, not spanish (that's just kind of illogical, really). I had cornrows once (they looked bad). Oh, and I don't like stuffed animals (at least, I don't like owning them). For goodness sake, my name is Maryann. How weird is that (for someone my age, anyway)? I could think of more strange facts-about-me, but I'm not going to.

The point is that none of these things are going to shock you, but maybe some of them will make you say, "Really? You do?"

One of my best friend's roommates (Amber being the friend, Madison being her roommate) recently commented on how the way I dress conflicts with my hairstyle. I don't wear drug-rugs or anything like that. I like to keep it classy when I can afford it, and still nice-ish when I can't. (Don't quote me on this when you see me stumble into class in sweatpants and a hoodie, please...) but still. It's a style thing. I like to look nice. Sometimes I even wear makeup. Sometimes. Makeup a subject for another day.

To quote my latest facebook status, "[The contrast between the way I dress and my hairstyle] confuses people and makes them think twice about who I really am--and proves to them that they don't really know me until they know me."

I guess that's what it boils down to. Jesus knows me, and I can't think anyone else who really, truly does.  Deep down I'm someone else and try as I might to truly be myself, it's very difficult. I mean, right? Who, of the people reading this, can honestly say they always act like themselves? No one. Because how you act depends on the situation you're in, who you're around, what mood you're in, etc. You act one way even when, on the inside, you're someone else. Some people act radically different than their true selves, others are only slightly off. But no one is dead-on. There's no way to convey that inner-self. No one can see inside you except yourself and God. No one else understands your heart. You're sort of on your own, that is, if you don't have a relationship with you-know-who. By the way, yes, I'm a christian. Did I just burst another stereotype? Uh-oh.

My point is this: Why are you stereotyping me? I don't smoke pot and I do wash my hair. I do understand life and I'm not really a liberal. (If you're really wondering, you could call me moderate-conservative, but I would advise you not to put me anywhere on the political spectrum, partly because I base my beliefs off my faith, partly because I'm uninformed and don't know what I'm talking about, and partly because I'm indecisive.)

If I would stop going off on tangents, maybe I could actually manage to wrap this thing up.

I take showers and I love my hair and I probably am a goody two-shoes anyway but just don't want to admit it. So just get to know me instead of jumping to conclusions. There. I'm done. Goodnight.

God bless.

An Unsent Letter

I wrote this brief, clumsy letter to a friend on Wednesday, September 7 of this year, and it has been sitting on my desk collecting dust ever since. I am too chicken to send it, especially since parts of it are so poorly written. But I'm not too chicken to put it on my blog at 12:30 at night, apparently. Here is is.

Dear _______,
I hope you are well and that school is going smoothly.
I write to tell you that I noticed in my our last visit to your home that although I think we both greatly enjoy spending time with one another and joking around, our friendship is very surface-level and shallow, having had almost no "deep" conversations or below-the-surface sharings. I was disturbed by this realization because as is, I care for you and love you very much; you are like a brother to me. Are we content to hide our affections and feelings of kinship and allow ourselves to be limited to small-talk, banter, music, and childish humor? While nothing is inherently wrong with these things, doesn't true friendship demand more? Love for anyone can not be inferred; it must be expressed openly. I therefore would like to tell you that you are very dear to me and always have been and I hope that next time we see each other, our friendship takes on the quality it is meant to be.
God bless!
-Maryann


I just don't know how Jesus did it. I don't always know how to form deep relationships on purpose. I can do it on accident, but sometimes even when I want to, the means to do so are too lofty and challenging. It's sad, because there are so many people that I've wanted to talk to, to get to know and hear their story, that I never even introduced myself to. We're relational beings, but sometimes forming relationships is harder than it sounds. We have to take steps forward and be proactive though. Maybe a letter like this out of the blue would be a bit too sudden, but if I took small steps, in asking a person how they're doing, slowly asking deeper questions, that might work. Rather than just saying "Why aren't we as good of friends as we should be? Let's have a deep relationship," we should be more subtle about it. Subliminal relationship-forming. Until, at least, it gets to that point where you can say, "Hey, we're friends! We should do this more often! I like you as a person! Etc!"

Now I'm thinking out loud (or, thinking...through... my fingers...  hahahaha) and it's getting late and I don't know why I'm still awake.


Goodnight and God bless.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

The traditional hymn, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" has never rang (rung?) truer for me than it is ringing this Advent season. I feel like every moment I am on the edge of my seat, waiting for Jesus to come. We sang a version of this at church tonight and it was so moving. Here are the timeless lyrics:

O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny
From depths of Hell Thy people save
And give them victory o'er the grave
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai's height,
In ancient times did'st give the Law,
In cloud, and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Here is my (very loose) translation to said lyrics:

Please come, Jesus, "God with us",

Free us, because we are in captivity until you arrive.

We rejoice! You are coming.

Come Jesus, human like us,

Free your people from the wrath of Satan,

the cruel tortures of Hell,

and give us victory over death

We rejoice! You are coming.

Come Jesus, our sunrise,

Lift up our spirits and give us hope.

Death looms but you have power over it.

We rejoice! You are coming.

Come Jesus, ruler of the nations,

Bring us to Heaven, 

And end our pain and sadness.

We rejoice! You are coming.

[I don't remember this verse in the hymnal I used in my home church, but it's still nice.]

Come, mighty Jesus,

Come fulfill the law

You are majestic and awe-inspiring.

We rejoice! You are coming.

Seriously. Jesus is coming. I don't even necessarily mean the second coming, I mean HERE in our lives TODAY, he is penetrating our lives, encountering our souls when we least expect it. CRAZY. Sometimes you have to wait though. But waiting is exciting. I mean, it's Jesus. You can't not get excited.

God bless.

How I REALLY Feel About Christmas

For those of you that read my blog earlier today (especially the Christmas one which is now deleted)... I'm sorry about all the things I said, a lot of which I didn't mean. I was just very frustrated with our extremely materialistic society and finding God in the midst of all the shopping and spending is just hard to do. It seems like there's two sides to Christmas: 1) the birth of Jesus and the whole nativity scene thing, 2) Santa, shopping, Christmas lights, sultry pop Christmas music, companies getting money, blah de blah blah blah.

And that's hard for me, because where do those two sides collide? Where is Jesus in the "other" side of Christmas?? It's hard to be enthusiastic about the birth of Christ when the only way people know how to celebrate it anymore is by buying expensive things that no one really needs when it should be celebrated with reverence, by treating others with compassion and love, by reaching out to those in real need. That's what I struggle with.

And the post I wrote earlier today, please know that I'm sorry. It was poorly written because I didn't know how to adequately express myself, so I whined about everything having to do with Christmas and was overall very pessimistic. Please let me redeem myself:

Jesus Christ is greater than all of Earth's problems. He is the epitome and personification of love and hope. I know that even though America (and, frankly, the rest of the world) really just "doesn't get it" a lot of the time, someday everyone will know what this life is really all about. Please, help me celebrate the day our Savior came to Earth out of love for us, or, as Relient K would put it, "I celebrate the day that You were born to die, so I could one day pray for You to save my life, pray for You to save my life."


I have a few ideas but please feel free to add more in the comments.

1) Instead of buying someone a present, donate that money you would have spent on a present for them, to a charity that they care about in their honor. Or if you don't know what particular charity they are passionate about about, donate it to one you care about. (Funny story, just as I was thinking about this, my Dad came into the living room and told me, "You know what you could get me for Christmas?" [I had asked him earlier what he wanted, to which he said he didn't know.] Then he started naming charities I could donate to in his honor. What a God-moment.)

2) Instead of buying someone a present (once again), write them a letter about how much they mean to you and how much you love and appreciate them. It would mean so much more to them and they would cherish it much longer. Jesus is a relational God, not a materialistic God.


Matthew 6:19-21 “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."


Sorry again for my huge blunder. I ask your forgiveness.

God bless.


UPDATE: I found this GREAT picture that I would like to share:

Click it to make it bigger.
That's all. God bless.

From Couch to 5K

Hi. I've been running lately. I just started a month and a half ago when I expressed multiple times to my then-boyfriend that I would like to start running and that the hardest thing about it was finding the motivation. I said how much easier it would be if I had someone to do it with me. I wasn't trying to manipulate him into doing it, I was just speaking honestly. Seeing as how last semester (before we were dating), we had decided that this semester we would be "running buddies," he ended up being my motivation for starting.

I'm living proof that just because you're skinny doesn't mean you're in shape. Except for a slightly-chubby phase in high school, I've always been fairly skinny. Enough that if I did start running, or swimming or biking or whatever, I wouldn't lose very much weight and I wouldn't look a whole lot different. Maybe a little. But not much. However, I'm still a couch potato and sit on my bum eating cheezits and checking facebook in my spare time. Thank God I inherited my mom's high metabolism. What that means though, is that getting in shape, real shape, is still hard for me. Because on the inside, I'm still really out of shape. So there you go.

I did the Couch to 5K training program when I was a junior in high school with my mom. I felt and looked great, and I realized how much I loved running (almost as much as my mom, the 40-year-old marathon runner). But I remember it being very hard for me. I remember some days I would gasp for breath and feel like I was going to completely keel over. But by golly, by the time it was over, I could run a 5-kilometer race. And I did. With my mom.

My ultimate goal was to run a half-marathon, but I have weak ankles, flat feet, and bow legs, and by the time I was up to four miles, shin splints and knee pain took over. I never made it to more than four miles.   One time, after the 5K race, my mom and I decided to do the four miles. I was going very slowly because my knees hurt so bad. I remember telling her I felt like my legs couldn't hold me up but she pushed me to keep going, wanting to see me do my best. When we were around the three-mile mark, I think, we were on a bridge and I fell down. I was gasping for air and sobbing. Mom asked if I was alright, but I didn't feel alright, and I walked the rest of the way home. My body felt awful. But I didn't abandon running quite yet. I remember it being summer after my junior year, and on vacation with my family in New Hampshire. My mom and I went running several times, but one time was just too much. I stopped early, turned around and walked back. Mom recalls me crying, but I don't remember that part. That was the last time I ever ran. Sort of.

The next summer I worked at camp, and I ran a few times during my break to "get back into it," but nothing worked. By then I had gotten "orthotics" for my shoes which were supposed to help with my flat feet and consequent pain. When my freshman year of college started that fall, I went to the gym and ran twice the whole year. The second time I went, I threw up water on the bathroom floor afterward. It was the first time I'd thrown up since I was eight years old. I was too out of shape and I had pushed myself too far. You can't just start running out of the blue. But I was too stupid to realize that, and I gave up. I was completely unmotivated.

Then this guy came along and said he'd start running with me, so I got back into it about a month and a half ago. We did the Couch to 5K training program again, which was a good choice. He always got enough exercise from sports, so he was pretty much just doing this for me, so I could have someone to motivate me and keep me going. It wasn't as hard this time around, and I started feeling really good. We always ran around the 1/8th mile track, never on the treadmills. It was nice. Afterward he would always hold my feet so I could do sit-ups while I still had a lot of blood flowing to my muscles. He gave me tips on how to breath and how to eat and drink before running. Then we broke up. And I was running alone.

I am still doing the Couch to 5K, by myself. It's harder when you don't have someone pushing you, but  it's still the same. Your body doesn't feel any different but your mind has to try harder. My now ex-boyfriend having gotten me motivated enough to start, I now had the momentum to keep going back by myself. Besides, I know I'd be pretty disappointed in myself if I stopped now that I'd started.

I am on week 5 of 9 weeks (although it has taken me six weeks, haha. One week was repeated, but whatever.) Today I had to run 2 miles without walking. Since I'm home for Thanksgiving break and don't have a track, I run outside. (I don't know why I'm so against treadmills but I am. We have one in our basement that I never use.) This was the first time in the program where you don't stop to walk. I couldn't do it.

I could blame it on a number of things: Thanksgiving overeating happening yesterday, not waiting long enough for my breakfast to digest, the wind that was coming at me, being dehydrated, the air smelling like fresh asphalt making it harder to breath, the hills... a bunch of things. Maybe a combination of several of those. But I stopped to walk several times. I felt like I was going to keel over, or maybe vomit.  I feel bad about it. But I'll get back on track (Haha, get it? Back on track?) I'll get up to three miles eventually, even if it takes longer than the training program says. I BELIEVE IN MYSELF!!

Even though today was stinky, I have confidence in what I'm doing, and I feel good. It won't be much longer before I start to see a physical change in my body, I think. I thank God that I have been given a body that can do these things, that even though I have flat feet and bow legs etc., I can still run, I am still a young, physically able woman, and I can train my body to do all kinds of cool things. I love running. I don't know why. But this is so cool.

Maybe eventually I'll be able to write a blog post entitled, "From 5K to Half-Marathon".


God bless.

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Paraphrased from Aesop's Fables:

Once upon a time, there was a shepherd boy tending his flock of sheep. One day, he thought it would be fun to trick the village into thinking there was a wolf attacking his flock of sheep, causing panic. So he ran into the village yelling "Wolf! There's a wolf attacking my sheep! Somebody help!" Men rushed to help while women and children hid in their homes. When it became clear that there was no actual wolf and that the boy was lying, they became angry and irritated because of the chaos that had ensued for no reason. However, the boy found it absolutely hysterical and relished in the extra attention.

A few days later, the boy played his trick again. He cried "wolf!", and the people came to help, only to find that he was once again lying.

After several repetitions of this prank, the people stopped coming to help when the boy tried to cry "wolf!" and the boy gave up on trying to trick them. However, it wasn't long until he was tending his flock when, lo and behold, a real wolf came stalking up. Panicked, the boy ran down to the village yelling "Wolf! There's a wolf attacking my sheep! Somebody help!" But everyone in the village just looked at him and shrugged. "All he knows how to do is lie! Maybe if we just ignore him he will stop," they said to one another. No one believed the boy, and he wept bitterly when he realized that every last one of his sheep had either been killed or had scattered, never to return.

The greek version of the story ends like this (according to Wikipedia): "The story shows that this is how liars are rewarded: even if they tell the truth, no one believes them."

~~~

The phrase "it's like the boy who cried wolf..." has come out of my mouth at least twice in the last two days, and in light of that topic, I will share with you those contexts and perhaps make a few other made-up scenarios relating to this topic, if I am feeling creative in fifteen minutes or so.


I was sitting with my friend Amber at lunch the other day, and we were discussing how some people really just... try too hard. Try too hard to be funny, try too hard to seem interesting, etc. We talked about how annoying it is to listen to someone who never. shuts. up. Especially if the only thing they are talking about is them-self. You know what I'm talking about.

I made the comment that one of my desires was to be one of those people that when I talk, people listen. To make every word I say worth listening to. But that's simply not the case, because, while I sometimes ramble in my writing, I am actually a pretty concise writer compared to how I talk. I (usually) (or at least, sometimes) know when to shut up, but sometimes I need to talk out my thoughts in order to comes to a real conclusion in my mind. It is the same with writing, but in writing, I have to think about what I'm going to say before I say it, which makes me at least a little more concise.

I also want to be funny. I feel like I usually don't seem like I'm trying too hard, but still, making people laugh is fun, and I am sometimes good at it, so that takes away from my focus of keeping my words limited to wise sayings only.

The end result is: ramble-ramble-ramble-ramble-ramble-wisesaying-ramble-ramble-ramble. Thus, by the time you actually say something worth hearing, people have stopped listening because even though you have something good to say now, you were boring for a long time beforehand. Just like.... the boy who cried wolf.


Last night I was lying in bed, home from college for Thanksgiving break, in my top bunk with my younger (but not much younger) sister on the bottom bunk, and we ended up pillow-talking and catching up until about two in the morning. At some point I was like, I want to talk to you about <<my recent ex-boyfriend>> but you have probably heard me talk about boys SO much in the last, I don't know, 8 or 9 years, that hearing me talk about this boy would be like the boy who cried wolf. And you probably don't even want to hear about it anymore. Her response? "No comment." Poop. But I can't blame her.

On a side note, I have never loved a human being more thoroughly than I love this guy. I mean that with all my heart, no matter how cliché it sounds. I don't even care if it sounds like the boy who cried wolf, all of you can hear me say that, and, believe it or not, I am telling the honest-to-goodness truth.


Perhaps from now on I'll pull a Jesus and be like, "I tell you the truth..." or something to that effect when I am about to say something actually worth-while. That way if you zoned out due to rambling, you'll know to perk up your ears and listen. Yep. Good plan. How about a test run? Okay.


So my sister is exactly two years and five days younger than me and even though she is younger than me she has bested me in driving seeing as how she can drive a little stick-shift car which I cannot do, I can only drive my automatic pick-up truck which I love, her name is Lucie and I love her because she is beautiful even though someone stole her spare tire and now she has a tail hanging down which is the cord that used to hold up the spare tire but oh well I mean life happens and sometimes people just need a little extra money so they steal a spare tire but my mom said the car people said I could just go to a junk yard and pick out a tire that is still good from an old wrecked car that way I don't have to actually buy a spare tire which would be nice because frankly I don't want to spend money because I don't have a job and I really need one because I really need money because I TELL YOU THE TRUTH: I am thinking about going to Thailand this summer.

Well, that was a very roundabout way to get the news out, but please pray for me and my decision/fundraising.


God bless.

Black Cat

I worked at my camp this weekend, and on Friday night I had to stand by the entrance to greet people as they drove in for their weekend retreat. Now, in my part of the world, winter is approaching quickly at this time of year, and as the sun was setting and I was standing outside, I was getting pretty cold. And as I was standing there shivering, I heard a noise come from the woods next to the road. I saw a small animal which, in the dimming light, I identified as a black cat. It tentatively walked across the vacant street, and we watched each other; it wary, I curious. Eventually it was out of sight on the other side of the street. I  stood there thinking about this beautiful sleek forest-dwelling cat, and got the idea for this poem, which I wrote early this morning. Enjoy.


Black cat
Mysterious and beautiful
Despised and feared by all; loved by me.

You roam the streets,
hiding from the hatred,
Wondering why you have to be
The way you are,
When I find you: mangy and tired.

I take you home, cradled in my arms.
Food, bath, and rest.
And then we talk.

At first you don't trust me:
Shouldn't I hate you too?
Then you slowly learn the truth:
I want to love you.
You share your pain with me:
Black cat, despised by all;
Love is almost foreign.

...Slowly, slowly you learn
Until you feel comfortable
Crossing my path
or, unashamed, letting me see your black fur.
but the rest of the world?
Another story yet.

I pray, I pray, I pray
That one day
Your own beauty
is revealed to you
And you can go in the streets again:
Finally confident, finally happy
And not worried
about the fake bad luck others fear
Because, most precious black cat,
You were made beautiful,
And I love you that way.


God bless.

A few old poems

I stumbled across these poems I wrote awhile ago. 

~~~

I don't remember writing this one, and it's not very good, but it has a cool message. Enjoy:

Crying again
againagainagain
sorrows nibble at my toes
my fingers, my lips, my nose, my ears, my hair…

But my eyes are unharmed so that they may properly weep.

Woe! Woe is me; that ancient phrase that never ceases to be applicable. Woe!
For what is life if not meaningless?
Show me the meaning!
This dream is crushed. That dream is crushed. What have I to live for? I cannot live for myself, for my dreams are crushed. Myself is all that matters to me; therefore life is meaningless.


Crying again
Againagainagain
Sorrows nibble at her toes

Wait. Her?
Hark!
There she weeps; apart, alone, desperate, hopeless. Life is meaningless.

Woe! Woe is she! Woe!
Her dreams are crushed. Nothing to live for.


Here am I. I am here. She is there. No more! Approaching.

She is here. I am here. We are here.
Cry to me! I hear you. I understand. My sorrows are your sorrows.

You.
Are all that matter to me.
Life, for me, has purpose.
I have you to live for.
To hold you, to see your tears cease, is the dream I have now.

For when I stop.
Care about someone else.
You, anyone; if you are in pain,
Your world becomes my world.
And I no longer matter to myself.
This. Is my meaning.
To love you.

~~~

This one was unearthed in my computer files. It's entitled, "Ice Cream in Heaven":

Unbearable heat

Sweating and panting

Oppressive, smothering

Bright exhausting scorching sun

Eyelids close

Soft death

And then

In your hands, joy,

Sweet, sugary, cold joy

Lick the heavenly cream

Pure, untouched goodness

Catch the cool drips

Then the sweet crunch

Sticky smiles

Soft relief

~~~

God bless.

Silence

Silence: a third of the title of this blog. I think it's high time I clarified what this means to me.

We focused a lot on silence at my eccentric, bona fide church last night. More specifically, we focused on hearing God's voice. Although we didn't talk about this passage last night, it means a lot to me when it comes to the value of silence:

1 Kings 19:11-13a NIV
"The Lord said [to Elijah], 'Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.' Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave."

So only when Elijah heard the quiet, was God's voice also heard.

Last night we spent over half an hour in silence and in prayer. Everyone in the room (a good 100 people, I'd say) was kneeling, silent, praying, and listening. This might sound a little cult-ish to you, but we like to keep church weird, and we do atypical things like this to grow in our faith, not to brainwash ourselves.  It actually was a pretty amazing experience. Every now and then I would open my eyes to see other people lifting their hands to heaven, others rocking back and forth, others crying; each having a personal conversation with God. How God can have so many private conversations with so many different people at once, I won't try to understand, but the one he had with me was pretty cool so long as I could keep my mind focused. Listening can be very hard.

Listening is the reason I like to walk places without an ipod. Listening is the reason I can sit in silence in my room for hours doing homework or whatever, without iTunes on, or drive in the car without the radio. Listening is the reason I don't mind sitting alone in the dining hall every now and then, with the noise around me but no one talking directly to me.

I think listening is part of the reason my friend Stephen walks slower than anyone I know. It's one of his characteristics everyone knows him by, and he says he walks so slowly because he doesn't want to miss as much. The slower you walk, the more you can take in. Once, I looked out the window and saw him walking outside. He passed a tree and looked up into it, observing who knows what, a bird or squirrel or something, and slowly, slowly walked by, absorbing whatever he saw in this tree, letting it speak to him in a unique way. And I thought, any other person would have completely missed whatever beauty Stephen just witnessed, because they would have been rushing to here or there rather than listening or observing the world around them.

While I speculate that Stephen does this as much, if not more for, the visual than for the auditory, I'm sure he still gets a lot more sound input in doing what he does than the average person. I'm sure he finds God in the silence.

In listening to silence, you will probably find that it doesn't exist. Go out and sit in the middle of the woods. Listen, and you will find that your world is filled with noise. Shut yourself in a sound-proof room and your thoughts will scream in your head; you will hear no silence. It's about listening. If you listen, God will speak. If you wait, God will act. If you are still, God will move. It sounds paradoxical, but it's true.

Therefore silence is a beautiful sound. It's our job to listen.


God bless.

3:30 blogging

I am a terrible writer when it's late and I'm tired (it's currently 3:20 a.m.) but I felt like blogging so I am going to write a story that I got the idea for like 2 minutes ago. It is definitely a true story that you should believe whole-heartedly

One time it was Valentine's day and I was feeling so lonely and sad and I was moping and crying becaus eI was single and that was just dumb of me then all of a sudden I heard the mail man come so I rushed to the mailbox and low & behold there is something for me. It was a secret admirer Valentine! There was an array of flowers that were hand drawn on the envelope. When I opened it up I gasped. It was so elaborate, I knew in that moment that the sender of this Valentine was to be my future husband. So I took it to a handwriting specialist who examined the handwriting and identified it as Gregory Gragg's handwriting. Gasp. Not Gregory Gragg!

At this point I decided to run away because life just didn't make sense anymore. So I packed my few belongings and headed south. Eventually I got to an ocean (I think it was the tip of Florida) but I didn't think I was far enough away from where I started so I began to swim. Then I remembered I am completely deaf and my hearing aid went bad from the water so I didn't hear the Giant Wave coming until it was too late; the damage was done. What kind of wind causes a mini-tsunami to just come out of nowhere?

Well as the story goes I was washed ashore only this time I landed in the middle of Mexico where I made many valentine's day friends and about 20 of the guys in my class asked me not only to be their Valentine but also whether I would marry them. I said no I am waiting for the right guy. Then this curly-headed guy came up to me and said, "Hi, my name is Right Guy and I would like to be a part of your life. And you are?"

After a brief introduction I was now the surf-team coordinater [see how I tied that back in? See??]

I really want to ride on a train before.

This is hard because I get a thought and then all the older people in my classes can't remember what I just said and similarly I can't say how much I would have said to the man but I am running out of thoughts and they are coming faster than my fingers can go but most of them don't make sense either so I think it is Maryann's bedtime; but fortunately tomorrow is Saturday and therefore I can sleep Halleluia, Halleluia Praise the Lord place his holy name <3

In the morning I will see if any of this made any sense. I can't think or see straight right now. By the way I am sober right now...just very tired. Maybe sleepiness makes me high, haha.

Okay I love you all a lot and if you know me you should text me and/or be my friend always.

Published 3:34 a.m.


God bless.

A very short book review- Redeeming Love

I wrote this about two weeks ago and intended to make it longer but decided I liked it as is. That's why it's so short, and I apologize, but you all should read this book. Afterward I'm going to share some song lyrics with you...

~~~

Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers was published in 1997, takes place around 1850, is based on the story of Hosea from the Old Testament, is one of the big reasons I have been slacking on blog posts, is dedicated "To those who hurt and hunger," and may have changed my life.

Hosea: a man of God who marries a prostitute. She runs away multiple times, but he always brings her back. Like God does for us. We push away the one who loves us; he just pulls us closer.

This book struck a personal chord for me. It was one of several factors that contributed to a huge decision I recently made.

~~~

"I am Understood?" by Relient K

Sometimes it's embarrassing to talk to you
To hold a conversation with the only one who sees right through
This version of myself
I try to hide behind
I'll bury my face because my disgrace will leave me terrified

And sometimes I'm so thankful for your loyalty
Your love regardless of
The mistakes I make will spoil me
My confidence is, in a sense, a gift you've given me
And I'm satisfied to realize you're all I'll ever need

[Chorus]

You looked into my life and never stopped
And you're thinking all my thoughts
Are so simple, but so beautiful
And you recite my words right back to me
Before I even speak
You let me know, I am understood

And sometimes I spend my time
Just trying to escape
I work so hard so desperately, in an attempt to create space
Cause I want distance from the utmost important thing I know
I see your love, then turn my back and beg for you to go

[Chorus]

You're the only one who understands completely
You're the only one knows me yet still loves completely

And sometimes the place I'm at is at a loss for words
If I think of something worthy I know that its already yours
And through the times I've faded and you've outlined me again
You've just patiently waited, to bring me back and then

[Chorus]

The noise has broken my defense
Let me embrace salvation
Your voice has broken my defense
Let me embrace salvation



God bless.

The Piano

This short story is about many of us, including me. A spin-off on the old classic. I wrote it in one sitting. Enjoy.


Once there was a piano. Fresh from the manufacturers, its shiny wood, smooth keys, and elegant design made it a spectacle to behold, and its delicately crafted array of strings and hammers were all perfectly in tune and in pristine condition. She was very proud and very lovely and very excited to make music.

A wealthy family bought the piano and took it home to their beautifully furnished living room. The mother could play and sing quite well, but her children abused it and did not appreciate its worth or the music. They would sit at the bench for half hour each day as instructed and glumly pound away at the keys. The piano would take the wrath because she knew that at the end of the day, the mother would caress her keys again and beautiful music would pour from her. The piano lived for those moments, and felt useless when she wasn't being played at all.

The youngest son, however, had a special gift for playing the instrument, and when he was grown and had a house of his own, his parents gave him the aging piano to keep in his own home. He loved the piano but he had a career now and sometimes the piano went weeks or even months without being played. She felt very lonely and sad, but she always clung the promise of being played again. One day the man she lived with sat in the living room staring at her for a long time. Out loud he said, "I would like to play piano more often, as I once had a great gift for music and I would like to revive that. However, I am going to need a more suitable piano. Besides, the local church needs a piano for their Sunday School room. How would you like to live in a church?" The piano, unable to respond, grew very nervous.

It wasn't long before several strong young men carried her to a van and then to a small church slightly off the beaten path. She was taken downstairs and into a small room with tables and chairs. From then on, she was played once a week as little children sang songs about God. The old woman who sat at the bench every week always complained about how out of tune the piano was and how the church wasn't investing itself in music.

Many years passed. Many different pianists played the old piano each week, and slowly the number of children that came fell. Eventually no children came at all, so the piano players didn't come either, and the piano went years without producing any music. She knew she was old and not very good at producing good music any longer. She felt completely worthless.

One day gave the piano a bit of hope, but it soon faded. More strong young men came and carried the piano and she found herself at a used piano store. The man at the store frowned at her and said she wasn't worth much but he would take her. She found herself in a dark, back corner of the store. When customers came, they never went over to her. Even if they did happen to glance at her, they could see that she was too beat up and worn to be of much worth.

The piano was tired of not making music. She hadn't been played in many years, but she knew that if someone would play her, her music would make listeners cringe. She thought it would be better if she was broken apart and her parts were used for other things, or even just thrown away. She didn't want to sit in the corner and feel like this anymore. She wanted her pain to end.

Then, one day, a man came into the store. He was tall and handsome and his hands looked sturdy and long, perfect for piano playing. The owner of the store saw him and looked very surprised to see the man. "What are you doing here?" he exclaimed. "You are a great concert pianist, and yet you go to a used piano shop to look for pianos?" The concert pianist smiled and said, "Yes, I am in need of a new piano for my home on which to practice for many hours. I need something with good endurance."

The store owner took the man around to the finest pianos he had in his store, but the concert pianist seemed disinterested in all of them. Then he saw the piano in the corner in the back. "What about that one?" he asked. "It is very old and broken in several places. You would not be interested in such a piano." "How old is it?" the concert pianist asked. When the store owner told him the year, the concert pianist smiled knowingly at the dusty old piano. "You are very enduring indeed. How would you like to come home to my living room and play music again?" The store owner gasped. "You want this piano?" I assure you it is not very expensive, but do not be assured of anything else. It is practically worthless. The concert pianist retorted, "Are you claiming I don't know pianos? I'll take it." And with that, the piano had found a new home.

The concert pianist took great care in transporting the piano. When it was finally placed in his luxurious, carpeted living room, the piano felt very uncomfortable and out of place. "I don't belong here," she thought, "I am not worth being played at all, let alone by this great pianist with so much talent." But before she knew it, the concert pianist was at the bench, extending his fingers, and he began to play. He played a simple tune, then said, "Alright, let's get to work." He took out a box of tools, and all through the night, the piano got key replacements, tuning, dusted, and polished. Then the concert pianist played again; this time a much more complex and beautiful piece. He sighed contentedly, said "I knew what you were worth; what kind of music you were capable of. You only needed the right care and the right pianist, didn't you?"

Then he got up and went to sleep after a long night of work, but the piano sat there, bursting with joy at her newfound abilities, her restored hope, and the music she had been wanting to make all along.


God bless

Ichthus

"A sense of deity is inscribed on every heart." -John Calvin


Almost every day for several years I have worn a wooden necklace shaped like an ichthus (christian fish) with the word "JESUS" written on it. I prefer to wear it more than a cross necklace because of the origins of the ichthus and what it symbolizes. In the times of the early church, there was a lot of christian persecution. Jesus was sweeping the nations in secret because if the Roman government found you out, you could be killed. So christians had to be able to find a way to identify one another without showing any outward sign of their faith. Because of Jesus' "fishing for men" analogy (Matthew 4:18-22), they developed this fish sign. If a christian were to meet a stranger in the street, they would draw on the sand half of the ichthus:

And if the stranger also happened to be a christian, they would complete the ichthus with their own foot:

These pictures aren't perfectly to scale but I think you'll be able to see what I mean. Once the two found out they were both followers of Jesus, they knew they could trust each other, tell each other about secret meetings with other followers, and even confide in one another.
If the stranger didn't happen to be a christian, they would hopefully just think you were scribbling in the sand with your foot.

Hence, I prefer wearing an ichthus to wearing a cross because a cross says "This is my faith, unless I am just wearing this for decoration," whereas an ichthus says "This is my faith that I want to share with you, I want to identify with you in a meaningful way."


I was hanging out with my friend perhaps roughly a month ago when he told me how much he liked my necklace. Knowing he wasn't a believer, I told him I'd give it to him if he promised to wear it every day. (This idea came from my friend Beyan who was a camp counselor with me and gave his cross necklace to a camper who really liked it, on the grounds that the camper promised to tell everyone what the necklace meant and who Jesus was.) My friend seemed reluctant to make such a promise, so I continued to wear it daily around my own neck.

Just a few days ago, this same friend commented once again on how much he liked my necklace. I told him the same thing again and once again he seemed not-so-sure he could make such a promise. But I knew he liked it and I felt a little push from God that said, "Give it to him. He needs it and you don't." I realized I was being selfish because obviously I like this necklace a lot too, but I took it off and put it around his neck. I told him it was his now and he said pretty excitedly, "I'll wear it every day that ends in Y!" I told him Jesus looked good on him, and he told me Jesus looks good in him, which is so true.


It's true for everyone, really, and not a lot of people realize that. Many say, I am content in my own faith and where I am, or I am content not believing in a god because what has God ever done for me? or even I am content not knowing exactly what I believe, because I am getting along fine in life as is.
Etc...

But the truth is, everyone is dying and in need of a savior. There are people in this life that might save you from something bad happening, even from dying, but no one can save you from dying altogether. It's bound to happen at some point. What we need saved from is beyond this life. If you don't believe in Heaven or Hell, fine, but just remember that what you believe doesn't determine reality.

The truth is, (and I mean that phrase quite literally), Jesus looks good on and in everyone. Because, believe it or not, you and him are meant to be together. Like soul mates, like two peas in a pod, like long-lost twins.

(This is what my necklace looked like only with a black chord not a gold chain)

God bless.

Good Weekend

I had a good weekend.


Friday:

Class. Hooray, hooray.
Then I went home. I got to hang out with my Mom and brother for a bit which was nice. We chilled out and ate dinner and listened to my brother practice piano for about an hour until it was time for us to leave for my high school's football game, at which I was participating in the alumni marching band. I got there right at the last minute, but one of the first people I talked to was my beloved old band director, Mr. B. He took one look at me and told me my hair looked like a rug.

I loved seeing people and getting to catch up with some old friends. I also found that I could still play the flute, which I was a little worried about. Standing on the field at half-time, I kept talking to Sierra in between songs; something that would have been strictly forbidden if I was actually in marching band. I also enjoyed remembering old times with Erin and how we used to be friends with this one group of people back in middle school, and how most of us have all gone a bunch of very different directions with our lives.

During third quarter, I enjoyed cookies and talking to people in the band from the other school (including a girl about six years younger than me...I feel so old) with Mary Kate and my sister, then going up into the stands to find my mom. I found her with my brother and my mom's friends, including Darin and my first grade teacher Angie (sorry for being disrespectful and using your first names instead of Mr./Mrs. so&so...it's the internet, that's all). It was good to see them and they also made a huge fuss about my hair, and asked me a lot about school. It was great seeing them and catching up. Darin took my picture with my mom...

As I was leaving, I saw Zach's family, so I went over to talk to them for a few minutes, also about my hair (it's a really big deal, apparently), and about Debbie's new job. I love that whole family and it was really good to see them, as always.

A few cool facts about the football game: it was homecoming weekend (which is really dumb because apparently there hasn't been any away games yet...) so we got to find out who was voted homecoming king and queen. Turns out they're both band kids, which we were all really excited about. Congrats to my friends King Paqui and Queen Nikki!
The end of the game was pretty exciting, and depressing. We all got super excited because there was like 40 seconds left in the game and the score was 28 to...something in the low thirties. And we scored! So we were winning. Then the other team scored. Then the game ended. It was rough. I forget the exact end score.

After the game I walked back to the school by myself, praying under my breath, and working up the courage to talk to Zach once I got back to the band room.
He was there, wayyyy in the back corner, taking off his band uniform and stuff, so I went over and stood there waiting for him to notice me. He looked up and I said "Hi." and he said, "Hey." I asked if he wouldn't mind talking if he had a minute, when he was done, and he said, "Well, I have to drive Paqui to his [own] party, so maybe if I have time." Well, I waited there and talked to Sierra about her Happy Birthday balloon and the trophies in the band room. Zach was done before Paqui because Paqui was making this big deal out of deciding to make a speech about Cleaning Up Your Area as a way of respecting our beloved band room. Then he ran around like a crazyperson picking up trash and fussing about how people just leave stuff everywhere. So I got to talk to Zach. I asked him how school was going, how he was doing, about his date to the homecoming dance. He didn't ask me anything about my life, but I told him anyway that I was doing well, very well. Then I told him that I was asking him this stuff because I do indeed care about him a lot and it bothers me that I don't know how he's doing when he doesn't talk to me, which is always. He nodded like he understood, and said without much conviction that he was pretty busy with school and didn't have a lot of time to talk. I pretended like that was a very legitimate excuse and said that the ball was in his court and he could talk to me whenever he would like, because I will always be ready.

That was the first real conversation we had since we broke up. It helped with closure, I think. It sucks when it ends so bad and then we can't even make up as mere friends because he doesn't want anything to do with me. He was polite to me that night, when I talked to him, and I was laughing nervously the whole time, and smiling way too much, but I could tell that he didn't really care about me at all anymore. And now I am more okay with that than I was. Because at least I got to talk to him about it. I don't think it will bother me so much anymore.

Then I went home, loafed around on the internet for a while, looked at some of my sister's senior pictures on facebook, and went to bed.


Saturday:

I got up, took a shower, had pizza rolls for brunch, packed up all my winter clothes, hugged my mom goodbye, and left. I drove two hours to camp, stopping once along the way to pee in a disgusting gas station bathroom and purchase a bag of Combos for a late lunch.

Upon arriving at camp, I went to the office where I was bombarded by a medium-large dog named Duchess. Duchess was a jumper, licker, and nipper, and very, very excited to see me, a stranger. I went in to the main room where Claire, Chris, Ashleigh, and Lee (whom I remember but who doesn't remember me) were sitting. We chatted, then were like, okay, time to get to work!

I might mention that the reason I was at camp was to work a total of two hours by taking a group of seventh-graders on a retreat to the challenge course.

There they were, a bunch of stranger middle schoolers, up at the lodge waiting for me to entertain them. To the challenge course we went, and as I got to know my little group of twelve, I was intrigued by the group dynamics that would probably be of little interest to the average joe.

Later we chowed down on baked ziti and garlic bread. I said my goodbyes and was gone as quickly as I came.

I love it there, and miss it. It was good to be back, and breathe in the air, even for such a short period of time. Gosh, I love the smell of the air there...

I drove back to school, and hung out with Gavin for a while. One thing I love about him is that we trust each other enough to share our insecurities, tell each other the things we don't like about ourselves, and then we accept and love those very things about each other. Strangely beautiful.

When I went back to my room, I realize that I had left my phone back at his place, so I messaged him on facebook, saying, you should give me my phone tomorrow. And he was like, well I'm taking it to you now. It was kind of late at night so I didn't really want him to but he did anyway. I went outside and there he was with a scooter...you have to laugh a little when someone comes over to bring you something you left at there place--on a scooter. It was funny. He's funny. Then I went to bed.


Sunday:

I got up, surprisingly awake, and went to Pastor Chris's church. I met up with Chris, Cody, and Kaitlyn there, and we sat together in the back. Pastor Chris had a great sermon based on the story of the workers and the daily wages (Matthew 20:1-16) and about how Jesus "paid the price" for us, so no matter how many "hours we work", it doesn't matter, because we all, as Christians, get the one ultimate payment.

After that the four of us went out to lunch with Pastor Chris at Applebee's. Pastor Chris seems a little weary, but he's going on vacation on Tuesday so I'll be praying that he gets the rest and recharging he needs.

Then I came back to school and took a long nap, and loafed around in my pajamas all day. I took a shower and wrote a paper and now I'm writing this blog and soon I'll be going to bed.


God bless

A Time for Everything

I've gotten into a bad habit of starting posts and not finishing them. This is one I started earlier this week that will probably never end up getting completed. But please enjoy it anyway! God bless.


Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

This is one of my favorite Bible passages. Often we forget that sometimes it is okay to do one thing at one time and another thing at another time. 

For example, laughter. "A time to weep and a time to laugh." Laughter is such a good thing; a beautiful gift from God. How thoughtful and kind of him to give us such a thing! Imagine a world with no humor, a world where we could not express ourselves if something brought us joy. It's such a small thing, but such a huge thing and most people would agree with me that it is not a bad thing, but a good one. However, in certain situations, we all know that it is inappropriate to laugh. Seeing someone get hurt, watching someone cry, feeling rather down yourself... laughing is not the answer. But crying might be. Crying is also a good thing. I'm sure almost all of you have experienced a crying experience that brought you much relief and even comfort. And on the other hand, and this is less heard of I would think, one ought not to cry when it is a happy time (unless they're happy tears.) There comes a point where you need to release yourself from your misery and laugh again, let your tears dry.

Other "times" in this passage might be harder to understand. "A time to love and a time to hate." Really?? Isn't every time a time to love? When would it be appropriate to hate?

Let me answer that with another question. When would it be appropriate to love sin? When would it be appropriate to love hatred itself? When would it be appropriate to love ugliness, cruelty, or violence? When would it be appropriate to love death?

And yet, there is "a time to be born and a time to die." Ah, death, what a sticky topic. Some would call this the "circle of life," but I think there's more to it than that.

Dear Squirrel,

I met you this morning and I'm glad we hit it off so well.

I was walking along on the sidewalk, admiring the morning dew on the grass which looked like millions of diamonds scattered across the lawn, when I saw you there, prancing along the sidewalk. I got pretty close to you but not too close; you wouldn't have allowed that. I was so amazed at how silent your feet were that I wondered if you were perhaps wearing tiny socks.

You were very handsome and even though I'm not always a huge fan of squirrels (you guys sometimes scare me), I took a liking to you instantly. You had big brown eyes and soft-looking gray fur and a nice bushy tail. And I got close enough to see the way you walked; it is really very much like prancing! You were absolutely lovely. As I walked along, you scampered around the corner playfully, and when I passed said corner you were running behind a flowerpot as if to say, "Can't catch me!"

I continued my journey but kept watching you. You kept a safe ten-ish feet away from me, but we were traveling parallel to one another, and I watched you with my head turned. You darted along then dove into the bushes, and I could see you for a moment but no longer than that. I silently bid you farewell, and perhaps if I ever see you again I won't even recognize you, but please know that I delighted in our encounter and that I will not soon forget you.

Love, your new friend,
Maryann

Dreadlocks

I started this post about a week ago, so I'm sorry the times don't line up. I'm finishing it now. Enjoy!
~~~

As I mentioned two posts ago, I was getting dreadlocks. And I got them. Two days ago.

And I LOVE them.


Here's the story in pretty much its entirety:

Once upon a time on a warm, but somewhat rainy late summer afternoon, in the building of Priebe, we looked in a pamphlet for a picture of Betsy With Dreads. We found said picture and I said in passing, I've always kind of wanted dreads. I didn't really think about it. It was something I had thought about last summer but pretty quickly decided against when someone told me I wasn't allowed to wash my hair for at least two weeks before I got them.

When I said my in-passing comment, Betsy looked up with a twinkle in her eye and said, I could do them for you! Which planted a seed that grew into a tree within about 5 minutes of talking about it. This was something I really wanted to do. And the two weeks of no showering beforehand was a myth. I texted my mom asking her, "Would you still love me if I got dreadlocks?" She replied, "Yes, but I would not enjoy your hair." Knowing my mother would not hate me, despite her utter distaste for dreadlocks, there was nothing stopping me.

The next month (or two?) was slow going, with boring, sad, normal hair as I anxiously prepared and as Betsy and I talked and later corresponded via facebook about what I needed to buy and what I needed to do to get ready.

Finally, the day arrived. The night before I had emailed Betsy asking if she wanted me to wash my hair right before she came so that it was wet. I got up the next morning, went to church (without showering), and came back to find that she had replied, no, wash them in the morning, so that they're clean but dry when I get there at noon. Well shoot, because morning was almost over. Nevertheless I got in the shower and washed my hair for the LAST TIME as normal, organized strands.

Betsy arrived at my university (the day after I moved in and the day before classes began, a.k.a. two days ago) after a many-hour drive from nearby state, almost two hours late (she realized an hour down the road that she forgot the special dreadlock combs and had to turn around and get them). My hair was clean but dry, hanging loosely to the sides which I hate, I much prefer having my hair up. We forgot a "before" picture, but whatever.

Here was the process; the order of events that commenced:

1) I sat on the floor with Betsy sitting on a couch right behind me. That's all I had to do pretty much the entire time.

2) All my hair was put into an unknown number of tiny ponytails. [Update: the number of ponytails, and hence, dreadlocks, is 65.]

3) Choose a ponytail. Sprinkle on "Lock Peppa" which looks like cocaine and smells like spearmint and eventually burns your throat like death when you breathe it for hours. Take the scary dreadlock comb and back-comb (tease) the snot out of the ponytail until it is a little hot-dog-shaped poofball. This is a dreadlock. "Crochet" it with a crochet hook to get loose ends in, and then roll it in your hands like play-dough.

4) Repeat #3 until all the tiny ponytails are now poofball dreads.

5) Take a fingerfull of wax and roll each dreadlock in it, once again like playdough.

6) Take pictures. Get called "Sideshow Bob". Get strange looks.

Initial final product:

Now I maintain my dreadlocks by crocheting them, waxing them (which I am a slacker about), rolling them, blah blah blah etc.

I have now had my dreads for approximately 10 days. I have washed them... once. But they look and feel (minus the itchiness) amazing, and I hope they last a long time.

On a more personal note, having dreadlocks has given me a boost of confidence that I didn't quite expect. Because they're abnormal in this suburban university culture, everyone notices them, and the more outspoken people usually say something about them, or ask me questions, or even touch them. It's like I'm suddenly more interesting because I have weird hair, which is something I wasn't last year: interesting. So even though the majority of my family disapproves, I love knowing that in people's eyes, no matter what they associate dreads with, I am automatically different; unique at first glance. Perhaps I get "judged" a little, but in general people now see me as someone worth getting to know. Before I was another face in the crowd, now I am, "Wow, who's that girl with the crazy hair? She might have something to say for herself." Maybe this is an exaggeration, but surely it's an improvement on my previous anonymity. This was definitely a good life-choice.

If any of you have questions about my dreads, please feel free to comment and I will answer them!

Thanks again to my awesome friend Betsy for all her time and effort in doing this for me. I love you!


God bless.


~~~
UPDATE:
I've had my dreads for about 2 and a half, almost 3 months now. They get washed twice a week and maintained daily. I still get compliments on them, but my roommate and a few of my other friends have said they can't remember without dreads. I myself look at pictures of myself before this whole thing and think I look so weird with normal here.
They've come a long way in these early stages. Although this isn't the best picture of me, you can see how much skinnier they are here.

I'm really nervous for Thanksgiving because my grandfather HIGHLY disapproves of my hair, and I don't really want to be around when he sees it for the first time, but I kind of have to be there. Oh well.

On the brighter side, I am still loving the dreads. One thing that's kind of an odd unexpected perk is... and please, no one condemn me for saying it this way, but I feel like I'm more accepted by black people. Before I was just a white girl, now I am a white girl with dreads which automatically makes me more a part of black American culture, since obviously a lot more black people have dreads than white people (at least where I live). So it's nice to have a whole lot of extra people actually smile and say hi to me (whether I know them or not), whereas before I was just a stranger in the crowd. Most people notice my hair, but it's black people who really like that about me, and give me a better chance to be my friend. I get more stranger-compliments from black people than from white people, and a lot of those compliments are also accompanied by some variation of, "How do you get your hair to do that since it's not nappy?" I'm probably the whitest chick around, but now somehow I "fit in" better in even more social groups.

I love the way my dreads smell (especially when they're wet--weirdest smell ever), I love taking care of them, I love when strangers ask to touch them, and most of all I love having something unique about me. Yay dreadlocks!

The Warehouse Man

An inspired short story 

Once there was a man who lived in a warehouse. When he bought it, he was determined to make it a wonderful home but he needed to make some major renovations. He bought some paint and painted the front of his warehouse a bright vibrant red, with splashes here and there of other bright colors, blue, purple, gold. When he was done he surveyed his work with pride. "Now everyone will think well of me, even if they never see the inside of my warehouse. They will think I am a vibrant, exciting, happy man."

At the end of the day, the man went inside. He looked around. The warehouse was completely bare. There was nothing at all in the whole big place, except a few dusty shelves and some cobwebs in the corner. "Obviously I will need to find a way to fill up all this empty space," the man said to himself. It was at that moment that he heard a soft sound at the back of the warehouse, a sound like someone knocking on a door. Assuming it to be old rafters banging against one another, the man ignored the sound.

The next morning, the man went out of his warehouse for a few hours and when he came back he had many things with him. He had bought furniture; a couch, a bed with a pillow, a lamp, a chair. He had bought a side table and a candle to put on it, a poster and a clock for the wall. He even bought a computer and a TV. "My house must be furnished," the man thought, "otherwise I would just be living in a big empty room!" and he chuckled to himself. He set up all his new things just right. When was all done, he slumped down on the couch, worn out and tired from the physical labor. He sat there, surveying his work and seeing if he had accomplished filling up his warehouse with things. When he looked at his little area, he saw his dark little corner full of everything a man would need. Then he turned his head and realized that the rest of his warehouse was still empty. Cold and dank and foreboding, he knew he would never be able to fill it with enough couches and TVs or posters to make it feel like home.

Aside from the constant knocking noise at the back of the house, the warehouse was very quiet. "Perhaps if there was music in this house, the sound would fill up the emptiness and make this a suitable place to live." So the man left and came back with all kinds of musical instruments. He practiced every day, learning guitar chords, playing the drums, figuring out how to coordinate his left and right hands on the piano. He eventually got pretty good at all of these things, and he would spend his hours making music alone in his warehouse. But the knocking sound penetrated his music, and with all these sounds, the man could not ignore the fact that his warehouse was still bleakly empty. The shelves still had cobwebs and the emptiness was still rather vast. Besides, his newfound musical skills weren't really worth much when it was just him alone.

Then it struck him: he needed people! He needed people to fill up this big place! Some company would serve him well. Maybe he could find a nice lady, even. A pretty girl to keep him from getting too lonely. Then he came to another realization. He could never let anyone inside his warehouse. It was too empty and gloomy and it would ruin everyone's perceptions based on what they could see from the bright paint on the outside. Since he didn't have much of a lawn out front on which he could have a party, he knew that he could never pull this off. Someone was bound to have to use the restroom and ask to go inside, or press him with annoying questions. Or what if it started to rain and everyone expected to be let in? No, he definitely could not have people over. They wouldn't fill up the space. And he was too ashamed to let them see the empty darkness anyway. The man abandoned the idea of having people over before he even tried it.

The knocking sound continued.

The man sat on his floor and looked around. He looked at his shelves. He really hadn't accomplished anything, had he? Well, surely that wasn’t helping. He needed trophies and awards to fill these shelves. He wanted the walls to be lined with blue ribbons. Then, not only would his warehouse be filled, he would feel better about himself. He had begun to feel rather bad about not being able to fill his warehouse. All that space was so...intimidating. Degrading. He knew he would amount to nothing, never really be content, until this place was full. He knew that awards would be good for him. It was just what he needed. He would finally feel happy and at peace because of his accomplishments.

The man set out the next day to begin his quest. He felt like maybe he was finally going somewhere in life, like maybe he had a future now. The man entered all kinds of contests. He entered the contest of the strongest man. He got in front of a crowd and played his piano, and when that didn't work he tried telling jokes to make people laugh. He entered a race to see if he could be the fastest man. He even entered an eating contest to see if he could eat more hot dogs than everyone else. In all these things he did well, but it was never good enough. There was always, always someone better than him. He watched after trophy after medal after certificate after prize after ribbon all passed in front of him and were handed to other, better, men.

The man went home that night and for the first time he wanted to cry. "I can do nothing!" he thought to himself. "I am worthless and I can please no one. It's no wonder my warehouse is so empty. There is nothing I know what to do that can fill it. I have no hope for the future and no one to love me in this big empty room. I am destined to sit here and be invisible everyone. Why am I even here? I am nothing to this world..." He fell onto the floor and let the tears come. The knocking sound. It was there, persistent, annoying, always knocking. "Shut up!" the man screamed to the noise. "Shut up! Why can't you leave me alone?!" Still the knocking continued. The man sat there for hours and eventually cried himself to sleep.

The next morning came. The man felt drained. He didn't want to go out today. He didn't want to make any music. He didn't even want to go near his now falling apart furniture. He sat up and stared at the wall bleakly. Little crossed his mind.

The doorbell pierced his trance. The man blinked and waited. A minute later, the doorbell came again. He hurried to his feet and went to the door. Whoever was there could not be allowed to see the inside of his house, so he opened the door just a crack and let his body fill the space, so whoever was there couldn't see in. Standing there was a woman. The first thing he noticed about her was that she was beautiful, from her head to her toes. The second thing he noticed about her was that she was faintly glowing, almost like she had an aura of light around her. He had seen a few people like this before, but not very often. The third thing the man noticed about the woman was that she was speaking to him. "...just wasn't sure if you'd answer but I thought I'd try and... what are you looking at?"
The man blinked and said, "Oh. What? What were you saying?" He could feel himself blushing but didn't think the woman noticed.
She took a deep breath. "I was just saying you have a beautiful home and I... I guess it's kind of a weird reason. I just wanted to meet the person who lived here. You have very nice taste. I don't know why I came, really. Just really quite curious."
The man looked forlorn. "You don't want to see the inside. It is not like the outside. It is not nice. I can barely stand to live here anymore. You don't want to see the inside."
The woman looked at him. She clearly wanted to see the inside, but she was gracious and polite enough not to look over his shoulder or be too pushy. She sighed. "That's up to you then, I suppose. I'm sorry to intrude."
The man started to panic. This beautiful woman wanted to get to know him and he had turned her away and he would probably never see her again. "Wait! Wait. You don't have to go. I... you can see a little. I just want you to be warned. It's not what you think."
The woman turned back around and beamed. A lovely smile, the man thought. He gingerly opened the door further and let her step inside. She peered around, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The man could see the outline of light around her more clearly when she was out from under the light of the sun. When she could see clearly, and the desolation lay before her, she breathed out softly. "Ohhh..."
"I know," the man said. "It's not...pretty."
"No. It's not that. I just didn't know," the woman said, and the man was sure that after this he would never see her again.

The next day she was back. "I was wondering if we could talk, maybe."

The woman came back every day, and the man began to love her. She always brought a little bit of light into his home. One day she commented on the knocking sound. "So, are you going to answer that?"
"Answer what?"
"That knocking. Don't you think he'd like to be let in?"
"It's no one. It's just the rafters. They always do that."
"I wouldn't be so sure."

When she left that evening, the man listened and listened to the knocking sound. If it was bothering him before, it was downright agitating now. He decided he was going to find the source of the sound. He went to the back of his house and found a door he didn't know he had. The sound seemed to be coming from the other side. There was a peephole in the door and the man looked out. There, on the other side of the door, was a man, glowing brightly, wearing all white, shining white, and looking quite earnest as he knocked and knocked on the door.

Startled, the man stumbled back. He didn't understand. What kind of man would stand at someone's back door and knock day and night ceaselessly. Didn't he get tired? Wasn't that just a little creepy?

"You saw the Man in white." The woman said the next day. The man looked up. How did she know?
"How do you know?"
"You haven't recovered from the shock. Look at you! You've barely slept. Don't worry, He means no harm."
"How do you know Him?"
"Where do you think I get my glow from?"
"...oh."

It was clear that the woman loved him, and it was clear that she didn't mind the emptiness of the warehouse, and it was clear that she wanted him to open the back door to this stranger. It was clear that his house was still dark and her strange little glow did little to lighten it, and although when she was at his home, he stayed near her to enjoy her warming glow, the vastness that lay before him could hardly be ignored. It wasn’t enough to have her there.

“This probably won’t happen, but… what will happen if I open my door to the Man in white and he comes into the warehouse?”
The woman looked at him solemnly for a moment, then smiled, then giggled, and before he knew it, she was rolling on the floor with laughter.
“What?! What are you laughing at? I’m being serious!”
The woman sat up, and, gasping for breath and wiping tears from her eyes, she finally said, “I used to have a pretty empty house as well. Until I let the Man in white in.”
“You mean all this empty space can be filled if I just let Him in?”
“You betcha!” the woman said gleefully.
“…Will you come with me?”

Together, hand in hand, the woman and the man walked to the back door where the knocking continued, louder than ever before. The man grips the doorhandle and looks back at the woman nervously. She nods and smiles reassuringly. The man turns the handle and opens the door. The Man in white puts his fist down and looks at him. “May I come in?”
“Yes. You may. Please do. Come in,” the man says, haltering.
The Man in white steps inside. His glow follows him. He begins to walk around and he seems to leave a trail behind Him, a trail of light, of flowers and leaves, butterflies and berries. Light is spreading into the whole room, into every corner and crevice once concealed by darkness. The woman watches, beaming, and the man stares in awe and wonder at the Man in white. “I should have let you in a long time ago!”
The Man in white looks at the man. He smiles, and tears are in His eyes. “My friend,” he says, “My friend…” and he spreads his arms and wraps them around the man. The man feels a sense of…newness, strength, and joy.” The Man in white steps back and looks the man in the eyes. “You are home.”

The man looks down and realizes that he is faintly glowing. Not as much as the woman, and not nearly as much as the Man in white, but he knows that his light will grow. He looks up and sees his warehouse, now a forest of beauty, light, and the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. Although the warehouse looks just the same from the outside, with its red bright paint, as it did before, the inside seems to be endless. The space is no longer bleak and empty, it is full; full of possibilities, joy, beauty, light, and love. The man knows that none of this will die, he will have it forever. He knows that he will always have a friend in the woman, and that the Man in white will never, ever leave his side.

The man smiles, then giggles, and before he knows it, he is rolling on the floor with laughter. The warehouse is full.

Revelation 3:20- Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.

Ephesians 3:19- ...and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

http://www.godtube.com/watch/?v=1CC91NNU


God bless.

How to be a Camp Counselor

As I've said before, I spent over two months of my summer working as a camp counselor. It's pretty much the coolest job ever (better than a superhero or the President of the United States or an astronaut on the moon...well, that's debatable) and so I'm sure all of you are wondering how you could possible be so cool as to attain a job position like mine.

Well, today's your lucky day because I am going to tell you! Ready? Buckle in!

1) You cannot be a child-hater. In fact, one of the biggest parts of being a camp counselor is being at least somewhat fond of children. The reason behind this is because children make up the majority of the population of people that come to summer camp. So if you are spending a lot of time around them and do not actually care for them, you will be grumpy and the children will be grumpy and that will make you more grumpy and it's a vicious grumpy cycle. However, if you like children, you will be happy around them and they will like you and they will be happy and you will get happier and it's a joyous happy cycle. See? By the way, you can't be neutral about children. At some point you will be tired and hot and sweaty and stressed out and then you will decide you don't like children at all anymore and we're back to the grumpy cycle.
Key: 1- You are grumpy
         2- Children are grumpy
         3- You are grumpier
         4- Children are grumpier

2. To be a camp counselor you have to be CRAZY. Crazy as in insane, off your rocker, not-quite-right. If you are not crazy, not only will the children think you're boring, you'll also probably have a mental breakdown. 

Oh, and notice in this picture that I have almost-dried mud all over my face. You can't work at camp if you're afraid of getting dirty.

3. To be a camp counselor you cannot have other summer plans, like going on a mission trip to Kenya or something ridiculous like that.

4. You have to like nature. If this picture makes you nervous, maybe you're not ready to spend two months in the woods:

5. This isn't true for all summer camps, but it's true for my camp: you have to love Jesus to work there. HEAD-OVER-HEELS OBNOXIOUSLY IN LOVE because it's just part of the job. You can't lead a two hour bible study every day if you don't care about Jesus. That's just...how it is. 

Because Jesus loves the little children! Including babies!

6. God doesn't call the Qualified, He qualifies the Called! (If God wants you to be a camp counselor, don't worry about not being "good enough". For that matter, if God wants you to be anything, don't worry about not being "good enough". Shut up and do his good work. Clearly if he asked you to do it, you're good enough for him.)


God bless :)