Moving Time!

It's official, I am moving my blog to other places. For various reasons, most of them revolving around convenience, I am moving this blog to http://ontodryland.wordpress.com/

Please, all two of you glorious readers, head there instead. The chances of my posting on here any longer are pretty slim; I suppose occasionally I might, but 95% of my ramblings will now be available to you on that there lovely link. Enjoy!

Mild Success

Blogging is daunting. I'm not sure how many of my three readers actually have ever attempted to blog, but the "new post" screen is horrifying. With the new Google layouts, it's all sorts of whites, grays, and weird in-betweens that mess with my eyes and make me question my vision. I do not like questioning my vision; it’s one of those simple aspects of life that I don’t totally understand, but I appreciate it nonetheless. And here Google and the writing world are pushing themselves into my head and questioning this mundane fact, a mildly irrelevant fact at that. Please, allow me to see without needing to question it; I wanted to write, not wonder about the state of my eyes. Moving along, writing: it can be as fierce and precarious a task as battling the weather.

Frequently, when it snows, I have this fantastical moment of surveying a world blanketed in white, undisturbed and untouched. As a child, I woke up on a snow day exhilarated. No school. No homework. And, most importantly, nothing to do. Except sled – and sled I did, along with other snow appropriate activities. I have created many “igloos”(half-covered, half-walled, not-even-half-safe-structures), made snow-people (Frosty would have been disappointed), and had a snowball fight or two. But before all of these shenanigans could commence, I first had to step into the snow. I bundled myself – layer after layer of material that promised to keep me warm and dry. Then, once I was safe from the frozen elements drifting about outside, could I step out into this wonderland. Approaching my favorite sledding hill, I was often delighted to find I would receive the pleasure of making the first track. Sled in hand; I would pause to decide where exactly was the perfect point to launch. Ten minutes before, I could not contain my anticipation of the snow-dusted ventures; but now, faced with a sea of white, I hesitated. The sun glinted off every shimmering surface, and, just for a moment, I was blinded by the vastness of this world that had overtaken my backyard whilst I slept.

After hours of frozen fun, I would come inside bleary-eyed and exhausted. I would take my sweet time to thaw back out, exchanging my soaking clothes for a warm shower and a cozy afternoon complete with hot chocolate and a good movie. But then, inevitably, sometime later I would again crave the excitement and adventure I found in the snow. Against my mother’s advice, I would venture out, this time undaunted and unshaken by the cold, wet world that waited outside the comfortable confines of my warm house.

Writing, much like a splendid rendezvous in the snow, can leave a person bleary-eyed and exhausted, but somehow craving just a little bit more. It is a myriad of complexities, yet a third grader can do it. It brings to mind a single question and obstacle: how to fill a blank whitish page with words, coherent ones at that, preferably ones another human might want to read? Throughout the past 4 months, I have tussled and attempted to overcome the giants of subjects, structures, and entertainment – my formidable opponents. Generally, I instead pursue my other hobbies and put a hold on any writing projects. Instead of accepting defeat, I prefer to think of it as prolonging the battle.

A vast world of writing lies ahead of us - well me, a world of reading ahead of you perhaps. I will be honest with you: today I have wasted your time. I have had a lovely exercise in creative writing, but often blogging, like gallivanting in the snow, is utterly pointless. I led you in here with a decent title and the promise of some sort of entertainment, or at least some thoughtful insight. From my first paragraphs, you might have assumed I would talk about how to write or a cute tale of winter exploits, but really, I have shared nothing at all. I harbor a great appreciation, however, for the superfluous moments in life. The fact that you read this, possibly even in its entirety, suggests that today my opponents were vanquished. Thus, think what you will, but I consider this small post a mild success.

Motorcycles and Plans

"But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. ³⁴ Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." - Matthew 6:33-34

In kindergarten I wanted to be a teacher. (It was that or a Target cashier)
In third grade I wanted to be a third grade teacher. (I decided Target was not a viable option)
In seventh grade I wanted to be a seventh grade teacher. (Or possibly work at NASA)
Freshman year I wanted to be a high school english teacher. (Spoiler: I'm not an education major)
Then people started asking me about a major. I started responding that it would be psychology, I'm still not sure where I got that idea. Almost too late to prepare, I decided I should also do music.
I made my choice; I moved into a dorm; and I thought I was home free for awhile.
Then I started making more plans. I look at graduate programs and where I want to go. I ponder doctorate programs and what I want to do with my degrees.

Everytime I make a decision, someone asks me to think ahead a little further.
I keep living my life in the future, always striving for the next step.
What about now? What are we doing now? Is worries and plans standing ahead of the moment?

Are we loving people?
Are we seeking Jesus?
Are we pursuing passions?
Are we living?


Tonight a couple friends and I went to Froyos and then on a drive. We were pulling out of the parking lot, belting bad pop lyrics when everything stopped. I had been staring out the back windows enjoying the darkness and relaxing when my friends started screaming.
Across the intersection, a woman pulling into McDonalds had hit a man on a motorcycle. Slowly the man got up and wheeled his bike off to the side. No damage was visible, and traffic resumed.

It's a fact I so often forget. I'm lost in my world of homework, exams, RA duties, and friendships. My version of living moment by moment often is living up my limited time to relax and nothing more. Easily, that situation could have taken a turn for the worst. Someone's late night McDonald's run almost went terribly wrong. In an instant that man's life could have changed forever - or been taken.

Every instant counts. We never know when we could be that guy - when that one wrong place-wrong time accident could happen. We never want to believe that it could be us. To have plans and dreams - to want and strive for a future is a needed part of life. The problem is when it becomes life. Because everything is changing by the moment.

Are we doing what counts, or relying on the motions to barely survive?

Pray the Atypical

Where do you pray?

When do you pray?

I love the prayers of children. They pray the unthinkable. They pray the abnormal.
   They choose the atypical prayer.
As a child I thought of prayer very simply. There was The Lord's Prayer. There was my father's prayer at dinner every night. And there was the prayer before bed. Each had a script, each had a purpose, and each had a time to be said.

The Bible has a very different view of prayer. Jesus teaches to "pray without ceasing." Without ceasing isn't even a very distant relative to thrice daily keeps you saved. Jesus prayed everywhere he went, sometimes in a garden, sometimes in a boat, but regardless of where, it was often and with purpose.

I used to think that prayer was a meal time and a bedtime activity. But when the thought came to my mind this morning, I realized I do my most avid praying in the shower and walking around.

So, where do you pray? Your answers might suprise you.

Be a Kid.

I have become one with the air.  My last post was about storms....I would kill for a good storm right now.
Let's be honest for a moment: I'm okay with heat - I spend my summer in the wilderness sans AC (okay, I find AC here and there - not the point). But this is getting a little crazy. It's not unbearably hot - I'm just unbearably sweaty. Today is about 95 degrees, which really isn't too terrible - but the humidity is through the clouds (or lack thereof?).


Every moment of the last 3 days has been punctuated by the realization that I have sweat rolling down my body constantly. I'm not moving, I can be sitting in the shade yet still sweat constantly coats my body. I'm beginning to feel like my skin and the air have become one big moist mess. And I hate it.


My campers, however, apparently don't even notice it. Maybe small children don't realize how much they sweat, or maybe they sweat less, not a clue. I do know that they seem much less miserable in the heat. It's amazing what doesn't bother little kids. As much as I am here to influence these kids, I can't help but notice that they are also teaching me.


I get to stop and pet a crawdad (yeah, you can pet those).
And appreciate the sparkly rocks. (Okay, I've been admiring those since I was 4)
If it makes their day to chuck wet sponges at my body trying to win a game, then so be it.

I might be trying to tell them about modesty (inner beauty being a major theme this week),
and making sure they're relatively hygienic, but they like to remind me to giggle and have some fun.


We might be nasty and sweaty and uncomfortable, but somehow that doesn't ruin their day. So, get off this blog, go play with a rock and laugh a little. Be a kid again.

Storm

In every storm, there lies a calm. A few years ago, I arrived at church to head over to STL for a youth praise service, but tornadoes began to roll in and instead we needed to stay at the church. I found myself standing in the parking lot with my mother admiring the swirling green sky and pondering if that cloud out in the distance was, in fact, a tornado. Where we stood was completely calm. The wind was a bit gusty, but otherwise, no rain, thunder, or lightening obstructed an otherwise calm evening.

This weekend I stayed down at Camp Ne-O-Tez between two weeks of camp. Last night, we had a rather hefty storm. Myself and three other girls who stayed need to move from one side of camp to another. We found a moment where the rain let up, and we made our run for it. But, we didn't make it far before the sight of Crystal Falls stopped us in our tracks. Just that afternoon we had been viewing a calm, clear barely flowing crystal falls (See first picture). Now, water gushed across it creating white crested waves that raced through camp. Parts of the creek, normally only being about ankle deep, were flowing at over waist deep.

This morning, I noted the calm Crystal falls, still more active than usual, but exceedingly calm compared to last night (See second picture). And the story of Jesus calming the storm drifted into my mind. For Crystal Falls, the water was calm after the storm, but it will take hours maybe a day or so for the water to return to normal. But for the disciples, the calm came during the storm. Imagine just ofr a minute how incredible that really is. The story can be read in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, but all end on the same note: the disciples were terrified and in wonderment of who Jesus was that even the wind and the waves stopped at his words. Think about that. You're standing in a tornado and the man with you says: "Wind. Be still." And instantly it is.

As my mother and I wondered if that cloud was a funnel cloud or not, a tornado destroyed a building 10 minutes across town. People are trapped in storms everywhere, desperately searching for some sort of peace. We may be standing in the calm for now, but someone else is battling the storm.

A lesson on Aliens

A couple weeks ago, a friend and I went and saw Super 8. I loved it; I never like sci-fi flicks, but I loved it. It wasn't trying too terribly hard to be some great sci-fi, alien rampage, end of the world insanity. It's about an alien that wants to go home (Yeah, sounds like E.T. but not, I'm aware). In fact, we never even see the alien until the movie is almost over. It's a movie about aliens that is really about the other people.


Middle School week is winding down. It's friday morning. My campers now hate my co-counselors and I I'm sure for waking them up with our rendition of rebecca black's Friday. But, today is going to be an excellent last day. I mentioned last post that there's something different down at camp. I found it: Aliens. This week's theme is Aliens. In middle school lingo it's a way to say, when we follow God, we are aliens in our culture because our home is elsewhere than Earth.


It is amazing to watch these kids work out that truth. That we are different, that we are not of this world. There's a Thrice song that gets me everytime with the words:

No point in putting roots too deep when I'm movin' on

Not settling for this unsettling town

My Heart is filled with songs of forever

A city that endures when all it made new

I know I don't belong here

I'll never call this place my home

I'm just passing through

I have roots. I have roots in this world. I have things and people and places I've rooted my hope and my trust and my faith deeply into. God is one of those things. He's even the biggest. But I still have roots in the world, because, to be completely honest, it's hard to pull all those roots out. Funny how we might just be a little like Super 8. We're just trying to get home - but, unless we pull out our roots, the world won't even see our alien side until its almost the end.