I’ve been thinking lately how many of my struggles come from my lack of peace. Fear, pain, guilt…they’re all the opposites of peace. Peace is what Jesus wants for us. Peace is His path to joy, I believe. Or. One of them ;P So I did a little peace study today. I hope it blesses you as it comforted me J

Isaiah says this. Speaking of his God, “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you.” Trust is like a miracle. It requires a risk. But trust, when truly gained, brings His peace. [Oh and notice how Isaiah says minds. It’s what we know, not what we feel.]

I thought this quote was pretty awesome. Not to mention radically different than what we think is peace. Peace in this life springs from acquiescence to, not in an exemption from, suffering. ~Francois Fenelon

This is what the Sovereign LORD, the Holy One of Israel, says: “Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved. In quietness and confidence is your strength.”

This one is a little heavy =P But see if you can catch it. I think you can do it*hugs* Resign every forbidden joy; restrain every wish that is not God’s will; banish all eager desires, all anxiety; desire only the will of God; seek him alone and supremely, and you will find peace. ~Francis Fenelon

Blue Sky encouraged His son Daniel when he was faced with the mighty king Nebuchadnezzar. It’s a little bit different from the other peace verses, but I think it’s good to see how peace is also strength. Soak this one in: “Do not be afraid, you who are highly esteemed…Peace! Be strong now; be strong.” We are highly esteemed by God =) [Definition? To prize; to set a high value on; to regard with reverence, respect or friendship. That’s how God feels about you and me J]

The world gives peace with a “peace out, man.” Jesus gives peace to everyman. It never runs out.

Soak in Jesus’ words to you and me:

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

<3

Directions

I’ve been thinking a lot about Jesus lately. (Heh. Imagine that  I’ve been thinking how simple the gift that He offers us is. All we’ve got to do is believe. But that is so hard for us, isn’t it? It’s so simple and yet every day it gets so complicated in with the twelve inches between our head and our heart. I know for me, I run frantically in so many other directions, trying to fill that God-shaped void in my heart. But I’m finding that all the directions in which I run to find God only take me in circles. I raise all kinds of idols, and bow down before them.  I sacrifice kindness, respect and honesty, all in hope of getting something better. Something that will finally calm this unrest in my heart; sooth my fears, and dry my tears. But can I tell you something? There is nothing. Nothing. That compares to God’s love. Once received, God’s love encompasses every fear, awes even the hardest heart, and brings real happiness to the starving soul. God’s love is unmatchable. When compared to the dances we dance everyday to make a better world for ourselves, God’s love is unthinkable. And do you know what?  It not for us to think, it is for us to live. It is faith which trusts that my searches for fulfillment every other direction but heavenward, is a bridge to nowhere. Only faith, can be as small as an ant, and yet move the Alps. It is faith as small like a mustard seed that can not only move mountains, but soar over them. The way forward, is Up.

“When you have come to the edge
Of all light that you know
And are about to drop off into the darkness
Of the unknown, Faith is knowing
One of two things will happen:
There will be something solid to stand on or
You will be taught to fly.”

Dare To Mean Something

Abortion is a serial killer. It means everything to some, and nothing to others. It costs millions their lives, and hardly ripples the lives of millions. Or does it? An unidentified supporter of the pro-life movement commented that, “Only half the patients who go into an abortion clinic come out alive.” Obviously, this references the physical act of extracting the fetus and, in some cases the baby, from the mother’s womb with suction tubes and metal tongs used to scrape the away the traces of life. But if we look a little deeper we might uncover a more obscure truth that directly affects us every day.

The peers around me are screaming. Can you hear them?  The outward silence of teens texting constantly, almost obsessively on iPhones and blackberries and the chronic euphoria centered around Facebook posts, represents a world so much bigger than the emoticons and txt slang. If someone took the time to monitor each txt typed into a cell phone, or word entered into a Facebook post, the result would be mind boggling. Over 5 billion words and texts are submitted silently into electronic devices around the world each day. But is it silence?

The silence is screaming.

Abortion means the opportunity to scream 5 billion silent words to the world. We are not dumb, we are dumbed down. We aren’t unable to interact with the real humans around us; we have just forgotten the language to use. But we know it. We know it. And the language to fight, to stand up for what we believe in, to step out and step up and say this is wrong, that language lingers long after the cell phones and laptops are turned off for the night.

We knew it once and we will know it again. It is for us to learn again the meaning of the preciousness of life. Don’t just write it, say it out loud. And feel it.

What does it mean to fight for those we cannot defend themselves? Those texts you send, say them out loud, learn how to break the silence. And then shout, break out. Shout to the world that you are not silent, that you are alive, and that you will use your words to fight, so others can live.

Abortion means death. But, for thousands of us, it can mean a whole new way of life.

If our silence screams, what will our shouting do?

Family Thanksgiving

Mom- Gosh…I can honestly say I would not be here without my mom. Time and time again, you are consistently patient with me when I’m down, forgiving towards me when I’m wrong, and willing to give that weak, but lovely smile when I’ve made a step of progress. Humanly, I have no idea how you do it. But I know that strength and patience like yours can only be drawn straight from God. Mommy, He sees. And in heaven, maybe He’ll be able to thank you with perfect thankfulness I fail to show you every day ( I’m working on it <3). It reminds me of a song. “Have I ever thanked you, for everything you’ve done? I love you, mom.”

Daddy- This poem is for you.

Ocean Eyes

Ocean Eyes, do you dream big
Does your heart ever sing
If I were a lonely princess
Would you be my king?

 Ocean Eyes, you know so much
Of happy smiles and sadness touch
You will find one day a sunshine
One day I’ll know you
One day you’ll be mine

 Ocean eyes, the glass is full
Open up and you’ll see
I need you here, I need your strength
To row me through this sea
Ocean eyes, I want to know you

Hold my hand and look at me
I need you here, I need your strength
To row me through this sea

Ocean eyes, I want to know you
Do you know my eyes are searching
For the dad you want to be?

 One day you’ll be like this
Cause hoping never fails
Please just give a gentle kiss
Be the wind beneath my sail

 Siblins- Dan, thank you for being my closest big brother for always. I love you. Andrew-Your gift of contagious happiness makes our family a brighter place. Sarah- I am just discovering you, sis. You are so beautiful. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see it…this journey with you is going to be amazing. I LOVE you! *very wet kisses* The Twin-You rock. ‘Nuff said.

Things That Stay

Often a goal, once written, will materialize without any further effort on your part. But it doesn’t hurt to “prime the pump.” The more attractive you make whatever you ambition, and the more you approach it in a spirit of fun, the more others will want to play along to make your dream a reality. -Henriette Anne Klauser

 In her article entitled Write It Down, Make It Happen, Henriette Anne Klauser, an avid online blogger for Soulful Living.com, addresses the key motivators for an acceptable, and even excellent, piece of writing. Interestingly she brings up a number of good solid points including thoughtful planning and the chance that, with a little care, can cause even the weakest of pieces to reveal its possible, or at least probable, inner shine.  She also stresses the crucial importance of physically writing down one’s goals. As she puts it, “Writing down your dreams and aspirations is like hanging up a sign that says, ‘Open for Business.’” I find it very interesting that the little surge of pleasure I feel when I cross a duty off my long school to-do list, is actually linked to a medical surge of adrenaline. And I thought that was just me. It’s no mistake that politicians, lawyers, doctors, musicians, and even pop stars write biographies or autobiographies about themselves. Their dances and songs and bills will not live forever. They are often forgotten after the extravagant, televised funeral and the homage paid them by celebrities from all around the world. But books, words, thoughts once written down, are never forgotten. Sometimes words make the truth a little stronger.

Four Travelors

A Round Black Eye

A towering mountain soars into the foggy sky as high as I can see when I crane my neck back as far as it will go. Little green bushes surround the rough, brown trunks of tall elm woods and clump around the bottoms of spiny sycamore trees. The branches reach out to me from the sheer rock face in front of me. Centered at about where the heart of the mountain resides, a round, black hole gapes out at the picturesque landscape. Clinging tightly to the side of the mountain, a set of rusty black train tracks trustingly enter the hole. Does it know what lies inside? I hike towards the tunnel, carefully picking my way between sharp, black boulders littering the ground between myself and it. Finally, I reach the opening and poke my head around, resting my hands on the cold gray stones framing it. Blackness. The tunnel’s ceiling is lost in darkness, but I figure it’s about 20 feet from the tracks running along the floor below. The tracks, and the grey roughness of the walls just inside the hole, represent the only visible things in the tunnel. Far away sounds the hoarse yell of an oncoming express train. The sound grows and soon a cloud of smoke billows out of the hole, conspicuously showing up grey against the background of black. I climb on a boulder right outside the entrance and watch as an enormous blue train rushes through the tunnel.

                                           Where Two Or More Are Gathered

The deep accents of his voice traveled up to me as I slowly descended down the creaky, wooden steps of a grey stairwell and entered the drafty basement. I walked down a bear, echoey corridor, my high-heeled shoes, clicking on dusty tiles alternating between grey, brown, and black. The low walls on either side were painted a distasteful shade of yellow, mixed with another color producing an effect entirely too like pea soup. I feel like my head is going to scrape up against the low ceiling any minute and heave a grateful sigh when I reach the entrance to the sanctuary. My hand touches a door knob faded with age and the many hands that have clung to its smooth surface. Slowly, the left door of the two swings open. Finally, a panoramic view of the worship hall meets my eyes.

A large room holds very little furniture outside the approximately 500 chairs filling its cavernous interior. An aisle, about 5 feet wide and covered with a dark, red carpet, cuts between the middle of the rows of dull, wooden seats, leaving about 250 on each side. It stretches from my position at the entrance, far up to a shining mahogany pulpit resting on a raised platform covered in the same maroon material as the aisle. In this platform, he stands, one hand clutching the pulpit, the other raised towards the sky. His eyes look up him, as if searching beyond the ceiling. In the chairs of the listeners below, each head is bows in reverence.

                                                          A Farmer Boy’s Attic

Thick, dusty clouds of air reach languidly out to the furthest corners of a confined, dimly lit room. Rough, sandpaper walls peppered with round knotholes surround a rustic, unmade bed; its rumpled cotton sheets form sharp ridges and valleys. Red checked blankets dangle haphazardly over the foot of the bed. On a plump pillow slumped against the headboard, a prickly straw hat straddles a pair of worn overalls. Shiny posts rise from each corner of the bed forming the straight border of a right angle shared with the craggy sheets on the bed.  Beside the bed, a bulky wood chest shoved up against the wall opposite is the only other piece of furniture in the room.

Strong drafts of muggy air soaked with the tangy scents of sweat, manure, and summer-baked hay mix with thick clouds of dust particles suspended in the air. Quick, sharp notes of a lively bluegrass tune mingle with the crowds of dust particles in the air. Through one smudged, gritty window shines a bland pillar of sunshine. It illuminates a white piece of paper crinkled on the floor. Bold black letters scrawl across it: “Plowing the south pasture. Be back soon.”

                                                           

                                                            Caught In the Act

Two white sneakers rest on a woven welcome mat. Mud cakes thickly on frayed shoelaces and the once-black check of the Nike symbol. Thin, mud-spattered legs form a sturdy pyramid above a grimy welcome mat, also festooned with tiny clumps of mud. Dark red scratches mark the pink skin and purple bruises blotch the wrinkled knees. Just a bit higher, bright orange jeans come into view. Rips lacerate the fabric and green stains criss-cross its surface. Out of the jeans rises a dark, green shirt which reads: “Got Ticks?” A round head rests on top of a long, thin neck. The head, decorated with sparkling green eyes and many freckles….”

Perhaps 10 years old, the girl measures about 4’ 8” from the top of her tousled head to her muddied sneakers. Now, a bright red flush makes its way upwards, tingeing her neck, round, full cheeks, and freckled forehead. Thin lips part slightly as if poised to make an excuse for her appearance. Fine eyebrows lower meeting in a deep frown. Wavy brown hair, punctuated with an occasional twig or two, explodes in all directions, adding further to her disheveled appearance.  Out of big brown eyes feigning innocence, the girl stares up at someone or something. Her arms extend straight out from her sides, palms outward, and her shoulders freeze in a helpless shrug. Etched on the grainy, half-open door behind the girl, stands a tall shadow with hands placed threateningly on wide hips.

Fly, Little Songbird, Fly

It began with a miracle. No one dreamed it would come. Only God nodded His head above the clouds and smiled. He knew.

He knew His miracle—and named her Abby.

Up in the sky, above the sunrise, He crafted her heart. Inside it He tucked the will to succeed, on its sides He painted beauty, and on the front of her heart, He wrote love in large, swirling letters. Not the regular silent letters, but a special kind, for Abby’s letters sang.

Then God touched Abby’s eyes and He said, “Let them be blue.” And they were blue.

In the morning sunrise, God held His little girl gently. Hand in hand, they watched the blazing sun below climbing up into the sky. Streams of light pierced through the fluffy white clouds around them, its colors breaking in exquisite brilliance on their shoulders and heads.

Then God said, “Let there be light.” And Abby was born.

                                                                       ~ ~ ~

Down below on the warm, green earth, a little bird croaked for the very first time. She snuggled next to her two brothers in their little nest, and stretched her neck to see the rising sun. She could not, for the life of her, figure out what it was. But somehow she felt she had a friend in its beams. One by one, her brothers flew away. But the little she-bird stayed in her nest above the warm, green earth and drank in the radiant sun for a little while longer.

                                                                       ~ ~ ~

Little Abby quickly grew. Ma and Pa loved her deeply; she was their little treasure. Ma and Pa’s other two treasures:  big, strong boys, learned and grew and went away, giving life to little treasures of their own. But little Abby stayed behind. She learned the story of how the sun gave up His shining for a while, and how He let dark clouds hide Him so that the rain could come and water the earth. And she loved the sun, for what He done.

                                                                       ~ ~ ~

The little birdie—no longer a birdie, but a songbird, fluttered wildly through the rain-filled air. The water weighed her down and poured into her eyes, making her vision blurry and confusing. Landmarks, ponds, lakes, and meadows that she had always trusted to tell her where she was and where she was going, disappeared in the thick fog below her.  On and on she flew. Once she looked up to see a boy birdie flying beside her. Their eyes met, and they flew on silence. Suddenly, lightening streaked through the mist just missing the songbird’s body. Relieved, she swooped a little in her flight. When she rose again, she was alone. Down below her she saw the boy birdie struggling through the air. As she watched, a bolt of lightning struck him. She watched as he fluttered lifelessly down, down, down.

                                                                        ~ ~ ~

Sadness came to Abby. She watched as her friend Wyatt died from a gun–one he had shot. She didn’t understand the sadness, couldn’t comprehend what it meant, it was so big…

                                                                        ~ ~ ~

Songbird flew slowly down, down to the rain soaked ground, and felt her searching feet land on a Rock. Torrents of flood-waters rushed by her as she huddled there, cold and frightened. Rain above the little songbird rushed forwards and backwards, shaking her a little. The flood below her surged relentlessly on, everything around her rose and fell, churned and churned again. But the Rock she stood upon did not move.

                                                                         ~ ~ ~.
 
                                                                         ~ ~ ~

Finally the rain stopped. The thunder quieted to a distant rumble. The water surrounding Songbird’s rock subsided and soaked into the damp earth. She stretched a little, opened her wings and shook the sparkling raindrops from her wings. Little rays of sun peaked through widening holes in the clouds, drying up the drop-wrinkled puddles. Songbird hopped off the rock. Rain still dripped from sky. Drip, drop, one landed on her beak. She was so cold. Shivering, she hopped to a little hollow beneath a great oak. But rain still dribbled down the trunk and onto her feet, freezing them even more. In distress, Songbird hopped as fast as she could to the next tree, but the cold ground beneath this one squished and squashed under her claws. None of the trees, no matter how much she looked, and how many she stood under, could be called home. Songbird bent her unsheltered head in the wind.

                                                                            ~ ~ ~

Abby always dreamed of having a best friend–one of her very own. Somehow, each time she thought she’d finally found special friendship, it slipped through her fingers, left her wondering whether there had ever been anything at all. But one day, Abby met a girl named Lizzie. Lizzie needed Abby’s love. So Abby put her arms around Lizzie’s, and held her hands towards the sky.

                                                                             ~ ~ ~

Songbird nestled cozily beneath a warm thicket. It wasn’t home, but it felt lovely just for now. She took a deep breath. In and out. A soft shuffle in the dry leaves behind her ruffled her ear feathers. Songbird quickly turned her head. Carefully, she pushed her way through the underbrush towards the noise. She reached an open hollow, surrounded by two big tree roots. Huddled between them was a little girl birdie, her wings hanging limply by her sides. Softly, Songbird approached and gently lifted the shivering birdie from her hiding place. Ever so carefully, she pulled the little girl birdie out of the thicket and into the open air. With her smooth beak, she rubbed the little bird’s head and sang to her a soft, soft song.

Days went by. Through her loving care, Songbird nursed the little bird back to life. Finally, the day came, when she carried the little girl birdie up to the top of a fallen log, and taught her to fly. Your wings, little birdie, your wings, she would say as she kissed her on the top of her head.

Of course, the little girl birdie sometimes remembered her dark time in the thicket, alone. But she did not mind it so much. Because the lovely Songbird had not only taught her how to fly, but flew beside her all the way.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

The thing that strikes me most about Miss Rivers’ writing lies in the incredibly practical worldview out of which her writing flows. Judging from the little that I have read here, it seems that this pragmatic approach to life really characterizes the majority of her literature. In Leota’s Garden and The Atonement Child, Rivers’ shares the unique and deeply personal experience of her own abortion. To draw such a memory out of the darkest parts within her reveals an incredibly brave, selfless heart.

Rivers’ also addresses a huge problem facing many of Christians today-that of finding a suitable church that fulfills all of their spiritual needs. Though acknowledging the plethora of elements that influence a family’s choice, she turns us back to the single most important thing—the presence of Jesus. When Jesus fills a church sanctuary, meeting hall, or even a basement like my own church, He fills it completely. Where can we see Him? In the pastors praying fervently before each service, in the friendships formed in the congregation, and in the interaction of the adults and children. Essentially, church that revolves around God will invariably display selflessness and selflessness will make it or break it. You see, selflessness once discovered and observed, reveals itself everywhere in the church. The pastors think more highly of the congregation’s desire than their own. Desires to preach overtime on a subject they enjoy, desires to think of families as disconnected units and not as whole body woven closely together.

What the pastors do mushrooms into the congregation with positive or negative results. Selfless pastors, minds open to constructive criticism, capture the hearts of their congregation by their willingness to listen. In return, the congregation is willing to think less of themselves and rest in the fact that if pastor wants to go overtime, he probably has a good reason for it.

Obviously, the foundation of a solid church must be found in the heart and not in external things. So when the focus shifts from souls to seats, a big problem develops. As Rivers’ points out, “There’s a fine line between sincerely wanting to reach out to the community, and beginning to cater to newcomers to the point where sermons are watered down so as not to “offend” anyone…” Do you see the paradigm shift? The church throws aside selflessness for the guise of proliferation. We are no longer focused practicing on kindness for the sake of kindness, but for the sake of expanding our Sunday morning attendance. This type of thinking would really have resonated with the Pharisees. Jesus condemned them for their legalism in Mathew 23:14, “Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long prayers…” The punishment?  “Therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.” Chilling words from the Great High Priest…Its strikes me a as an awful predicament that the missionaries of God on earth, throw Him aside so easily for a showier sanctuary, a thicker directory. And still we wonder why our numbers don’t increase, why this massive flux of visitors ultimately leaves behind so many empty seats.

Pastor’s actions reflect their relationships with God. Congregations–fathers and mothers– reflect the characters of their pastors. Children grow up into what they see in their mommy and daddy.

So where does that leave us?

It is our turn to decide who we will reflect.

The Lost Art Of Loving

“We must remember that “art” is not an abstract entity. Art is the personal expression of the artist who creates it. It reflects the heart of the artist – his values, morals, and the statements he wants to make. People act, sing, write, paint, and produce works that have meaning to them. If we want art to reflect the moral values this nation so desperately needs – then people who believe in those values must be willing to create it.” Melody Green. 2/21/07

As Christians, we have developed an extreme aversion towards being lumped together, in any way, with the kind of music, movies, books, shows and the secular media creates. This has given us cold feet when it comes to finding more effective ways to spread the gospel. In the hopes of creating a crystal clear image of our message to those around us, we’ve unwittingly turned on ourselves and clouded the world’s perception of us. People, by nature, gravitate towards things that directly and tangibly relate to their everyday lives. In this day and age, whether we like it or not, relating to people means getting down in the mud, and getting dirty. How will they ever welcome the possibility that Christianity is an appealing and attainable if all they have seen is a string of squeaky clean DVD’s and Grandma’s Attic bedtime stories? Showing every respect and knowing that this may offend some of you,let me present  to you the idea that there is a large evangelical sttempt underway to cleanse as much worldliness, and by extension relatable reality, out of art their art as possible.

A classic example crops up on highways and freeways all over America. The little spray painted words, “Jesus saves.” Of course, we know what that means and it fills our lives with hope. But for the thousands of people driving by every day…who is Jesus? What do I do needa be saved from? Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean to say that signs of hope written with noble intentions have no place in society. Absolutely not. Only this, that we bring glory to God when we look at the world through His eyes. But we need to question ourselves deeply when we begin to look at the people in the world through the lenses of Jesus’ work of perfection. In other words, we cannot view unbelievers as though they have already put on the badge of Jesus. Instead of keeping eternity always in mind, they look at the world through the prism of the present, what they see now.

And what they see now, is you and me.

What we show them may make the difference between life and death. In paintings, can’t we acknowledge the emotions of a depressed teen who just can’t feel God’s love? In movies…can’t we give the drug-addicted, single mother a voice? Her innocence demands that we recognize her need, and our privilege just at this moment in time, to hold her up and give her love.
We’ve got to get out of our think-tanks, and offices and, outdated recording studios and actually live the art that Jesus painted.

You see, art is not defined by what we do not create, but by the beauty which we do.                      

We’ve got to paint kindness on graffiti-marked ghettos, ask a crying girl to smile for the camera in our hearts.  You will show her a picture only Jesus can paint. If art, “reflects the heart of the artist – his values, morals, and the statements he wants to make,” Then can’t the brushes on our hearts, the ones of kindness and compassion, create art that relates to every man and woman, boy and girl, because they know.

Though they may not see the Artist, they will recognize the design.