I'm a Senior English major at the best school on earth.
First and foremost, I am a Christian. I do not belong to myself anymore; I am now a servant of Christ. It's not me that lives, but Christ living in me. The Word is my only standard, and whatever He says, goes.
I really like music, and one of the greatest joys in my life is singing 2nd Soprano in Chorale. I also play the harp, piano, ukulele, guitar, harmonica, recorder, and anything else I can get my hands on.
I also enjoy baking artisan breads, knitting, reading, keeping a journal, strolling through God's beautiful world, racquetball, spending time with God's beautiful children, swinging in the commons, and other such pleasantly diverting things. And occasionally, I attempt to blog.
Two years ago I leaned on my kitchen counter and told my husband I thought I’d done...
I stopped blogging because I tired of telling.
I stopped blogging because I wrote more than I...
Is it just me, or has anyone else realized that most adults (myself included) have in one way or another tried to “shut down”...
There’s this great story in I Samuel sandwiched between the high profile adventures of the conquering, charming, soon-to-be-king David. It’s about Jonathan, Saul’s son, David’s best friend, a faithful follower of Jehovah and mighty warrior of Israel. He’s with his father’s army waiting for a…
— C. S. Lewis (via amrush92)
— C.S. Lewis (via sun—washed)
“‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us).”
“And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
“Do not be afraid, but go on speaking and do not be silent, for I am with you, and no one will attack you to harm you…”
You know? His name is still Immanuel; he is still with us. Always.
(Matthew 1:23, Matthew 28: 20, and Acts 18:9-10)
The rushing water beneath my feet. Crystal clear, clean and bright. I remember playing by that stream every summer, building bridges across it, playing on its islands, making booby traps. It’s beautiful, and it’s mine; none of the campers are allowed. Once I remember swimming in it. Oh, it’s so cold, that mountain water! And then, many years later as a camper myself, I put on Christ in that water. It was evening, so it was not only cold water but cold air. Oh, the fresh newness!
I remember the stump by the water’s edge. Termites or something had eaten it pretty deeply; the top looked like sawdust. I’d use that stump as we played, a table, a seat, a setting for my rock people and yarn dolls to adventure in. I remember the waterfall, the rocks along the bank that we’d climb on and just sit, the warm sunshine and the whispering stream.
I remember my Daddy’s stories about when he was there. He was first and camper, then a councilor, and once he hid up in a tree, wearing camo and everything. His campers never did see him up there, perched in that tall ponderosa pine along the tecolote creek.
I remember the fresh smell of pine, the warmth of the sun, the sound of the wind in the trees on the opposite hillside. Even now when I catch a whiff of pine needles, I am whisked away in my mind to that place, that sanctuary in the mountains.
I remember once, me and my fellow campers were sleeping outside. I woke up in the middle of the night, confused by all the light. The stars and the moon were so bright, I thought for a few seconds that it was daylight.
I remember walking back along the worship trail after a devo in the woods, the air pulsing with passion, beauty, love, worship. The way I felt after Blue Haven players. The way it rained on all day hike, rain through the sunshine.
A podcast I did for Creative Writing. This is me reading “A Psalm of Life” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Winter echos of first leaf flights,
Of days when the earth first began to die
First blazing fire, then ashen death
Now the stiff corpses go blowing by.
Before, the colors were vibrant with life,
Living green, then burning red-
Now all colors are combined into white;
Snow that is as pale as the dead.
Even then were there echos of death
A whisper of chill in the air;
“The earth is dying, dying, dying”
Sighs the wind, full of care.
So now the year is dying fast
Its end is coming near
But soon shall come the spring again,
And life so green, so dear.
His twisted tail is long and black,
His gaping maw is blasting heat.
Grasp him by the neck,
And he will roar in your face,
Your hair blasted back by his hot fury.
Quick sir knight! How to defeat it?
Why, dear damsel in distress, that is rather easy.
People, streets, sensory overload; stop to breathe
A sandwich on the steps of the Met gives a sense of flying
The instinctive violence of youth, protecting what is yours
The sense of flying in the whistle of the whip
Behold! The creative powers of man displayed!
Clockwork, the sense of flying machinery
Edible sailboat tossing on a ceramic sea
Slithers off, a sense of flying, sailing through the air
Authentic rusticness, where classy and downhome meet
Time goes on without us, a sense of flying numbers
A leap in the air, a sense of flying
Snout and mouth laughing, flinging spit
Swirls, bursts of color and light give
A sense of flying through scratchy, silky threads
A house with no walls, an unmade house
Time present and forevermore, a sense of flying
Parking for your jug, your basket
And your book too. A sense of flying sanity…
Quiet, quiet. There’s one! BOOM!
The sense of flying, down it falls
Cozy water, wearing fuzzy sweaters
Stops and stills this sense of flying
The real, the natural, the uncontrived,
A sense of flying stopped, silent serenity
What’s real to you, man? To you, Nione?
Your mint plant gives you no sense of flying.