Peace

It's what we're all looking for, is it not?

We search for it in activities - things that we love to do. We seek it in the eyes of the people we love. Our sight turns inside ourselves and we try to produce it, to root out all of our own flaws, after which the desired peace will surface.

Maybe if we could just look a little deeper, try a little harder, perfect ourselves, then we would find it.

But we've tried all those things and they haven't resulted in the peace we're looking for. The peace they produce is counterfeited and it doesn't last.

Even as Christians, I think we miss the source of peace sometimes - at least, I know I have. I believe if I could just do all the right things, read the right books, make time for the right activities, answer the questions the right way, get through my life with minimal damage, then I would find peace.

But what if we're wrong? What if peace has nothing to do with how much I accomplish for God?

What if it's not about what I do but what's been done for me?

Because of the cross of Jesus, I can find peace. He has caused reconciliation with God to be a possibility for men and women again. God not only promises to "keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast because he trusts in him" (Isaiah 26:3), the Bible also says that Jesus is the Prince of Peace. So, if He's the Prince of Peace, that means I can look to Him to give me the peace I need, right?

But I think I've got to surrender first. Maybe Surrender = Peace. And that's not easy.

How does one give over control of every area of life? How does a Christian yield up expectations, plans, the future, self-awarded rights, so that she can experience the peace that passes all understanding (Philippians 4:7)?

I know that in most cases the Christian life is simpler than we make it. So the answers to these questions must be simpler than I expect. I want peace, and I want it to last, and I want my life to count for the Kingdom of God. So, I'll keep asking my questions and working towards surrender the best I know how. Then I'll let Him teach me what it looks like, how a surrendered heart should act, and hope that I'll better understand how it works as I go.

I know that God is good, that He's in control, that He loves me, and that He wins in the end. So, really, isn't that all that matters?

River

The following is a poem written for my senior-level British literature class in high school. It was partially inspired by Susan Ashton's song "Lonely River" - an absolutely beautiful song. It's an older song, but worth looking up if you have a moment. Enjoy. : )


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River

I am a river ever winding
Turning corners, ever wandering
Sometimes swollen, sometimes peaceful
Never still, never satisfied
I must push on to see
What lies round the bend
What lies along my banks
Ever curious, ever seeking
Rushing here, rippling there
I want to travel to my Source
To discover where I began
To find my purpose, why I was made

Why a river and not a tree
Or a flower or a bee
But I must content myself
With ceaseless rushing, ever wondering
A river forever flowing, forever roaming

Somewhere down around an unexpected bend
Will a meet another rushing, rippling river
Our waters will converge, our lives may merge
And mysteriously our Source is the same
Two winding rivers become one
We seek and search
Wondering at every mystery along the way
Not completely satisfied until the day we find it

What is Poetry?

The following is a poem written as a collaborative effort in my Advanced Composition class in college. Grace Spradlin, Sarah Clark, and I were assigned to the same group and asked to write a poem about poetry that included as many figures of speech as possible. Hope you enjoy it! Although maybe I should just say as a disclaimer... We were trying to be melodramatic, make the others laugh, and also be as creative as possible... So maybe you should take this with a grain of salt. : )


What is Poetry?

Poetry is like a river -
It flows from the soul.
Poetry laughs, it cries,
And occasionally, it dies.
Poetry is the sky -
Open and free.
Poetry is wordless language,
Painfully beautiful, aesthetically morbid.
Poetry is meaningfully meaningless.
It is nice.
Poetry drips from the pen
And splashes across the page.
Poetry is like duct tape -
It holds the world together.
Poetry is like the fragrance
Of a rose garden after the rain.
Poetry owes itself
Only to the morose.
Poetry is the most perfectly
Pleasant pastime.
Flow river! Flow from the soul!

Reflection

It is truly amazing to me that simple things can bring such unexpected perspective on life.

Tonight, I attended an appreciation dinner for my dad, who recently resigned from his job to begin a new ministry. I was a little nervous going into it, worrying too much about what to say to them since I don't know them well. I expected the night to be good and to be honoring to my dad, but I didn't expect to be deeply impacted by it myself.

As part of the evening, his staff members - those who have worked with and for him - were given an opportunity to step up to a mic and say whatever they wanted to my dad. As they began to talk about what an example he is, what a passionate heart he has for developing healthy marriages, how he lives out the Gospel in a way they've rarely seen in other Christians, how he loves people and sees the good in them, how he "took a risk" on hiring them and trusted them, how they were so thankful for his life and ministry over the last nine years, I was reminded of how blessed I am by the family God has given me.

But even more than that, I was challenged (sorry, I've been using that word quite often lately, but it just seems to fit... Maybe convicted is a better word) to look at my own life, to examine the things I consider important. I have a sneaking suspicion that the examination might not prove positive. To live a life worth emulating, to love people in a way that changes their lives, to follow the passion God has given no matter how crazy it may seem to others - these are the things I want to do, the legacy I want to leave. I must not be motivated by the fact that doing those good things might get me recognized by others or earn me some accolades along the way, either. Purity of motive and clarity of purpose - those are things that I'm praying for, things I'm reminded that I need tonight.

So thank God for random events that spur reflection and give perspective. The next step I must take is to allow that fresh perspective to shape the way I live my life. May He give me the courage to recognize what needs changing and the strength to follow through.

As Promised...

First, let me say that I am indebted to the book Next Generation Leader, written by Andy Stanley, for the background of the thoughts in this post. He brings to light principles that have challenged my concept of leadership, and the following thoughts are a product of that challenge.

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Have you ever been at work and your boss came to your cubicle/work station/desk and said, "You know, you're just doing too much. We should figure out how to scale back your responsibilities"? I didn't think so. In my observation, many leaders of organizations seem to focus their energy on getting more things done rather than how to do things more efficiently. What if leaders and those under them began to ask different questions, began to capitalize on the strengths of their employees? Wouldn't that make a difference in the organization? Wouldn't that allow them to do more and to do it with excellence in the long run?

I've been learning that, as a result of our fast-paced culture and the current concept of leadership, many young leaders feel they must be good at everything and do everything themselves. In some jobs, this is required of them; but a job that allows a leader to thrive is one in which she can focus on the two or three things she does best, and only do those things. It follows that while those leading the organization focus on their strengths, those under them are given the opportunity to rise to the occasion, develop their own strengths, and earn a greater degree of leadership by showing proficiency in an area (which just happens to be the same area in which the leader of the organization is weak).

This system not only relieves the stress of the leader/leadership team, allowing them to pursue what they are gifted in, it also develops the other leaders in the organization and allows them significant contribution to the team.

The concept that "Less is More" - well, it really works! So next time your boss asks you to scale back a little (I know he does that all the time...), you can have your spiel ready - your two or three areas in which you feel you can contribute the most to your company. I take no responsibility for any consequences of that conversation with your boss, good or bad. : )

Just some thoughts...

Game On

Ok, so I'm feeling a bit like Julie in the movie "Julie & Julia," but if that's what it takes to get me motivated, I'm ok with that. : )

Over the next three and a half months, I am going to challenge myself to write every day or every other day on this blog. I would love to say I would do it every day, but, realistically, I think every day OR every other day will need to work for now.

I am allowing myself to write about what I'm reading, current events, stories from everyday life, etc. I hope I won't bore you... : )

So this is my goal in issuing myself an actual challenge with a time frame: I want to be intentional about improving my writing. If this is something God wants me to do long-term, I need to be the best writer I can be and this is a means to that end (I hope).

That being said, any comment, constructive criticism, observation, etc., will be most welcome from anyone who wishes to offer it.

Thanks for reading. : ) Here goes!

A Question

I was thinking about this on the way home from work today -

Is the conveyance and portrayal of deep emotion what makes a really good writer?

Does the writer have to feel strong or deep emotion to write well?

Does this mean that those who have led comparatively "boring" lives do not make good writers because they haven't experienced emotion as deeply as others?

I don't really know why I was thinking of this. It may have been because I wondered if my writing improves when I feel passionate about a certain issue and then write about it.

This may be a dumb question, but any thoughts on the issue would be most welcome. : )

The Lost Captain

This is another story that I wrote in college for my Advanced Composition class. It's not very deep, but it is a bit long.It is a story about the mysterious Bermuda Triangle. It reads more quickly than "My Story," so you won't be spending half a day on this one. : ) I hope you enjoy it!

(I don't think all of my italics from the original made it into this post, and I'm a bit unsure about how to do italics on this site... The thoughts of the characters are supposed to be in italics, so I'm sorry if that gets a bit confusing.)


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The Lost Captain


Captain Isaiah Mabry stood at the helm of the USS Expervier, watching his men as they swarmed the deck, some climbing hand over fist up the rigging, others double checking the knotted ropes to make ready for dropping the anchor. According to his instruments, they would stop just short of entering the area of the Atlantic Ocean known as the Bermuda Triangle, that infamous mystery of the ocean through which no one traveled and lived to tell about it.
"Well" thought the captain, "there’s nothing for it. This is the fastest course, though I do wish Mr. Pullings could have navigated around it. But I am by no means certain that those confounded newspaper stories aren’t taking advantage of our deplorable gullibility. After all, it was the nineteenth century - 1815 to be exact. It wasn’t as if they were stuck in the Dark Ages."
Captain Mabry’s thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Waldrop, commander of the Expervier and a capable lad of only twenty-three years.
“Captain, sir, your orders?”
“Tell the men to get some rest. We will remain here for a one or two days,” replied Mabry.
“Beg your pardon, captain, but what about our business in Belgium? I don’t think we can afford to lose any more time.”
“The peace proposal can wait for one more day,” Mabry grimly answered. “Jackson may be fighting in New Orleans already anyway. Besides, I don’t want to take any unnecessary risks; we need to know what we’re up against, so we’ll just observe for a day or two to get our bearings.”
“Yes, sir,” the commander said, glancing back at the captain as he walked away to give orders to the sailors. He still did not completely understand why they must drop anchor and wait for two whole days just to watch some water that from here looked about as threatening as the pond on his property back home in Virginia. He had been tempted to remind the captain of the importance of keeping on schedule so that they could meet the other ships who were being sent to escort them to Belgium, but he knew better than to question Mabry any further. That man could be stubborn as a mule, and there was no sense arguing.
As the captain continued to stare at the water straight ahead, the little anxiety he felt over taking the Expervier through what was known as a death trap began to ebb away. It certainly did not look ominous at the moment. But the captain was wise enough to know that a span of just a few hours could change a placid sea to an angry one; and this was precisely why he wanted to wait by the small island they had found and observe these waters. There was no point in rushing headlong into danger if it could be avoided.
As the sun sank nearer to the horizon, the shapes of the clouds were outlined in pink and orange, a magnificent display of artistry. Then, the sun fell below the clouds and the ship’s shadow stretched out on the island, growing huge and then vanishing silently with the sun, as though the ship itself had suddenly disappeared. Mabry was now busy with preparations for a small party to go ashore to see if they could add to their provisions. They were in no great danger of running out any time soon, but he liked to be cautious and to add to their supply when possible. He heard Aubry, his lieutenant, yelling orders from the boat as they lowered it into the sea on the larboard side. A few more words exchanged and the boat could be seen moving through the water towards the island. Normally, the captain would have been one of the party and would have left the ship in Waldrop’s hands for the night, but in this case, Mabry felt that it would be wiser to see to it that his men did not get too anxious being so near the Triangle.
The light continued to fade and those who remained on the ship could see the sailors working to build fires on the shore. Mabry checked with Waldrop to make sure the night watch was set and then made his way below deck to his cabin. He thought about the British ship waiting for him near Bermuda, and he wondered if they had already arrived and were growing impatient. He would not risk the lives of his men by hurrying, even though the sooner the peace proposal reached Belgium, the faster this blasted war would be over. He spread out his maps for the hundredth time, tracing the “Triangle” from Bermuda to Florida to Puerto Rico and sighed deeply. He would not sleep tonight.
~
Captain James Adair and the crew of the HMS Atlantis anchored off the coast of Bermuda for the night, expecting to gain sight of the Expervier sometime the following day. When Adair had learned of his orders, he was none too happy to be sent on this babysitting errand. He knew that most of the British were unhappy with the Americans, and for good reasons since they were the ones that started this war, but he also did not think they should insult the Americans by offering an escort from Bermuda. As if the Americans could not handle the open seas by themselves! But all that had changed when he learned who captained the ship they were to escort. Adair and Mabry had been at school together in England and had spent a lot of time bragging to each other about their future military exploits. The British captain still did not relish the idea of sailing all the way from Belgium to Bermuda just to make sure the precious peace proposal arrived safely, but at least he would be able to share some laughs with an old schoolmate.
Captain Adair and his men went ashore that night, leaving a significant presence on the ship under Thorpe’s command, just in case any mischief should occur during the night. As they made their way to the taverns near the heart of town, they received more attention than they wanted. The vendors were trying to sell them everything under the sun, but they were only interested in finding a tavern and buying a few strong drinks. They found that there were other sailors in town looking for the same thing and when they finally reached a tavern that was not overflowing, they waltzed in and made themselves at home. As they settled in for a few long draughts, Adair found a booth in a corner from which he could keep an eye on his men and still stay out of their way. He ordered a drink and sat down to enjoy it, laughing quietly at his men’s antics. It never took them long to get drunk… and rowdy.
After Adair had been watching for a while, he began to grow weary and wondered if he should have stayed aboard ship to keep an eye on things. The more he thought about this, the more uneasy he became. He was just about to get up and tell his first mate that he was returning to the Atlantis when the bartender came over and asked if he could join Adair.
“Certainly,” Adair said, a little annoyed with the man.
“I’m much obliged, sir,” the man said. “The name’s Thomas. I’ve been here for ten years, giving you British gents, and any other paying customers for that matter, a chance to relax and enjoy yourselves.”
“Well,” Adair said, glancing sideways at his men, “I think they appreciate it.”
“They’re all like that after a few drinks, you know,” Thomas replied. He seemed to become nervous, moving his hands and keeping his eyes on the table. As if finally gathering the courage, Thomas suddenly blurted out, “Do you have something to do with the peace agreement? I mean, you’re not here to inspect our coastline are you?”
“What makes you ask a question like that?” Adair eyed the big man suspiciously.
“Well, there’s been rumors up and down our coasts, especially among those of us who come from England, that ships are bringing the peace proposals up from the US soon.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Adair lied.
“Alright, well if you’re going to be hard headed, that’s none of my business, but you should know what awaits any ship that tries to pass through the Triangle…”
Adair cut him off, “You know as well as I do that those stories are fabricated. It’s probably some pirates’ efforts to keep the world away from their treasure trove or something.”
“Believe that if you want, but I’ve heard some mighty strange stories in my day. Stories that you can’t just make up, if you know what I mean.”
Adair didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to hear any more stories. He’d already heard a thousand Triangle stories before he left Belgium, and he knew they were all lies.
“Listen, Thomas,” he began, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve heard the stories. I know what people say about the Triangle, and I’ve heard enough. Besides, we aren’t traveling through the Triangle.”
“Oh you ain’t, aint you?” Thomas said. “Well then what are you doing here?”
Adair decided that Thomas had asked enough questions. He rose, paid his bill, including a generous tip for Thomas, and then left. As he wound his way back through the dirty streets to the dock, he thought about what Thomas had said. He still didn’t think there was any merit to this mysterious Triangle business, but he would feel better once he returned to the ship all the same.
~
As Mabry dozed in his desk chair, his head rolled from its position on the head rest and he was startled awake, surprised that he had slept at all. He heard the ship’s bell ring three times as he stretched and slowly rose from his desk to peer out the porthole at the ocean. To his surprise, a dense fog covered the waters surrounding the Expervier. He wondered at this, for the temperature was not right for a fog to develop. He donned his coat and ran above deck.
“Waldrop!” Mabry called, striding towards his commander. “What do you make of this?”
“Well, sir, we can’t make anything of it. It doesn’t fit. There’s no reason for there to be a fog under these conditions.”
“Has the party returned from the island?”
“Aye, captain, they have,” the commander quipped.
“Very good. Let’s keep a watch on this fog. Set a watch in the fighting top and main mast.” Mabry ordered, already on his way to the helm to check with Cooper.
“Aye, aye captain.”
Five hours later the fog was as dense as ever, and Mabry was beginning to doubt himself. He knew they shouldn’t weigh anchor yet, but he didn’t like not being able to see what lay ahead of him. As he considered their options, he heard shouts coming from the helm. He made his way toward the quarter deck and then the words came clearer.
Cooper saw him approaching and yelled, “Captain, the anchor cable’s snapped!”
Mabry began to sprint toward him, scarcely allowing himself to believe what he was hearing.
“What was that?” Mabry asked once he was standing on the quarterdeck with Waldrop, Aubry, and Cooper.
“The anchor cable’s been cut, sir,” Waldrop grimaced.
“How the devil did that happen?” Mabry shouted.
“That’s just it, sir… We don’t know.” Just as the words left Aubry’s mouth, the wheel began to spin out of Cooper’s hands.
“What the…!” Waldrop yelled.
Mabry’s mind was reeling… First the fog, then the anchor cable, now the wheel. Were they being sabotaged?
The wind filled the Expervier’s sails and she began to move slowly north. The four sailors stood staring straight ahead into the fog with unseeing eyes.
Well this is a fine kettle of fish, Mabry thought. We’re heading straight into the Triangle… Wait… What is that? Something materializing out of the fog… Another ship? It’s coming closer… USS Wildcat… But she’s been gone since 1800! Impossible… Is that Captain Davis on board? He can’t still be alive after all this time at sea… But the Wildcat was found without a soul on her just a few months after she was supposed to have gone down. I saw her when she was brought back to Virginia… I saw her with my own eyes… This is a ghost of a ship! Another… Another one is coming… The Wasp… And another, the Pickering… and what is this? A fourth? The Insurgent! John, old chap, what’s become of you? Oh God! This can’t be happening…
Wait… wait… what’s that noise? That whirring above my head. Cooper? Where are you? Stand up and face this like a man… Aubry? Waldrop? What’s happening to me? Aubry… Cooper… This can’t be happening…
~
Captain Adair was thankful that he had returned to his ship when he did. About three hours after his return, the watchman sounded the alarm. Adair returned to the deck, wondering what could possibly be the matter. When he reached the watchman, he was pointing out to sea, toward the southwest. A strange fog appeared to be moving toward them at a rapid pace and as Adair looked through his glass, he could see the vague outline of a ship against the fog.
“There she is,” he said.
“Sir?”
“The Expervier.” Adair returned, looking through his glass once more. “Thorpe!” the captain shouted.
“Here sir,” Thorpe yelled, running up from the middle deck.
“Alright,” Adair began, “I want you to look through this glass and tell me what you see.”
Thorpe grabbed the glass and put it to his eye.
“Well, sir,” he said, “looks an awful lot like a US warship to me. Did you read her name?”
“The Expervier.”
Thorpe started. “You don’t mean…”
As they all stared toward the growing fog and the ship sailing closer, they had an uncanny feeling that all was not well.
“We’re going to set sail,” Adair said quietly. “We’ve got to intercept her.”
“All right, but what about the crew that’s still ashore?” Thorpe asked.
“We can manage with the crew we have. Send one of the boys to tell them where we’ve gone and that we’ll be back for them tomorrow.” The captain’s face was set.
“Aye, aye sir.” Thorpe answered.
The Atlantis set sail not long afterwards, and by that time the Expervier was only a mile or two away. Adair stared grimly, balancing himself on the figurehead and looking for any sign of distress from the approaching ship. It was not changing its course and it seemed to be propelled by a strong wind. As the two ships sailed closer, Adair could make out its name painted in gold, but he saw no activity on board.
“Thorpe!” The captain yelled once again. The sailor came running. “We’re going to board her.”
“Yes, sir, but we aren’t capturing her, are we sir? Just an escort…” Thorpe muttered.
“Look, Thorpe! There isn’t a soul on deck! There’s something very wrong and we’re going to find out what it is.”
Thorpe hurried away to gather a boarding party and Adair gave orders for the helmsman to bring the Atlantis right alongside the American warship, which had begun to move more slowly. Each man in the boarding party had his sword at the ready and they prepared to lower the boarding planks.
As they made their way across the boards to the Expervier, the sea was ominously silent. The fog that had seemed to chase the Expervier now enveloped the Atlantis as well. As the British sailors landed on deck, their boots pounded too loudly on the wooden boards as they searched the deck and then the cabins and the hold for any sign of life.
“Vanished,” Adair stood on deck, dumbfounded. “Into thin air…”
Their thorough search yielded nothing… No clues… No bodies… Until Adair entered the captain’s cabin. As Adair stood in the doorway, his gaze swept the cabin and came to rest on the writing desk… Mabry’s desk. And then he saw the note. "I’m still here." That was all it said.
~
Mabry watched as Adair walked into his cabin and read the note he had left. He had been afraid that this would happen. He tried to talk to him.
“Adair, old chap,” Mabry began. But Adair didn’t even flinch.
“James! Don’t you know your old pal?” Mabry tried again. But once again, Adair didn’t turn around. He can’t hear me. He can’t hear me!
Suddenly Mabry grew frantic. Adair was completely oblivious, reading the note and looking about the room for clues to what happened. And there Mabry was, standing in the middle of the room and Adair couldn’t hear or see him!
Adair made another sweep of the room and headed for the door. Mabry stepped forward, determined. He stood right in front of the doorway, not sure what he hoped to accomplish. But Adair simply moved forward and walked right through him without hesitating.
“I’m here!” Mabry yelled at him. “Right here, old chap!” But it was no use.
Mabry followed him above deck and watched as the men finished their search and prepared to divide their crew in order to sail both ships back to Belgium. They had no idea where the peace proposals were. They didn’t know that those proposals had disappeared with his crew. He listened to them discussing arrangements and grew more and more angry.
As the new crew prepared to sail his ship, Mabry began to feel very strange. Suddenly he was watching from the fog as the Expervier sailed away. He gazed at his surroundings. So this was his fate. Here was the Expervier, an identical copy of his very own ship to sail for all time. But no crew. No Waldrop, no Cooper, and no Aubry. The reality of what was happening sunk into his mind, festering there and driving him to distraction. He would not stand for this.
“I’m still here!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He ran to the figurehead and climbed out onto it, desperately yelling, screaming, waving, in effort to somehow get their attention. The Atlantis had turned his back to him. Adair sailed away, oblivious…
Mabry sobbed, the ship closing in around him. He hung his head.
"I’m still here…"

A Tribute

To My Dad
(on his 60th birthday)

Two roads diverged on the journey called life, and, because you could not travel both and be one traveler, long you stood, and looked down one as far as you could see – until a bend hid its conclusion from your sight. It was a road of self-satisfaction and pride, though you may not have known it then, but you had a hunch that it would not give you what your heart truly desired.

So you took the other, less traveled road, as more just and fair, and having perhaps a better claim because it was grassy and not many passed there. It was a path of self-sacrifice, of giving and service and deep love, so rare; you chose to cultivate love and give it away, is this not rare as rare can be in a world such as ours?

Ah, but you were not content that is should stay that way – that so few should know what love truly is. And so you chose – you chose the path your life would follow, that initial choice making all the difference in the world. How were you to know how many changed lives hung in the balance of your decision? You had no idea, but chose the straightest path, though it was an uphill, perilous climb, because you were convinced it was right.

You had many chances to turn around, but you would not – Oh, you shunned that first road as an easier way, assured it was the way of most regret. You stayed true to the path you had chosen; stumbling and picking yourself up again, learning, loving, growing, fathering, leading, trusting, following, and expecting great things.

And that is why I can say of you, as you smile your knowing smile with tears in your eyes on your 60th birthday: cherished Husband to one, beloved Dad to three, extraordinary Granddaddy to five (and counting), and Hero to countless others. Two roads diverged on this journey called life and you – You took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference…
To Me.


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Note:
The above was inspired (as no doubt you noticed) by Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken."



Happy 60th Birthday, Daddy! May the next years, whatever they may hold, be richer and fuller than even YOU can dream. : ) I love you.

Angered

Last night, I watched a show on tv that made me angry. I'm not just talking kind of angry or annoyed. I'm talking yelling-at-the-tv angry.

Actually, the last couple of times I've watched this particular show, by the time I turn the tv off, I'm sure my blood pressure is high and my cortisol level is through the roof.

Glenn Beck, at 5 pm on weeknights, gives Fox viewers something to think about, and something to get angry about. He has helped to expose corruption and Progressivism in our not so distant past administrations and also in the present one. I'm angry about what the politicians and the movers and shakers in this country who aren't politicians, are doing to my country. It appalls me to hear that they would be so self-serving that they would knowingly tear down the pillars that have made this country great.

They are destroying our economy. On purpose. They are printing more money instead of tightening their belts and spending less.

They are shutting off our natural resources. On purpose. President Obama stopped all oil-drilling in the Gulf of Mexico. "Don't waste a crisis." It seems that I've heard that somewhere before.

They have ensured that the truth about our Founding Fathers has been left out of our public schools' textbooks. On purpose.

Did you know that? Did you know that for about a hundred years Progressives have been working to overtake our country with their ideas? Did you know there were many black Americans who fought for freedom in the American Revolution, including Peter Salem who was the true hero of the Battle of Bunker Hill? Were you taught that in school?

They have told us that we are too stupid to understand all of their complicated, thousand-page laws and policies, and that we should leave the handling of such things to the intelligent, governing elite. OH NO YOU DIDN'T!

But they did. Thus, the yelling at the tv.

Now, I willingly admit that I do not know full details about all of these issues, and I know they can't be understood fully just by watching a couple of tv shows. Some of these people may actually be doing what they think is best for the country, but if they do think that, I'd like to hear their reasoning - it sure doesn't make sense to me in the light of history!

What I do know is that the political climate of the United States of America is not where it should be. We need to take back our country before it's too late. Those who would work to that end, myself included, must understand from the beginning that it will not be an easy thing. We've got to be researching, investigating, reading to inform ourselves. But we must begin on our knees, asking God, the Divine Providence who oversaw the dawn of our nation, to oversee this, America's"Re-Founding," to borrow Glenn Beck's phrase.

I don't know exactly what that would look like, but oh, how I would love to be used by God to that end!

My Story

The following is a paper that I wrote in for my Advanced Composition class my Junior year of college. I have gone back through and updated it to some extent. It tells some of the story of how I became a reader and why I want to be a writer. Hope you enjoy!

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My Story

It is impossible to describe my life without stories. In fact, I would propose that stories are the very substance and foundation of each life. After all, our experiences are separate stories that fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Looking back, I see that my life would be quite empty without stories to read or stories to tell.

My dearest memories of stories begin with my father. Almost every night, our family, including my brother Paul and sister Suzanne, would gather together to read from a hardback book that was almost as big as I. It had the words “Character Sketches” engraved in gold letters on its spine and its pages held beautiful, vivid illustrations of animals and lifelike sketches of biblical characters. My dad would read to us about the great horned owl, the meadowlark, the wolverine, and the brown bear, all of which displayed a character quality that we could learn and imitate. Alongside the stories of the animals were Bible stories about people who exhibited the same admirable characteristics as the animals. Mom would be there too, listening and participating along with us as we watched Dad’s face while he read. Listening to my dad as he read from this book helped us to learn that he wanted his children to be strong men and women of character. In every word we heard from Dad, we also perceived the underlying theme of his love for us.

On nights when Dad decided to leave our “Character Sketches” on the shelf, he told us stories instead. He created a plotline about a moose named Mumford who had many friends, including Jeanne the Jaguar, Suzy the Squirrel, and Paul the Puma. The friends would go to an old house whose door creaked as they opened it and then slammed behind them. Dad always used the “creak” and “bang” for emphasis as he told us the story. Once in the house, they walked down the hallway, and as they entered the second door on the right, they would find themselves in a room overflowing with all the costumes needed for any conceivable adventure. Whether the friends decided to be astronauts, ballerinas, or spelunkers, as soon as they had donned the last piece of gear they would disappear into the world of their imagination. We children loved being included in these stories and listening as Dad told us how the troublesome Harry the Hyena would show up and cause a crisis. The trouble was always addressed and sometimes Harry even apologized for what he had done. Once again, these stories were not just meant to be listened to and enjoyed. They were also meant to teach us character and integrity.

Sometimes, after my parents had prayed with us and said goodnight, my dad would read to my sister and me as we fell asleep. I still remember the peace I felt as the light from the hallway shone in my bedroom and I heard him reading from his big red One Year Bible. Falling asleep as he read was a privilege that I treasured. I inherited a deep longing for truth and goodness from my father that I will never be able to relinquish.

It was a family tradition to travel to Grandma’s house every Christmas. Mom, Dad, Suzanne, Paul, and I would all pile in the car and listen to Christmas music as we drove out of Arkansas into Tennessee, and then on into Kentucky. My grandma has lived in the same house for sixty-two years. My dad grew up in that house as the seventh of eight children. The brothers always teased my Aunt Ann because she was the only girl and was, of course, spoiled. Aunt Ann denies this fact to this day, but I have heard enough stories to make me believe otherwise. They grew up simply, my grandma working in a hosiery mill and my granddad working as a mechanic. “Shorty” Lewis was a small man, but he has left a legacy to his grandchildren of integrity and hard work that will not soon be forgotten. He died before I was born, and my dad often says how much he wishes I could have known him.

The old Lewis house has been kept in good shape by Uncle Denny, Uncle Kenny, and Aunt Ann, all of whom still live in the same town as my grandma. On one of our many trips to Grandma’s, Dad took me up into the attic and told me the story of how he used to study up there during high school. There was no heater, so when it was cold he would study under a single light bulb while lying on his belly on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his ears.

Past the small plot of ground that used to be a garden tended by my granddad is the cemetery. Needless to say, the proximity of the cemetery to my grandma’s house made me stay inside after dark. We were not told any ghost stories, but the very thought of that cemetery after dark would put "the fear" in us. My granddad is buried in that cemetery, and now my cousin Mendi also. Visiting their graves is the saddest part of our visits.

Listening to my dad tell me stories about his childhood has given me an appreciation for the past. In fact, I have romanticized it many times, making it more real than today’s reality, a time to be missed. I have often wanted to live in a different time. I love all things old and romantic, including the dresses, language, lace, gloves, and manners. I know that I glamorize it and think of it as an ideal world that, in reality, never existed; but I wish and imagine anyway. This cultivation of my imagination and love for the past has developed into a preference for history as well as historical fiction.

We often entertained people in our home. My dad was an associate pastor at a local Baptist church and, as a result, my parents had many friends. I remember listening to their conversations, just waiting for them to tell an exciting story. Some of them had been to countries all around the world. Others told wonderfully funny stories about their childhood. No matter what the story was, I waded through the uninteresting adult conversation and perked up when I heard a story about to be told. I loved listening and waiting to hear those stories. Sometimes my dad also went on missions trips. I couldn’t wait for him to get home so he could tell me the story of his experiences there.

I guess you could say I learned almost everything I know from my mother. I was home-schooled from kindergarten through sixth grade, and also ninth and tenth grade. Paul, who was ten years older than I, was only home-schooled for one year out of his entire school experience; but Suzanne, who was six and half years older then me, was home-schooled for two years. I am not sure why my parents chose to teach me at home, but I am glad they did. All of my home-schooling years through sixth grade are blurred together, but I remember the way my mother would make her lesson plans and give me my assignments for the day. Everything my mom did was planned out and orderly. I have picked up her knack for organization and her motto “A place for everything and everything in its place.” As I grew older, I needed her constant attention less and often worked on my own, but she organized the lesson plans throughout my education at home.

My mom is also a writer. She has never written stories for a publisher, but she constantly wrote letters to my grandma, to her friends, and to her children. These letters are some of my most prized possessions. Mom would leave letters for every day she and Dad were out of town on a youth trip so that we had something to look forward to while they were gone. She has also written letters to each of her children since before we were born and has given my brother and sister their precious collection of her memories. I am waiting patiently for my letters, but I will probably be kept waiting for a few more years.

I grew up in the Baptist denomination until I was fourteen years old. Dad was a youth pastor and subsequently the young adult and senior adult pastor at our church. Both he and my mother were teachers until the church they attended in Memphis, Tennessee asked him to become their full-time youth pastor. When they moved to Little Rock, Arkansas, once again Dad was asked to be the youth pastor and I was born a few years later. I loved my church and the friends I made there. Because I was home-schooled, most of my friendships were made with other children at church. My parents’ vocation and my strong Baptist background gave me a bent towards the didactic in my writing. Instead of focusing on my own interpretation or an abstract idea, I am more likely to capitalize on the lesson to be learned from what I am reading. As a result, I often attempt, even without realizing it, to incorporate in my writing a lesson I have learned.

Another thing that has impacted the didactic influence in my writing is my choice of books. From the time I was ten or eleven years old I was reading Christian living books by Max Lucado. I enjoyed and was able to connect with his simple but profound style. I also read the Mandie series in which every book tells a story about how Mandie had an adventure and learned how to think before she acted. Once again, the emphasis on applying to life the things read in books influenced my choosing books that did indeed teach a positive lesson.

During my home-schooling, Mom used a curriculum that emphasized grammar much more than creative writing. Because of this, I have a strong grasp of grammar and organization in my writing, but I have a harder time writing poetry or making sure that my distinct voice is heard, simply because I have not had as many opportunities to develop these skills.

My own writing career began when I was about six or seven years old. I wrote a very short story about a woman whose neighbor had just moved in next door. The woman tried to be friendly towards her new neighbor, but the new neighbor seemed distant and unkind. However, after one simple act of kindness the two became friends and the new neighbor invited the woman to come into her house and visit with her. After this humble beginning, I also wrote three short stories about “Angels on Assignment,” who came down to the earth from heaven to help humans. The first installment of this miniseries was a story about a young man who was struggling with healthy relationships with girls and each story involved a different angel who received a mission from “the Chief.” It seems as though I was trying to create an exciting parallel to the process God actually uses to send His angels to protect us. I probably did not come very close to the truth, but this was one more step towards using my imagination to write well.

When I was about nine years old, after my family had watched the movie “Sergeant York,” my sister and I were talking to my dad about what we had just seen. We realized that the movie was based on Sergeant York’s journals, his own telling of his life’s story. Dad said that you never know who will find your journals after you die and make a movie out of them. I distinctly remember that my sister and I jumped up and ran to get our journals right at that moment. At first, I wrote in my journal because it was something new and interesting to do. It soon became a habit and then grew into a necessity. I loved writing my thoughts down on paper, trying to express the inexpressible things that lay inside my heart. Sometimes I wrote about what I had done that day, sometimes I wrote my prayers instead of saying them, and sometimes I poured out my feelings on the pages, hoping that somehow that would help me make sense of them. When I would get impatient or lonely, I would write poems in my journal. They weren’t good poems, but they did help me to express myself and to process what I was feeling.

By the time I entered middle school in Naples, Florida, I knew that I loved to read, but I did not know whether or not I could write well. Needless to say, I was nervous as I walked down the hallways of the church that housed my school, knowing that I was the new girl who did not even know how to unlock her locker. Though I had never been to school before, I adapted well to the small classes and the individual interest that my teachers took in me. My English teacher helped me to see that I could indeed write well. She assigned a group project in which we were to outline the parallels to Christianity in C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I had read one or two of the Chronicles of Narnia but had never mined the depths of meaning in them until that point. I fell in love with Narnia immediately and have never fully recovered from the beauty I found there.

The highlight of my middle school writing career involved an essay contest in seventh grade. We were told that we could write one page essays to enter a contest that was being sponsored by the Life Choice pregnancy center in Naples. I wrote my essay under the watchful eye of my English teacher and submitted it, not expecting to gain anything from it. After a while, I was told that we had a dinner to go to, and that it involved the essay I had written. Mom and Dad hinted that I had won first, second, or third place, but they did not tell me which one. When I arrived at the dinner, there on the program was my name – under the title “First Place!” I was shocked and overwhelmed, but extremely excited. This experience birthed in me the desire to write about things that matter to me. I want to write about social issues, not about petty things that have no eternal significance.

When I came to college, it seemed to me that all of the rules had changed and that I was going to have to write better than I had ever written before. This scared me and I was not sure that I would be able to make the grades I wanted in the classes that mattered most to me. My first college English paper was for my Freshman Composition II class. I wrote about images of physical and spiritual death in Emily Dickinson’s poetry, and, just as every writer has a bias, I thought it was fairly well written. When I got my grade back for that paper, I was incredibly disappointed and my insecurities about writing in college were reinforced. However, when I moved on to English Literature I, I was able to write a somewhat creative comparison of Sir Gawain and Lancelot, and not only did I enjoy writing it, but I also got a grade that was more to my liking. Through evaluations of my journal entries, I then learned that I employed a clear writing style that was appreciated by my professors. I had never been given a description of my writing style before, and it was an encouragement to know that there was one specific thing that I did well. The last substantial paper that I wrote was an analysis of Jonathan Edwards for American Literature I. I can honestly say that I worked harder on that paper than any other I had written in college. When I received the grade from my professor, I was so thankful that I was finally beginning to understand what it takes to write well. Though I may have mastered the arts of grammar and organization, I still tend to lack an articulate voice in my writing and I am trying to develop my personal style.

It was not until the middle of my sophomore year of college that I decided to become an English major. I had always loved reading, telling other people about the stories I had read, and maybe even discussing the books with those that shared my love for them. Books allowed me to enter another world and to connect with something that was out of the ordinary. I was drawn into the stories, felt the same emotions being felt by my favorite characters, despised the villain, and cried at the heartache that was part of almost every story. Many times, after I had finished a book that I loved, I wanted it to be close to me. I would make sure that it was easily accessible so that I could thumb through its pages and remember why I loved it so much. Books are indeed like friends that we never lose.

I also enjoyed the beauty I found in the books I read. The Chronicles of Narnia, the Lord of the Rings, the Anne of Green Gables series – All of these allowed me to enter into a world more beautiful than my own, and by virtue of their beauty, made my real world glow in the light of the wonder I experienced as I read them. I still read to find this beauty in books. If I find no redemption, no beauty in the books I read, I often do not like them. It must capture my imagination or I become bored. As I read, I try to translate the beautiful fiction I am reading into my present experiences. Most of the time they are difficult to reconcile, but even so, it is worth trying.

I did not always read solely for pleasure. I also read in an effort to improve myself. As I have already mentioned, I read Max Lucado’s books when I was younger and, as I grew older, I immersed myself in other Christian living books. I especially enjoyed books by John Eldredge and C. S. Lewis, as well as various devotional books. I was motivated by a desire to know God more deeply and to live a life that was glorifying to Him.

Before I attended college, I had never explored the importance of literature or the insight that could be gained by analyzing it. I knew that I loved the characters I read about, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to “ruin” the overall effect of the story with too much analysis. However, when I sat in class with the head of English department, it suddenly became clear. He spoke of literature as a conversation in which writers participate in order to answer the Great Questions of their time. Through literature, we find out what matters to people, to a culture. This is one of the reasons I want to be an English major. I want to know the questions being asked and to be able to bring truth into the conversation. The exact ramifications of this decision are not yet within my reach. I may use the skills I learn to be a writer, or perhaps an editor. Or maybe I’ll just be a mom. Who knows? Whatever my future holds, I know that reading and writing will continue to be a vital part of my self-expression and a key to unlocking the passion in my heart.

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