Celebrate returning to faith, hope, culture and life with community.

Friday, April 30, 2010

on our toes, toes

"You're not going to blog about this, are you?" Eli said to me from across the nail parlor.  My feet were submerged in warm bubbling water.  I smiled and looked up at her from behind the article on Justin Beiber in People

"No...maybe.  Okay, yeah," I said placing my feet at the top of the tub, taking full advantage of the two perfect jet streams.

My friends know me so well.  But, I figured, if my beautiful friend, BBB, can blog about her bunion, I could blog about my pedicure.  Right?  Of course, right.

Four girlfriends and I went to get our feet prettied up for graduation/Into Hymn's special goodbye ceremony for seniors.  This is lovingly referred to as the tenard, don't ask me why.  I mean, I know why it's called that, but it's really complicated and I've only given myself fifteen minutes to write this post. 

I've never had a pedicure before.  Which was, according to my friends, becoming a problem.  I sent a picture of my finished toes to a friend via text message.  She responded, "Wow, so pretty!  Love the color.  How many times did they have to wash the bins out?"

Haha.
Again, my friends know me so well.  Maybe a little too well.  But, since when is it a cardinal sin to wear flip flops and walk a lot?  Apparently, it is when you pay an innocent young lady to clean your feet for you.  And to that lady, I am so sorry.  I hope a five-dollar tip was enough to compensate for the massive emotional torture you went through, scraping the 21-years worth of dead skin from my feet.  Yech.

Anyway, the whole experience was a combination of awkward, intriguing and wonderful.  Awkward because I really did not know what was happening.  I'm a "dip your toe into the water before jumping in the pool" kind of girl.  Don't get me wrong, once I test the water, I'm all in.  But, I need the toe dip.  I was "toe-dipping" around the pedicure area of the parlor, just standing around.


"Sit down," a  young Korean not-so-gentle-man said.  "You are making me nervous."

Yikes.  I sat down.  It was not a natural experience, I'm not used to pampering myself in this way.  But, it is definitely something I could get used to.  It brought me back to the days where we would give ourselves pedicures at sleepovers.  Our friend's mothers would put those little cushy toe-separator-thingies in our goodie bags, and we'd walk around the house on the heels of our feet, our arms out for balance.  We probably looked like some sort of breed of sparkly-toed flamingo, strutting around trying not to screw up our newly-painted toes.

End result?  Perfectly purpley-pink and smooth toes, an hour to relax and feel like a little girl again (and to watch the opening scene of Avatar that was playing on a screen in the parlor).  For twenty-four bones.  Oh, I'll be coming back.

8 days.
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Thursday, April 29, 2010

animal (fishy) crackers in my soup

Booger Pie Honey Bunch,

You know that I freakin' love you.
I can't help myself.

You really do embody the spirit of the little tyke in this photo.

I am still not convinced that you know what shrooms are.  And I've quite convinced myself that you know nothing on the subject of boys or other.  You are a sassy angel.

You like to drink milk and tea.  And sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow in the shower.  And you have a little dog, named Toby (Toby, Toto, get it?).

Thanks for always calling, and being concerned when my blog posts go from being bright and happy to, let's face it, saucy.*  Further, thanks for having a nonsensical, hilarious, "quiet laughing" two-hour conversation with me last night.  I love swapping "pee-your-pants," etc. stories.

That's how I know we'll be friends forever.
Anyway, I love you lots.  Don't stress out about life or school.  Three years is a long time.  It doesn't feel like it, but looking back...it is. 

You're the best.  We're totally beating them. Not that it's a competition, but if it were, we'd totally be owning.  That's how we do.

(Say sumthin'!)

Love Always,
Your Big (Turd).

*You know, the "b-word."
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animal (fishy) crackers in my soup

Booger Pie Honey Bunch,

You know that I freakin' love you.
I can't help myself.

You really do embody the spirit of the little tyke in this photo.

I am still not convinced that you know what shrooms are.  And I've quite convinced myself that you know nothing on the subject of boys or other.  You are a sassy angel.

You like to drink milk and tea.  And sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow in the shower.  And you have a little dog, named Toby (Toby, Toto, get it?).

Thanks for always calling, and being concerned when my blog posts go from being bright and happy to, let's face it, saucy.*  Further, thanks for having a nonsensical, hilarious, "quiet laughing" two-hour conversation with me last night.  I love swapping "pee-your-pants," etc. stories.

That's how I know we'll be friends forever.
Anyway, I love you lots.  Don't stress out about life or school.  Three years is a long time.  It doesn't feel like it, but looking back...it is. 

You're the best.  We're totally beating them. Not that it's a competition, but if it were, we'd totally be owning.  That's how we do.

(Say sumthin'!)

Love Always,
Your Big (Turd).

*You know, the "b-word."
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r-e-s-p-e-c-t

Warning: I am about to repeat words of a very frustrating Christian leader. Brace yourselves, it's going to be a bumpy post.

"Your CONFIDENCE in the GOSPEL isn't seen by boldness in preaching or blogging, but in personal witnessing.Don't kid yourself."
-Rick Warren, via Twitter

After this popped up on the sign in screen of my twitter account, I made a mental note to never be a Rick Warren, "Purpose Driven Life" follower.

So I have this really bad habit of acting like I'm completely fine when on the inside I am boiling over, livid with someone or a situation.  This happened tonight.  I sat and let someone berate my closest and dearest friends.  In order to help smooth over the deeply rooted bitterness these hurtful words were coming from, I took it.  I took it all.  I took it very personally.  Because what this person was saying about my friends, she was also saying about me.

One of my ex-boyfriends said fighting with me was like taking on a grizzly bear in a telephone booth.  Lovely.  I'm really not that bad.  Okay, you can stop laughing.  It wasn't that funny.  Seriously, it's rude to chortle that loudly.

Rick Warren's tweet awoke the grizzly from hibernation.  And I'm not afraid to unleash to my blog.  Because really, that's what he's here for.  Rick, you pissed me off.  I'm not going to pretend like I agree with your accusations to "keep the peace."  I'm tired of being the good one.  You've entered the telephone booth.  Prepare to get owned.

Preachers become preachers because of their personal witnessing.  They are up for scrutiny for the entirety of their calling, making it literally impossible to hide anywhere, let alone their pulpit.  Blogging is a form of witnessing.  While a blogger's computer hibernates, her soul, her love for the Lord does not.  Witnessing does not end when you click "publish post."  It begins.  Why don't you stop hiding behind your tweets?  Start provoking love and kindness.  Using your 140 characters to stimulate the Kingdom and make Christ famous.  Stop using a goofy social media website to talk down to earnest believers trying to use their resources to make God known where they are.

9 days.

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r-e-s-p-e-c-t

Warning: I am about to repeat words of a very frustrating Christian leader. Brace yourselves, it's going to be a bumpy post.

"Your CONFIDENCE in the GOSPEL isn't seen by boldness in preaching or blogging, but in personal witnessing.Don't kid yourself."
-Rick Warren, via Twitter

After this popped up on the sign in screen of my twitter account, I made a mental note to never be a Rick Warren, "Purpose Driven Life" follower.

So I have this really bad habit of acting like I'm completely fine when on the inside I am boiling over, livid with someone or a situation.  This happened tonight.  I sat and let someone berate my closest and dearest friends.  In order to help smooth over the deeply rooted bitterness these hurtful words were coming from, I took it.  I took it all.  I took it very personally.  Because what this person was saying about my friends, she was also saying about me.

One of my ex-boyfriends said fighting with me was like taking on a grizzly bear in a telephone booth.  Lovely.  I'm really not that bad.  Okay, you can stop laughing.  It wasn't that funny.  Seriously, it's rude to chortle that loudly.

Rick Warren's tweet awoke the grizzly from hibernation.  And I'm not afraid to unleash to my blog.  Because really, that's what he's here for.  Rick, you pissed me off.  I'm not going to pretend like I agree with your accusations to "keep the peace."  I'm tired of being the good one.  You've entered the telephone booth.  Prepare to get owned.

Preachers become preachers because of their personal witnessing.  They are up for scrutiny for the entirety of their calling, making it literally impossible to hide anywhere, let alone their pulpit.  Blogging is a form of witnessing.  While a blogger's computer hibernates, her soul, her love for the Lord does not.  Witnessing does not end when you click "publish post."  It begins.  Why don't you stop hiding behind your tweets?  Start provoking love and kindness.  Using your 140 characters to stimulate the Kingdom and make Christ famous.  Stop using a goofy social media website to talk down to earnest believers trying to use their resources to make God known where they are.

9 days.

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Wednesday, April 28, 2010

lucy

"Aslan," said Lucy. "You're bigger."
"That is because you are older, little one," answered he.
"Not because you are?"
"I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger."

-Prince Caspian
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lucy

"Aslan," said Lucy. "You're bigger."
"That is because you are older, little one," answered he.
"Not because you are?"
"I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger."

-Prince Caspian
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Monday, April 26, 2010

yo tengo gozo

"Happiness is anyone and anything at all that's loved by you."
-You're a Good Man Charlie Brown

joy - n. noun

1. the emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation.
2. a source or cause of keen pleasure or delight; something or someone greatly valued or appreciated: Her prose style is a pure joy.

3. the expression or display of glad feeling; festive gaiety.
4. a state of happiness or felicity.

It's blogging at 10 a.m in Carrier Library. It's a cup of hot coffee with shot of caramel flavor (it gives it a little something extra).  It's savoring every word (a.k.a. reading really slowly) of a book that a friend recommended to you.  It's a little bit of rain with an I Love Lucy umbrella.  It's a red delicious apple, every day.  It's listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack through Afton Mountain.

Joy is having Into Hymn come to your hometown.  Watching them fly down your zipline (yes, I watched, ain't no way I was going down that thing after the great back injury of 2K9).  It's watching the Blind Side with them in your backyard, drive-in-movie style. 

It's having those two worlds collide in a magnificant way.  It's opening your mouth and knowing with absolute certainty that at least fifteen voices will be right behind you, harmonizing, melodizing, percusionizing, whateverizing...

It's singing in your home and letting the song spill from your mouth, the sound growing and bellowing in such a way that you feel as though the walls would burst from the beauty of it all.  It's making a joyful noise. 

Joy is praising, despite circumstances.

12 days.

(photo: Mikaela)
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yo tengo gozo

"Happiness is anyone and anything at all that's loved by you."
-You're a Good Man Charlie Brown

joy - n. noun

1. the emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation.
2. a source or cause of keen pleasure or delight; something or someone greatly valued or appreciated: Her prose style is a pure joy.

3. the expression or display of glad feeling; festive gaiety.
4. a state of happiness or felicity.

It's blogging at 10 a.m in Carrier Library. It's a cup of hot coffee with shot of caramel flavor (it gives it a little something extra).  It's savoring every word (a.k.a. reading really slowly) of a book that a friend recommended to you.  It's a little bit of rain with an I Love Lucy umbrella.  It's a red delicious apple, every day.  It's listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack through Afton Mountain.

Joy is having Into Hymn come to your hometown.  Watching them fly down your zipline (yes, I watched, ain't no way I was going down that thing after the great back injury of 2K9).  It's watching the Blind Side with them in your backyard, drive-in-movie style. 

It's having those two worlds collide in a magnificant way.  It's opening your mouth and knowing with absolute certainty that at least fifteen voices will be right behind you, harmonizing, melodizing, percusionizing, whateverizing...

It's singing in your home and letting the song spill from your mouth, the sound growing and bellowing in such a way that you feel as though the walls would burst from the beauty of it all.  It's making a joyful noise. 

Joy is praising, despite circumstances.

12 days.

(photo: Mikaela)
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joy

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joy

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Saturday, April 24, 2010

walking, stumbling

"When the world is falling out from under me, I'll be found in you still standing. When the sky rolls up and mountains fall on their knees, when time and space are through, I'll be found in you."
-Brooke Fraser, Shadow Feet


I never really realize how much I've missed home, until I'm here.  There is something so beautiful about Mechanicsville in the rain.  The trees and the grass that surrounds my house are an illuminating emerald.  The smell of the coming rain is overwhelming, everything is so peaceful, so tranquil. 

And though my life is about to be turned completely up-side-down with graduation in 14 days, I am not worried or stressed or even tired.  I'm ready. 

According to...everyone...the world should be falling out from under me.  They slam my subconsious with questions: What are you going to do? What are you going to do? What are you going to do? As if what I'm going to do is my only definition. 

The definition of myself lies in more than just my post-graduate choice of verb.  Write, report, edit, travel, sing, marry.  These words are (hopefully) what I'm going to do.  But, they're not who I am.  I'm looking for people who ask who I am. 

Here is my definition, the thing that I long to have known about me.  The thing I want people to ask me about.

I am the beloved daughter of the King.
I have been made new.
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walking, stumbling

"When the world is falling out from under me, I'll be found in you still standing. When the sky rolls up and mountains fall on their knees, when time and space are through, I'll be found in you."
-Brooke Fraser, Shadow Feet


I never really realize how much I've missed home, until I'm here.  There is something so beautiful about Mechanicsville in the rain.  The trees and the grass that surrounds my house are an illuminating emerald.  The smell of the coming rain is overwhelming, everything is so peaceful, so tranquil. 

And though my life is about to be turned completely up-side-down with graduation in 14 days, I am not worried or stressed or even tired.  I'm ready. 

According to...everyone...the world should be falling out from under me.  They slam my subconsious with questions: What are you going to do? What are you going to do? What are you going to do? As if what I'm going to do is my only definition. 

The definition of myself lies in more than just my post-graduate choice of verb.  Write, report, edit, travel, sing, marry.  These words are (hopefully) what I'm going to do.  But, they're not who I am.  I'm looking for people who ask who I am. 

Here is my definition, the thing that I long to have known about me.  The thing I want people to ask me about.

I am the beloved daughter of the King.
I have been made new.
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Friday, April 23, 2010

wax on, wax off

I may not know karate, but I do know crazy.

There are so many times in my life when I feel like I'm going to have so much fun being a kung-fu fighting journalist (hi-YAH!).  I love writing about others, and serving the public in that way.  Peeking into someone's life, being the vessel that allows their story to be heard.

It's such an honor, and I get a kick out of thinking that I'll be able to do this for the rest of my life.  It's poetic, really.

Until...

Those of you who know me well know that somehow, through my last twenty-one years, I have become nothing less of a humongous magnet for incredibly uncomfortable situations.  Here's your challenge for the day:  try to out-embarrassing story me.

Oh, by the way, you can't.  Unless your story involves pooping your pants on a roller coaster.  Then we're even.  

So anyway, there I was.  Enjoying my life, looking forward to graduation (15 days!) and working for a news station, or writing for a news website until my brilliant partner and I decide to do a video feature story, on a local Karate instructor.  For the purposes of his protection, he will henceforth be referred to as "karate man," or "KM" for short.


Do not get me wrong, awfully nice guy.  Great to talk to, truly believes in his work.  Doing a lot of great things for the community.  Had a lot of opinions on how the story should be done.  And of course a karate instructor, one who is a ninth degree black belt and spends his life teaching his little karate kids how to be confident and strong leaders is going to have some strong opinions. Several obstacles arose with this.

First of all, our professor had just told my partner and I that we need to be more firm with our interviewers.  He instructed us, saying that sometimes you need to be a little rude in order to get exactly what you need from people. He the proceeded to look at my partner and I and say, "I know that will be really difficult for you two."  The whole class erupted with laughter.  Hahaha...





What?  Like I can't be firm?  Like I can't get in there and take care of business?  Like I'm too sweet (other people's words, not mine) to be able to get things done?  Hah!  I'll show you, I thought in my most vindictive inner-monologue, You'll all see!  I can be firm, I can tell people like it is...

No, I can't.

There are three obstacles that occur when combining the world's most confident KM and the world's sweetest journalism students.

Obstacle one: What is the story about?
  This conversation lasted a good twenty minutes as we tried to explain a story that we had not explored yet.


"Okay," said KM as he pulled us into his office.  "I want to know what this story is about."
"Well, we were kind of hoping to do the story on you," I said.
"Right, but what's your angle?" said KM.
"Well, we were kind of hoping to do the story on...you?"
"Okay, okay.  But, what's the angle going to be?"

Obstacle two: Video editing.
This happened several different times.  Our reply was consistent.

"Here's an idea, this might be good.  Oh, yeah, this will be good," said KM.  "You get me hitting this gong.  Then, quick, zoom out!  Then fade to black, then fade into people doing tricks..."
"Thank you, those are very helpful suggestions, we will definitely take them into consideration,"

Obstacle three:  Give me my energy back!/Don't beat up my partner!

 "Now, I'm going to take out half of your energy, then put it back in," said KM.  He placed his hand about two inches away from her face and made a slicing motion from the top of her head all the way to the floor.  "Now, make a fist with your hand and hold it out to your side," said KM.  My partner, though she looked a little scared, willingly obliged. "Resist!"  he cried, as he pushed her fisted hand down to her side.  She couldn't.

He showed different pressure points on the hand and somehow, through pushing a series of these "buttons" sent a shock wave up her arm.  I just stood there and blinked at the two of them.  Praying that he would not try to beat me up.  Because he was the KM, and he could take me out in a snap. 

Don't worry, he pushed his hands on her lower stomach area to "give her energy back."  Because your energy is stored in your genitals, according to the KM.  That's where life begins.

After two days of shooting, and over two hours of footage (including a choreographed nun-chuck routine to "the Devil Went Down to Georgia" complete with a nun-chucker playing the "devil" wearing little plastic horns) my lesson of the need to be a firm journalist was learned.

Wax on, wax off, right?

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wax on, wax off

I may not know karate, but I do know crazy.

There are so many times in my life when I feel like I'm going to have so much fun being a kung-fu fighting journalist (hi-YAH!).  I love writing about others, and serving the public in that way.  Peeking into someone's life, being the vessel that allows their story to be heard.

It's such an honor, and I get a kick out of thinking that I'll be able to do this for the rest of my life.  It's poetic, really.

Until...

Those of you who know me well know that somehow, through my last twenty-one years, I have become nothing less of a humongous magnet for incredibly uncomfortable situations.  Here's your challenge for the day:  try to out-embarrassing story me.

Oh, by the way, you can't.  Unless your story involves pooping your pants on a roller coaster.  Then we're even.  

So anyway, there I was.  Enjoying my life, looking forward to graduation (15 days!) and working for a news station, or writing for a news website until my brilliant partner and I decide to do a video feature story, on a local Karate instructor.  For the purposes of his protection, he will henceforth be referred to as "karate man," or "KM" for short.


Do not get me wrong, awfully nice guy.  Great to talk to, truly believes in his work.  Doing a lot of great things for the community.  Had a lot of opinions on how the story should be done.  And of course a karate instructor, one who is a ninth degree black belt and spends his life teaching his little karate kids how to be confident and strong leaders is going to have some strong opinions. Several obstacles arose with this.

First of all, our professor had just told my partner and I that we need to be more firm with our interviewers.  He instructed us, saying that sometimes you need to be a little rude in order to get exactly what you need from people. He the proceeded to look at my partner and I and say, "I know that will be really difficult for you two."  The whole class erupted with laughter.  Hahaha...





What?  Like I can't be firm?  Like I can't get in there and take care of business?  Like I'm too sweet (other people's words, not mine) to be able to get things done?  Hah!  I'll show you, I thought in my most vindictive inner-monologue, You'll all see!  I can be firm, I can tell people like it is...

No, I can't.

There are three obstacles that occur when combining the world's most confident KM and the world's sweetest journalism students.

Obstacle one: What is the story about?
  This conversation lasted a good twenty minutes as we tried to explain a story that we had not explored yet.


"Okay," said KM as he pulled us into his office.  "I want to know what this story is about."
"Well, we were kind of hoping to do the story on you," I said.
"Right, but what's your angle?" said KM.
"Well, we were kind of hoping to do the story on...you?"
"Okay, okay.  But, what's the angle going to be?"

Obstacle two: Video editing.
This happened several different times.  Our reply was consistent.

"Here's an idea, this might be good.  Oh, yeah, this will be good," said KM.  "You get me hitting this gong.  Then, quick, zoom out!  Then fade to black, then fade into people doing tricks..."
"Thank you, those are very helpful suggestions, we will definitely take them into consideration,"

Obstacle three:  Give me my energy back!/Don't beat up my partner!

 "Now, I'm going to take out half of your energy, then put it back in," said KM.  He placed his hand about two inches away from her face and made a slicing motion from the top of her head all the way to the floor.  "Now, make a fist with your hand and hold it out to your side," said KM.  My partner, though she looked a little scared, willingly obliged. "Resist!"  he cried, as he pushed her fisted hand down to her side.  She couldn't.

He showed different pressure points on the hand and somehow, through pushing a series of these "buttons" sent a shock wave up her arm.  I just stood there and blinked at the two of them.  Praying that he would not try to beat me up.  Because he was the KM, and he could take me out in a snap. 

Don't worry, he pushed his hands on her lower stomach area to "give her energy back."  Because your energy is stored in your genitals, according to the KM.  That's where life begins.

After two days of shooting, and over two hours of footage (including a choreographed nun-chuck routine to "the Devil Went Down to Georgia" complete with a nun-chucker playing the "devil" wearing little plastic horns) my lesson of the need to be a firm journalist was learned.

Wax on, wax off, right?

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Thursday, April 22, 2010

dear graduation (and grad school news)



Just a bit little faster, please.

16 days.

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dear graduation (and grad school news)



Just a bit little faster, please.

16 days.

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it's gunna be a bright sunshine day


"I've got a beautiful feeling everything's going my way."
-Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin', OKLAHOMA!

"With every step I am more certain.  All I trust becomes my own.  I have confidence in confidence alone."
-I Have Confidence, the Sound of Music

"I am still confident in this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord."
-Psalm 27:13-14


It's going to be a good day.  There is (sinfully) whipped cream in my coffee.  My favorite Wizard of Oz coffee mug happened to be clean.  I slept in until 9 a.m. I am currently editing stories for my creative comedy writing class.  I am wearing a yellow top and a vintage-y black sweater my grandmother bought me from a Talbot's outlet in Texas.

Walking on sunshine, people!
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it's gunna be a bright sunshine day


"I've got a beautiful feeling everything's going my way."
-Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin', OKLAHOMA!

"With every step I am more certain.  All I trust becomes my own.  I have confidence in confidence alone."
-I Have Confidence, the Sound of Music

"I am still confident in this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord."
-Psalm 27:13-14


It's going to be a good day.  There is (sinfully) whipped cream in my coffee.  My favorite Wizard of Oz coffee mug happened to be clean.  I slept in until 9 a.m. I am currently editing stories for my creative comedy writing class.  I am wearing a yellow top and a vintage-y black sweater my grandmother bought me from a Talbot's outlet in Texas.

Walking on sunshine, people!
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Tuesday, April 20, 2010

1776

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzH31qdt3oM&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b]
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1776

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Monday, April 19, 2010

not so quiet riot



19 Days! We're going to make it!
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not so quiet riot



19 Days! We're going to make it!
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why am I always so surprised...




...by how good God is?  Thank you for my sisters. What a delight it has been to sing with them for the past seven and a half semesters. 

"The spirit of God released through our prayers and the prayers of others turns cowards into conquerors."
-Beth Moore

That means more to me than you could ever possibly imagine.


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why am I always so surprised...




...by how good God is?  Thank you for my sisters. What a delight it has been to sing with them for the past seven and a half semesters. 

"The spirit of God released through our prayers and the prayers of others turns cowards into conquerors."
-Beth Moore

That means more to me than you could ever possibly imagine.


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Sunday, April 18, 2010

my love is a rose

"I know we're growing older.  Can you imagine what that will bring? It's all a mystery to me now, except this one thing: it will be half as hard, and twice as good."
-Sara Groves, Twice as Good

I am a sucker for flowers.  You could seriously screw up bad with me, and flowers would fix it.  They are so fragile, the remind me of life.  They bloom for just a short time, but they bring such joy.

Some things are just too sweet to even attempt to describe.  I've never read anything that describes the wonderful perfume a rose exudes.  I've never smelt anything that comes quite as close to that fresh, sweet fragrance.  The fact that I can sit here and be overcome by the overwhelming scent of the roses my beautiful friends and family gave me yesterday is - well, I can't put it into words, but it is good.

And that's okay.  Sometimes it's best to just sit with eyes bright, hands still, reflecting.  That's what I'm spending my morning doing.  Some things are just too full of splendor to be able to fully describe.

For instance, I could try to describe my very last Into Hymn concert.  I could try to put into words how much I love every one of those girls, past, present and future, with all of my heart.  I could try to say how it felt to hold the hands of my best friends and sisters as we sang to the Lord.  How it felt to have a close friend give me a "senior send off," call me her sister, and tell me how much she loves me in front of an audience of (easily) three-hundred people.  I could hurriedly say how it felt watching the new Into Hymn perform Sara Grove's "Twice as Good," a song they had been practicing as a surprise for us. 

But, Into Hymn, this spectacular sisterhood and a cappella group, to me is like the fragrance of a rose.  It is so beautiful, your time with them is fleeting, but it is good.  Too good to put into words, even for the English major. 

Girls, friends, dear sisters, you have shown me what passion is.  Thank you for restoring that in me.  Thank you for teaching me what it means to have Godly friendships.  I love you all so dearly, and I can't wait to see where the Lord takes you next!  Please, don't think that the senior's absence from practices and business meetings and devotions is an absence from your lives. 

We'll be here, like we always have been.  How could we not be?  Trust and fight.  And know that life with Christ, though it may very well not be half as hard, it is a million times as good.  And the things that are hard are meant for your good.  

Oh, and thanks for my flowers, y'all!  You know how much joy those bring to me!





20 days.
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my love is a rose

"I know we're growing older.  Can you imagine what that will bring? It's all a mystery to me now, except this one thing: it will be half as hard, and twice as good."
-Sara Groves, Twice as Good

I am a sucker for flowers.  You could seriously screw up bad with me, and flowers would fix it.  They are so fragile, the remind me of life.  They bloom for just a short time, but they bring such joy.

Some things are just too sweet to even attempt to describe.  I've never read anything that describes the wonderful perfume a rose exudes.  I've never smelt anything that comes quite as close to that fresh, sweet fragrance.  The fact that I can sit here and be overcome by the overwhelming scent of the roses my beautiful friends and family gave me yesterday is - well, I can't put it into words, but it is good.

And that's okay.  Sometimes it's best to just sit with eyes bright, hands still, reflecting.  That's what I'm spending my morning doing.  Some things are just too full of splendor to be able to fully describe.

For instance, I could try to describe my very last Into Hymn concert.  I could try to put into words how much I love every one of those girls, past, present and future, with all of my heart.  I could try to say how it felt to hold the hands of my best friends and sisters as we sang to the Lord.  How it felt to have a close friend give me a "senior send off," call me her sister, and tell me how much she loves me in front of an audience of (easily) three-hundred people.  I could hurriedly say how it felt watching the new Into Hymn perform Sara Grove's "Twice as Good," a song they had been practicing as a surprise for us. 

But, Into Hymn, this spectacular sisterhood and a cappella group, to me is like the fragrance of a rose.  It is so beautiful, your time with them is fleeting, but it is good.  Too good to put into words, even for the English major. 

Girls, friends, dear sisters, you have shown me what passion is.  Thank you for restoring that in me.  Thank you for teaching me what it means to have Godly friendships.  I love you all so dearly, and I can't wait to see where the Lord takes you next!  Please, don't think that the senior's absence from practices and business meetings and devotions is an absence from your lives. 

We'll be here, like we always have been.  How could we not be?  Trust and fight.  And know that life with Christ, though it may very well not be half as hard, it is a million times as good.  And the things that are hard are meant for your good.  

Oh, and thanks for my flowers, y'all!  You know how much joy those bring to me!





20 days.
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Friday, April 16, 2010

dear campus cookes,

You are SUPER delicious, and you've got an audience!

As promised, my first-ever video journalism package I made with my wonderful SMAD 309 partner.  Be kind, we're quite the noobs.  But, I feel SO legitimate right now.


(Shot with SONY-HD, edited with Final Cut Pro).

In case you were wondering, MAT went okay.  Just okay.  Thus completes the graduate school application shennanigans.  Amazing what burden has lifted off my shoulders.  Things are literally out of my hands now.

Anyway, happy Friday people! Oh, and 22 days!


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dear campus cookes,

You are SUPER delicious, and you've got an audience!

As promised, my first-ever video journalism package I made with my wonderful SMAD 309 partner.  Be kind, we're quite the noobs.  But, I feel SO legitimate right now.


(Shot with SONY-HD, edited with Final Cut Pro).

In case you were wondering, MAT went okay.  Just okay.  Thus completes the graduate school application shennanigans.  Amazing what burden has lifted off my shoulders.  Things are literally out of my hands now.

Anyway, happy Friday people! Oh, and 22 days!


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it's time

I didn't really realize how many eggs I have in this one, big basket.  On my way to take my MAT - the final requirement for my Regent University Application.

Calm it down, calm it down. 

I'm in the Media Arts and Design video editing lab.  Sort of with a "fish out of water" or "fish on a bicycle" feeling.  I'm not really a video editor.  I was going to try to post my first video package for you all to see - but it looks like it's having a hard time processing on YouTube.  We'll try again later. 
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it's time

I didn't really realize how many eggs I have in this one, big basket.  On my way to take my MAT - the final requirement for my Regent University Application.

Calm it down, calm it down. 

I'm in the Media Arts and Design video editing lab.  Sort of with a "fish out of water" or "fish on a bicycle" feeling.  I'm not really a video editor.  I was going to try to post my first video package for you all to see - but it looks like it's having a hard time processing on YouTube.  We'll try again later. 
SHARE:

note the knees

This is an artistic interpretation of the story on Abraham and Sarah I turned into my Creative Comedy Writing class for critique (see post below).

My classmate (a.k.a. the guy my gal pal Megan and I are "fighting over" - if you're reading this, I'm sorry I exploited our true feelings on my blog, I hope you'll forgive me!  Love!) drew this at the bottom of my paper after writing a very kind critique.

He had never heard the Biblical story before, and called himself a heathen.  The truth is, I've known about it for years but never really knew the full details until I began my Bible as Literature class this semester.

And I wrote a satirical story about it.  So, I guess I'm a little heathenistic as well. 

By the way, if you're the absolutely hilarious guy who drew this on my paper, and you happen to be reading this blog post, I want to be your best friend.  Can we make that happen, please?  Okay, thanks!

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note the knees

This is an artistic interpretation of the story on Abraham and Sarah I turned into my Creative Comedy Writing class for critique (see post below).

My classmate (a.k.a. the guy my gal pal Megan and I are "fighting over" - if you're reading this, I'm sorry I exploited our true feelings on my blog, I hope you'll forgive me!  Love!) drew this at the bottom of my paper after writing a very kind critique.

He had never heard the Biblical story before, and called himself a heathen.  The truth is, I've known about it for years but never really knew the full details until I began my Bible as Literature class this semester.

And I wrote a satirical story about it.  So, I guess I'm a little heathenistic as well. 

By the way, if you're the absolutely hilarious guy who drew this on my paper, and you happen to be reading this blog post, I want to be your best friend.  Can we make that happen, please?  Okay, thanks!

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Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Abraham (the one not on the penny)

"Mr. Godsey!  Mr. Godsey!" the flood of photographers shouted.  Their questions were nothing but a swarm of nosiness.  They were all the same.  Over and over again for the past eight and a half months.  "How does it feel to be the oldest pregnant couple in America?"  "Are you worried about your wife surviving delivery?"  "Is it a boy or girl?"  "What brand of enhancers do you use?"  I pushed through the throng of microphones and flashing lights, ignoring the mocking laughter and the endless trail of personal questions.

"Abraham," called a woman's voice.  It was crisp and clear above all of the others.  "Did you want this child?"  I stopped, mid-stride.  I looked to address my questioner.  It was a young woman, dressed in all black, with the exception of a red cap that sat perched on top of her head.

"Of course," I said.  "This child, this birth, is nothing short of a blessed and joyous miracle.  Sarah and I are treating it as nothing less."

"Do you think you'll be a good father to the child?"  The woman in the red cap had her pen poised, ready to jot down any syllable escaping from my lips.

"I have to be," I said.  "I'm supposed to be a good father to a great many children," I said.

"Wait, what?"  she stammered.  "Are you expecting multiples?"

I smiled as I opened the door to my gray Nissan and climbed into the driver's seat.  "No," I said.  "We're expecting a kept promise." 

Abraham, a father of a nation.  This was, after all, what God promised us from the very beginning of our marriage.

"Trust me," He said.  "And I will make you a father of the nations.  I will make your descendancts like grains of sand on the beach, and stars in the sky."  But, for nearly fifty-five years, the only thing God seemed he was capable of was keeping my wife's womb empty.  And being poetic.  Sarah and I both thought it was just an inside joke with the man upstairs.  It was funny, the promised father of a nation, childless.  His wife barren.  I was just as stunned as she was when the doctor delivered the news to us.  We thought she had a tumor.  Turns out, it was a very different kind of growth.

"Well," said Doctor Mosby. He breathed heavily as he waved the sonogram wand over Sarah's jellied belly.  His eyes burst out of his face like bubble wrap while he studied the screen projecting the inside of my wife.  He was turning a most unnatural shad of white.  "It's certainly not what we had originally thought."

"What is it, then?"  said Sarah.

"Well...it...um...s-s-s-seems that congratulations are in order for the both of you," stammered the doctor.

"Congratulations?" I said.

"Yes, Mr. Godsey," said the doctor.  "Your wife is expecting."

"You mean to tell me, doctor, that little white splotch is a baby?" said Sarah. "Inside of my...inside of me?"

"Yes, Mrs. Godsey.  You are going to be a mother."

Then Sarah did something I have never seen her do so majestically.  She threw her shimmering silver head back and laughed.  Laughed hard.

***

I'm going to miss getting graded for this.

25 days.  Whoops, just consulted Wizard of Oz calendar.  24 days.  Man, that went by quickly.

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Abraham (the one not on the penny)

"Mr. Godsey!  Mr. Godsey!" the flood of photographers shouted.  Their questions were nothing but a swarm of nosiness.  They were all the same.  Over and over again for the past eight and a half months.  "How does it feel to be the oldest pregnant couple in America?"  "Are you worried about your wife surviving delivery?"  "Is it a boy or girl?"  "What brand of enhancers do you use?"  I pushed through the throng of microphones and flashing lights, ignoring the mocking laughter and the endless trail of personal questions.

"Abraham," called a woman's voice.  It was crisp and clear above all of the others.  "Did you want this child?"  I stopped, mid-stride.  I looked to address my questioner.  It was a young woman, dressed in all black, with the exception of a red cap that sat perched on top of her head.

"Of course," I said.  "This child, this birth, is nothing short of a blessed and joyous miracle.  Sarah and I are treating it as nothing less."

"Do you think you'll be a good father to the child?"  The woman in the red cap had her pen poised, ready to jot down any syllable escaping from my lips.

"I have to be," I said.  "I'm supposed to be a good father to a great many children," I said.

"Wait, what?"  she stammered.  "Are you expecting multiples?"

I smiled as I opened the door to my gray Nissan and climbed into the driver's seat.  "No," I said.  "We're expecting a kept promise." 

Abraham, a father of a nation.  This was, after all, what God promised us from the very beginning of our marriage.

"Trust me," He said.  "And I will make you a father of the nations.  I will make your descendancts like grains of sand on the beach, and stars in the sky."  But, for nearly fifty-five years, the only thing God seemed he was capable of was keeping my wife's womb empty.  And being poetic.  Sarah and I both thought it was just an inside joke with the man upstairs.  It was funny, the promised father of a nation, childless.  His wife barren.  I was just as stunned as she was when the doctor delivered the news to us.  We thought she had a tumor.  Turns out, it was a very different kind of growth.

"Well," said Doctor Mosby. He breathed heavily as he waved the sonogram wand over Sarah's jellied belly.  His eyes burst out of his face like bubble wrap while he studied the screen projecting the inside of my wife.  He was turning a most unnatural shad of white.  "It's certainly not what we had originally thought."

"What is it, then?"  said Sarah.

"Well...it...um...s-s-s-seems that congratulations are in order for the both of you," stammered the doctor.

"Congratulations?" I said.

"Yes, Mr. Godsey," said the doctor.  "Your wife is expecting."

"You mean to tell me, doctor, that little white splotch is a baby?" said Sarah. "Inside of my...inside of me?"

"Yes, Mrs. Godsey.  You are going to be a mother."

Then Sarah did something I have never seen her do so majestically.  She threw her shimmering silver head back and laughed.  Laughed hard.

***

I'm going to miss getting graded for this.

25 days.  Whoops, just consulted Wizard of Oz calendar.  24 days.  Man, that went by quickly.

SHARE:

Sunday, April 11, 2010

what's your era?



*Note to self, spend more time studying, and concentrating on graduating.

Easier said than done. Twenty-seven days!
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what's your era?



*Note to self, spend more time studying, and concentrating on graduating.

Easier said than done. Twenty-seven days!
SHARE:

Friday, April 9, 2010

the secret life of bees

"...Women made the best beekeepers 'cause they have a special ability built into them to love creatures that sting." -Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

Side note: I'm an English major. I've read a lot of books. A lot of books. The Secret Life of Bees remains my favorite to this day. Read it, read it, read it. Don't forget to read it.

Moving on to anger. There are few things in this world that make me mad. Really, though I lack patience, my fuse tends to burn to frustration, not anger.

However, one thing that really sets me off is judgmental Christians who lack the ability to see their own flaws. Who delve into the lives of their friends, acquaintances, people on the street, whoever, and look for ways that they don't "measure up."

When this starts to happen, I'm like that little girl in the riddle: There once was a girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very very good. When she was bad she was horrid.

When people who proclaim the gospel, while simultaneously proclaiming hatred, and judgment, I become horrid. Because, guess what? We all fall short. That's just as Biblical as "thou shalt not steal," or "thou shalt not commit adultery."

I'm doing it (falling short) right now. Big time. I fell so short just a few minutes ago that I broke down in the university library. On top of that, I word vomited to a classmate, poor thing. I probably scared the crap out of her, flagging her down in the middle of the library lobby. She asked me if I were okay and if I needed a hug, and she didn't even know my name.

A couple of days ago, a bumble bee flew into the open window of my Bible as Literature class. This class has been the thorn in my side (so to speak) all semester long. Eight a.m., MWF, and entails long talks by my professor, professing the illegitimacy of the Christian faith, and just ripping apart the awe of renown Biblical characters.

What joy.

So, anyway, a bee flew into the classroom, and of course, everyone went berserk. We spent a whole five minutes of class time dodging the bee's stinger, and watching our professor slip off her white sandal and make attempts to squash the beast.

The poor thing was running itself up against the closed window, trying to escape (I think it could sense that a classroom full of James Madison students were rooting for its death). A girl in my class watching this shenanigans said "that must be so frustrating."

And you know, that's exactly how it feels for Christ followers who, you know, actually love people. We're trapped in this stereotype that does not bring people to Christ at all, but pushes them away. Instead of being intrigued when people ask me about my faith, I can tell that they are afraid or off put. They're afraid I'm going to tell them that they suck and that they're going to the fiery realm of h-e-double-hockey-sticks upon their demise.

"Christians" do it to other Christians too. People who don't have hobbies like to sit around facebook and look for pictures, evidence that people are sinners.

Here's a thought: spend that time changing yourself. Not trying to change others.

Paul refers to himself as an "ambassador in chains" in his letter to the Ephesians (6:20). We are all ambassadors for Christ, held in bondage to our struggles. So why do we (yes, I say we because I am not in any way dis-including myself from this) immediately point our fingers at those who are doing wrong? Especially those who have not been raised according to the law that we follow, and wouldn't think twice about going against it/even know that they are?

I think it's because we're all so very insecure about our own shortcomings.

And speaking of shortcomings, I realize that writing a blog post about how being judgmental is wrong is, in fact, being judgmental. But, you know, someone had to say it. The "good news" of our faith is that we are all forgiven. So I'm going to proclaim it.

Here's a secret promise we, as Christ-followers, can all make to ourselves: Don't give any more people reasons to believe that Christians are hyper-sensitive judgmental baboons who think that everyone is hell-bound, and have no redeeming qualities about them. Let's love them with the greatest passion. Let's love them with the same passion that Christ loves us with.

SHARE:

the secret life of bees

"...Women made the best beekeepers 'cause they have a special ability built into them to love creatures that sting." -Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

Side note: I'm an English major. I've read a lot of books. A lot of books. The Secret Life of Bees remains my favorite to this day. Read it, read it, read it. Don't forget to read it.

Moving on to anger. There are few things in this world that make me mad. Really, though I lack patience, my fuse tends to burn to frustration, not anger.

However, one thing that really sets me off is judgmental Christians who lack the ability to see their own flaws. Who delve into the lives of their friends, acquaintances, people on the street, whoever, and look for ways that they don't "measure up."

When this starts to happen, I'm like that little girl in the riddle: There once was a girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very very good. When she was bad she was horrid.

When people who proclaim the gospel, while simultaneously proclaiming hatred, and judgment, I become horrid. Because, guess what? We all fall short. That's just as Biblical as "thou shalt not steal," or "thou shalt not commit adultery."

I'm doing it (falling short) right now. Big time. I fell so short just a few minutes ago that I broke down in the university library. On top of that, I word vomited to a classmate, poor thing. I probably scared the crap out of her, flagging her down in the middle of the library lobby. She asked me if I were okay and if I needed a hug, and she didn't even know my name.

A couple of days ago, a bumble bee flew into the open window of my Bible as Literature class. This class has been the thorn in my side (so to speak) all semester long. Eight a.m., MWF, and entails long talks by my professor, professing the illegitimacy of the Christian faith, and just ripping apart the awe of renown Biblical characters.

What joy.

So, anyway, a bee flew into the classroom, and of course, everyone went berserk. We spent a whole five minutes of class time dodging the bee's stinger, and watching our professor slip off her white sandal and make attempts to squash the beast.

The poor thing was running itself up against the closed window, trying to escape (I think it could sense that a classroom full of James Madison students were rooting for its death). A girl in my class watching this shenanigans said "that must be so frustrating."

And you know, that's exactly how it feels for Christ followers who, you know, actually love people. We're trapped in this stereotype that does not bring people to Christ at all, but pushes them away. Instead of being intrigued when people ask me about my faith, I can tell that they are afraid or off put. They're afraid I'm going to tell them that they suck and that they're going to the fiery realm of h-e-double-hockey-sticks upon their demise.

"Christians" do it to other Christians too. People who don't have hobbies like to sit around facebook and look for pictures, evidence that people are sinners.

Here's a thought: spend that time changing yourself. Not trying to change others.

Paul refers to himself as an "ambassador in chains" in his letter to the Ephesians (6:20). We are all ambassadors for Christ, held in bondage to our struggles. So why do we (yes, I say we because I am not in any way dis-including myself from this) immediately point our fingers at those who are doing wrong? Especially those who have not been raised according to the law that we follow, and wouldn't think twice about going against it/even know that they are?

I think it's because we're all so very insecure about our own shortcomings.

And speaking of shortcomings, I realize that writing a blog post about how being judgmental is wrong is, in fact, being judgmental. But, you know, someone had to say it. The "good news" of our faith is that we are all forgiven. So I'm going to proclaim it.

Here's a secret promise we, as Christ-followers, can all make to ourselves: Don't give any more people reasons to believe that Christians are hyper-sensitive judgmental baboons who think that everyone is hell-bound, and have no redeeming qualities about them. Let's love them with the greatest passion. Let's love them with the same passion that Christ loves us with.

SHARE:
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