Denton Bible Church - Song of Solomon

Below is a link to one of the best series I have heard on love, dating, and marriage. The Song of Solomon always seems to be the "elephant" of the church, but I really love what Denton says about it. Enjoy!

http://dbcmedia.org/podcasts/love_song_podcast.xml

Greater Than Me

Because he who is in me

Is greater than I will ever be

And I will rise

 

Shawn McDonald's song "Rise" brought me to tears as I was driving down the East/West connecter today. This past week I had a moment of encouragement in my teaching that was humbling. It reminds me of the time when God showed me the lesson of the five loaves and two fish. I am the five loaves and two fish. I am not enough. I need Jesus to intercede so that I can give what my students need. Moments like these bring me to my knees and make me wonder why I ever doubt. Again.

Here is the thing about my job: I feel as though I am constantly under a microscope and judged on my performance all the while being thrown various obstacles that could (and will eventually) impact my classroom. This job is incredibly humbling because I know that I am not enough for them. I can't answer every question. I can't imagine every situation that I should prepare for. But, Jesus comes into my classroom, into my mess, and makes something beautiful of it. I am not the best teacher. But I belong to the best Teacher and that is what makes the difference. It has nothing to do with me. It has everything to do with Him. And this is what humbles me so greatly. He chooses to use me, every mess-up, every inadequate lesson, every failure and turn it into something good. This is the God I love. 

 

And so this is my daily life. Not every day is fireworks. Not every day feels like an "I am so meant to do this" day. But, God is with me every day, no matter how spiritual I feel that day or whether or not I deserve his help. That is the point of his grace and mercy. I know that God is using teaching to humble me and show me how I so desperately need him. And it really hurts sometimes. And sometimes it is embarrassing and sometimes I just want to hide. But, he comes, and gently lifts me, and wipes my tears, and clears my head, and holds my heart while I press on. And though it is messy and though it is painful, it is the most beautiful experience.

What is your messy and beautiful experience? How do you see God in it?


Here is Shawn McDonald's song "Rise." I hope it encourages you as it does me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2ti1BikZrA

 



Needing Him is the Point

Tonight I looked down at my list. Ten things are on this list. Three things are scratched off. At the top is "must do today" with empty little circles extending below that establish where each task begins. The paper is creamy colored -- little violets crowning the top. One corner of the paper is severely bent --a representation of my habit of folding and refolding paper in my hands when I am busy or anxious. At the tip-top there is the edge of tea-cup stain from this morning's accidental slosh. Over to the side, I have written Matthew 11:30.

"For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

I have been learning a lot about myself lately, namely, my weaknesses and areas in which I need Jesus like I have never felt before. I have always needed God, certainly. But sometimes feeling it brings it closer to home. Feeling the weight of my inadequacy and sinfulness is pretty exhausting. It is not meant to be exhausting and debilitating. The God in Matthew is the same today; He calls me to take on his yoke, his burden, which is easier and lighter than I currently carry. "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest."

Why does Jesus use ideas like burdens and weariness so often in scripture? Because he knows; He was man and he knows the human struggle.

This morning, I was driving down 81, passing my Alma Mater, and wishing that I didn't have to struggle so much. Wishing that I could just finally get it right and not feel at war with my flesh.
I passed by an empty field. It was hushed with fog and the slits of  morning sunlight made it look alluring and tranquil. It looked like that scene from the newest Pride and Prejudice where Mr. Darcy strides across the  field, his purposeful steps breaking through the ascending fog and brisk wind. Immediately after that déjà vu moment, I thought "that's probably what Eden looked like."

Eden is what my soul was made for. Eden was the environment my flesh was made to thrive in. And so of course I will struggle on earth. Of course I will never get it right. The Bible came after Eden. God's words and love and guidance and empathy came after humanity destroyed our opportunity to live in the environment He created us for.

And I like this idea, because it is so logical. I just wish the circumstances were easier to endure.

This whole idea, that of my not needing to feel hopeless because I struggle, connects with the concept of shame that I have been mulling over. Recent conversations and audio-book listening have brought to my attention that so many of my mistakes and emotions derive from my self-inflicted experience of shame.

I am not my mistakes. I am not my emotions. I am not my failures.

I am, however, the product of humanity's decision to reject God.
I am, however, the recipient of God's grace and love and forgiveness.
I am, in result, a woman learning what it looks like to live out this inconvenient paradox: life as a human with sin and weaknesses and all the while being a child of God who has been redeemed from all such things.

And so, He says that his yoke is easy and his burden is light. He knows mine are too heavy. He knows I can't survive such weight.

He is providing a way of escape, of existence with his help and love and empathy.

So maybe my lists reflect an anxious heart because they are bent on the edge. Maybe I won't get those last seven items crossed off and maybe I will be tempted to belittle my adequacy at my job and at life. Maybe all of those things will happen.

But I can bring it to him. I can take off my burdens, and take from him a new burden that I am able to withstand. He can carry it for me. He can carry me.

So, tomorrow is supposed to be a delicious seventy-something with little chance of rain. Tomorrow will bring new challenges and new lists. But tonight I have chosen to repent and give it over. Tomorrow I will drive with the windows down and thank him for his help and bless my students with the same understanding and structure and strength that I have been given. Tonight I choose, quite logically, to live out this beautifully challenging life using the tool he has given me--himself.

From JD to JC (see what I did there?)

George Mueller's life has always interested me. I remember my mother purchasing a large set of biographies about Christian missionaries when I was in middle school. It took me a while to find an interest in them, as I was conflicted by the realization that I was probably the only 13 year-old choosing a missionary's biography over teen magazines that featured the Hanson brothers. I remember, though, the day I choose George Mueller's story.

George Mueller is known for founding orphanages in England in the 1800s. What stood out for me, though, was that he was an outstanding rebel before his conversion. He stole, he partied, he made fun of Christians, and he was an all-around juvenile delinquent. Then, he went to a Bible study that changed his life. He decided to become a missionary and, much to his educated father's dismay, not attend university. With a few minor tests of faith, Mueller left for England and became a pastor and, shortly thereafter, opened up an orphanage because of the excessive number of homeless children he found walking the streets of England.

He is most famous for this situation:

"The children are dressed and ready for school. But there is no food for them to eat," the housemother of the orphanage informed George Mueller. George asked her to take the 300 children into the dining room and have them sit at the tables. He thanked God for the food and waited. George knew God would provide food for the children as he always did. Within minutes, a baker knocked on the door. "Mr. Mueller," he said, "last night I could not sleep. Somehow I knew that you would need bread this morning. I got up and baked three batches for you. I will bring it in."

This story kind of baffles me. I want to firmly believe in God's provision and timing just as Mueller did. I want to not allow doubt or discouragement blind my faith.

Mueller thanked God before the blessing arrived.

Mueller brought others with him into the test of faith.

Mueller believed, yes, but he also acted on his belief.

Mueller trusted. Mueller waited.

And such a simple concept kind of rocks my world tonight. I am reminded to act on my faith. Physically acting on faith should be a natural repercussion of believing it and claiming it in my soul. It should be obvious when I am acting on faith. Because, typically, faith-led actions look and feel sort of illogical. Pray before nonexistent food? Place my staff into a sea and expect it to divide? Build an ark so that my family can be safe? Trust that my husband won't stone me because I am pregnant with the Son of God?

Basing my assumption off of Biblical evidence, God doesn't seem to be advocating that Christians will have easy, predictable, stress-free lives.

And so, here we go again. Another school year, another round of new trials and another set of standards I must meet. And it is really tempting for me to doubt and not trust that He who has brought me thus far will lead me through. Sometimes it feels more logical for me to envision myself failing than succeeding. But that is not the mentality of my God nor the stance he wants me to take towards life. And so I press onward and I fight for my faith.

It IS a fight and it will never be anything but a fight. But the battle is won and for that I am thankful. I have so many nothings to offer, but I have faith in the One who is I Am. And that is enough.

Like good ole' GM, I will give THANKS before it comes because I know He is providing.

What a Church is

A Church is a hospital for sinners...

I came across this today and am reminded how thankful I am to be in a community and church where sin is talked about and people are helped and loved so well. There is nothing that I treasure more than finding love from the One who never sees me as the vulgar sinner that I am. My prayer is that this remains my motivation to love as Jesus did, serve as Jesus did, and find freedom in the hope that He is using and working and blessing through even me. I want to see daily life as my sanctuary. I want to be in worship as I teach, as I plan and grade, as I live my life. It's not about Sunday. It's about forgiveness and love and hope and humility and freedom in Christ in the everyday. It's about struggling well and being noticeably different but still so imperfect. I can never measure up, and that is beautifully humbling. And, humility is where it starts.

Remembering

I am thankful for...

True, raw, out-in-the-open freedom of confession and forgiveness
The knowledge that I can never be the perfect me. And that is OK. That is the point.
God who loves me despite me.
Not really understanding love and continuing to be surprised by expressions of it.
The wind.
Mountains.
Friends who are really more like sisters and brothers.
The vulnerability that comes with those close friends.
Not having to be "fine."
Early mornings with a coffee cup, a couch, socks, sunrises, and the quiet that timidly grows louder as the sun appears.
Discipline. Self-control. Contentment.
Almonds.
Fresh cherries.
Watermelon.
Soccer in the fall.
Cold temperatures but warm fires.
Fresh bread.
Down comforters.
The color emerald.
My last present from my grandmother.
Hard stuff.
Family.
Cousins.
Needing the help of Jesus.
Knowing that I need the help of Jesus.
Vulnerability.
Honesty.
Help.
Tears.
Emotions.
Curly hair.
Music.
Poetry.
Essays.
Acoustic music.
Floral and lace things.
Learning from mistakes.
Admitting mistakes.
A fresh start.
A new home.
Adventures.
Coming home after adventuring.
Sleep.
Acts of service.
Words of affirmation.
Encouragement.
Friends who tell the truth to you.
Friends to whom you can tell the truth.
Humor.
Wisdom.
Flowers.
Walking ponds.
Feeding geese.
Icicles.
Snow.
Fall leaves.
Crisp fall morning air.
Bon fires.
Burnt marshmallows.
Camping.
Hiking.
Outdoors.
Open windows.
Singing in harmony.


I am thankful for life. It is hard. And sometimes I am not good at living it. But it is a gift from God and so there must be beauty in it. And for that I will be thankful.

And so I will make lists so that I have to remember. And when I doubt I will look at the lists. And when others doubt, I will help them make lists. And I will remember. And I will try to be thankful, because this is life.

To live is to struggle. I want to struggle well. I want to be known for needing Jesus.

And so we remember to not forget. We remember to live, to struggle, to fight. We remember to be real.

And that is beautiful.

That Girl

Sometimes I miss certain versions of myself. Just when I get comfortable with who I am and what I am doing, a change forces its way into my life. Just when I fling back my arms, breathe in deeply, tip my toes up and lean back, something comes and places the tip of its crooked pointer-finger upon the small of my back...steps forward, and purposefully eases me back into my standing position. "Not so fast, my pretty, we're not done here." I suppose this is God, but I have just described him as the wicked witch of the west. So, I don't know what to do with that.

What I mean is this: Change is good and I actually like it. This is why I enjoy teaching -every day is different and brings new challenges. Also, we get candy in our mail boxes and school t-shirts.

But.

Sometimes I really like the person I am and the spot I am in and when I leave that I place, I end up not being too fond of the girl and situation that replaces it.

 I admit that I am success-driven. If I feel like I will be successful then I run for it with ridiculous exuberance. If I feel inadequate then I shy away, make circles with my big toe, and put off the let-down of failure until the last moment possible. I can't escape change, though. It comes, whether I feel prepared for it or not. Sometimes it ends up being a change that I can welcome with pomp and circumstance. Other times it ends up being change that causes makes me to feel inadequate.

I have changed. Some for the better, some for the worst, but I have changed. And sometimes I miss who I was before.

I miss the version of myself that was happy with little. I  miss the version of myself that was overjoyed with a new soccer ball from Wal-Mart. I  miss the version of myself that would spend quiet time alone with God and not have to force myself there. I miss the version of myself that was selfless and motivated to help others out of unencumbered love. I miss the version of myself that would scale up the old Oak tree with a new book and sit and read until the ants made their debut in the edge of my sneakers. I miss the version of myself that didn't know the demands of a daily job or monthly bills or emotional roller coaster of the dating world. I miss the version of myself that wore pigtails because her favorite character in a book did. I miss the version of myself that divided her days into "school" and "after school" instead of "before work," "work," "during work," and "after work." I miss the version of myself that had time to commit to various activities. I miss the version of myself from when my grandmother died. I liked that emotional, tender-hearted, fearless girl.

I like a good, solid, natural change. But sometimes I inflict negative change upon myself, the kind that comes when I put off spending time in God's word. The kind that comes when I forget to go out of my way to serve others (instead of it being "on the way"). The kind that comes when I focus too much on myself and not Jesus. Sometimes the change is my fault and I ignore the repercussions until they're staring me in the face. And then I just have to deal and hope that some small ounce of that little girl and Jesus' goodness can bring me back.

So, change.

I have changed and I will continue to change. We like to hold on to a little bit of the previous versions of ourselves. We try to hold on only to the good bits. We fight against holding on to the bad bits. That pigtail girl is still in me. That fearless girl bubbles up every day that I have to say "no" to a teenager who is on the verge of a meltdown. That tree-climber, that high-flyer, that dreamer-girl is still in me. She hasn't left, only grown up. And so I will hold on - to the good bits - to the dreamer-girl and spunky adolescent of me.

So today I will see my world with new eyes, because Jonas did. Today I will step away from technology and errands and walk a pond with book in hand. Today I will get drinks with friends and give cheers to life and health and potential and pay checks. Today I will buy a new soccer ball and enjoy the thrill of one, cheap, unnecessary symbol of childish joy. Today I will buy another piece of furniture to restore because I like working with my hands. Today I will roller blade and paint my nails blue and go to bed at 9.

Today I will discover me because tomorrow I may change. Today I will relish the me that I wasn't yesterday and tomorrow I will sigh for the one I was today.

Oh, God

Oh, God.

Sometimes that's the only thing I can utter when God especially blesses me while I am afraid and don't have it all together.

Sometimes God makes me cry. And I think that is OK.


When a blushing 9th grader comes to me with every "A" she earns in school - Oh, God.

When, through tears, a mother thanks me for telling her positive things about her child - Oh, God.

When I talk honestly with a student about a path she is on and we both start to cry - Oh, God.

When I read free-write journals of teenagers who are wise beyond their years - Oh, God.

When my vision is cleared and I see my students as needy people instead of numbers - Oh, God.

When the prayer I have been repeating is already interwoven into my heart that I just stop short because he knows - Oh, God.

When I feel lackluster and hopeless yet God answers my prayer - Oh, God.

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I am an incredibly messed up person who is adored by the mighty Lord...and I don't think I'll ever fully understand why.

And sometimes, the only thing I can muster up is an Oh, God and tear-filled eyes as I stare down the radical goodness he gives...

and I cry, because he loves me and because it is the only thing my body knows to do when faced with the astounding blessing of being his treasure.

Shocker.

I have spent approximately 0 seconds reflecting on what I am typing. Typically, I let my thoughts sit until a moment of inspiration hits, then I write.

I am opposite today - I write, then I think. And I will probably want to delete this post. But, I won't, because it's raw and I like that and I like livin' life on the edge.

Onward.

This blog seems too heavy lately. Here's some real life. There are several things that I am bad at.


Examples.
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Making my bed: My grandmother always made her bed. When I stayed with them, it was an unspoken expectation that making beds and brushing teeth go hand-in-hand. My mother makes her bed. My sister makes her bed. I have doubts about my brother, but let's be honest and say that he has better things to do, like admire his beard in the bathroom mirror and flex. I made my bed in college mostly due to the fact that I had so many visitors in my room (take that as you will). Now? Nope. When I leave home by 7:00 every morning, there isn't a strong enough cup of coffee to will me to want to spend an extra five minutes pulling, tucking, and smoothing anything that I won't be wearing out the door.
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Trimming my cuticles: I like short nails. I always have. Long nails get in the way and generally inflict pain on those you intentionally/accidentally touch. I mess with papers all day every day, so short nails are a must. But cuticles, oh cuticles. I hate those darn things. My twice-a-year manicure is a funny experience...

She peers at me through her shiny black bangs and says "oh...cuticle bad, yes?"
Her nose scrunches and I take the hint.
"...yeah, hehe. Um, I never cut my cuticles? I just...I'm a teacher...and...?"
I realize I am answering with questions...the upward climb of my voice searching for approval.
She shakes her head. "OK. Soak."

And then I soak. Forever. Which is why I never have nice cuticles.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

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Waking up to the first alarm: I am obsessive when it comes to setting alarms. I don't have an iPhone, but I am awed by the infinite number of alarms I could set should I get one. Some people drool over the the gps system, the ring-tones, the apps that it has. Me? I'm un-done by its alarm settings. My drive to work is thirty minutes. If I leave any later than my set time, I get road rage and spill my smoothie or any other liquid (OK, coffee) I may be drinking. To prevent this, I set, no lie, ten alarms. You want to know how quickly I can turn them off? Seconds. Milliseconds. But, gosh, that extra sleep feels like hours. I am not good at waking up with one or two alarms. There is a science to my alarms. Intervals must not be consistent between alarms. If they are too consistent, my fingers reflex to press "end" when it feels like the alarm is about to sound. They have to be perfectly inconsistent. I have to trick myself. 2 minutes, alarm. 3 minutes, alarm. 5 minutes, alarm. 1 minute, alarm. 1 minute, alarm. 1 minute, alarm.

When the alarms start sounding like a machine gun, I know to stop the madness and get my tail out of bed.
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Not wanting a cat: I'm going to uncover the guise I so cleverly wear and admit that I am a cat lady at heart (was I really kidding anyone?). I like cats because they're sarcastic. Oh, you're reading a book? I suddenly feel like laying on your head. You're putting stuff in that box? Nope. It's my bed now. I had a cat from seven years old to eighteen. She wasn't very "cattish" though, and more like a snugglywugglysmooshyfacesugarmuffin.

OK. I'm done.



Nope. No, I'm not. Someone get me a kitten.
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Controlling my hair: This needs no introduction or explanation. I don't know how it got here or what it wants, but I have learned that questioning its authority just makes it angrier... curlier. I give up. My hair is the time machine to the 80's.
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Caring about which way the toilet paper roll feeds from: Over? Under? How about PRESENT.

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Knowing when to not crack a joke: Awkward encounters I have caused:

Me and a cashier at Publix.
Me and some beef-cake at the gym who didn't see the line of people trying to pass him as he admired himself in the mirror.
Me and strangers (Me: So, what's your story?......Him: Um, what's your name?)
Me and a date (Me: You wanna tell me about that theft in 1998? Him:__________ Waiter: drops plates, laughing)
Me and...


everyone.
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Being up-to-date with boy-bands:

I choose NPR over Onedirection (onedirection? OneDirection?). Can't help it.

baby I was born this way (oops.)

My father listened to NPR as we grew up and it was the car entertainment of choice right after Adventures in Odyssey.

"Car Talk" introduced to me the ideas of male chauvinism, the fact that women can't drive, and what fan belts are really for. Pure gold, apparently.

I joke.



But really, I don't. You should listen to NPR. It really is magic.

An Abundant Life

I always feel sappy when I compose an entry like this one. I shudder at the overuse of emotion, yet entries like these aren't made up of overused emotion, rather they are made up of a human recognition that I am not alone, there is a God who loves me, and I am meager in my devotion to Him.

I had a student complete a presentation on the book Pilgrim's Progress a couple of days ago. The analogy was not lost on him, and God used his simple words to remind me that this journey is not an easy one. There will be mire, there will be suffering, there will be confusion, and there will be unrest. But, also, there will be Him. And I am reminded of that.

And then I forget.

I wish I could say that I have reached the maturity level in my Christian life where I no longer doubt God's work and His faithfulness. I can't say that I have. Recently, I have let my guard down because of doubt and Satan has taken aim and shot at my faith. I may be wounded, but I am not overcome.

"For I am convinced that neither depth nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:38-39

Too often, I forget that the Christian life is a journey, lived out in a world that both screams the glory of God, and refuses to believe in His existence. I forget that to stay on the right path, I must follow my Guide. Analogies aside, the truth is, is that what can I expect when I forget? I can expect hardship, anxiety, despair. What can I expect when I remember and follow? I can expect hardship, turmoil, joy, love, forgiveness, freedom, and contentment. He doesn't promise an easy life, but He does promise an abundant one.

To live an abundant life. That is what I want.

A beautiful prayer written by a lady that I don't know, yet speaks of my life exactly.

"Lord, I am Yours. Whatever the cost may be, may Your will be done in my life. I realize I'm not here on earth to do my own thing, or to seek my own fulfillment or my own glory. I'm not here to indulge my desires, to increase my possessions, to impress people, to be popular, to prove I'm somebody important, or to promote myself. I'm not here ever to be relevant or successful by human standards. I'm here to please You.

I offer myself to You, for You are worth. All that I am or hope to be, I owe to You. I'm Yours by creation, and every day I receive from You life and breath and all things. And I'm Yours because You bought me, and the price You paid was the precious blood of Christ. You alone, the Triune God, are worthy to be my Lord and Master. I yield to You, my gracious and glorious heavenly Father; to the Lord Jesus who loved me and gave Himself for me; to the Holy Spirit and His gracious influence and empowering.

All that I am and all that I have I give to You. I give You any rebellion in me, which resists doing Your will. I give You my pride and self-dependence, which tell me I can do Your will in my own power if I try hard enough. I give You my fears, which tell me I'll never be able to do Your will in some areas of my life. I consent to let You energize me...to create within me, moment by moment, both the desire and the power to do Your will.

I give You my body and each of its members...my entire inner being: my mind, my emotional life, my will...my loved ones...my marriage or my hopes for marriage...my abilities and gifts...my strengths and weaknesses...my health...my status (high or low)...my possessions...my past, my present, and my future...when and how I'll go Home.

I'm here to love You, to obey You, to glorify You. O my Beloved, may I be a joy to You!"

And so, this is how it goes. He saves, He loves, He brings, He gives, He waits, He shelters, He calms. We love, we forget, we walk away, we remember, we love, we worry, we remember, we love...and it goes on and on. I will never be as faithful as He is. I will never love Him as much as He deserves. But, the beauty of this God that I serve, is that He doesn't expect me to perform in any particular way. He sent His son so that I wouldn't have to. And so, He just wants me. Every worry, fear, imperfection, and faithlessness that I bring to the table. And that's all He wants. He does all the work. All I have to do is follow.

To live an abundant life. To see the beauty in the mess. To live under grace instead of stress. To live how I was created to live.

"We [write/_____] to know we are not alone."

If you are passionate about a subject, you will understand what I am about to say.

There is longing in me that craves the challenge of perfecting my art alongside my peers, for working towards the common goal of giving something our best, having it reviewed by others, and then breaking it down to rebuild again. It may be experimental science for you, it could be the challenge of creating a new piece of technology, it may be wood-working, sewing, or cooking.

For me, it is writing.

I am not a poet, I am not an author. I can't be put in those categories. I am not that good.

But I like to try and I like to get better and that is my point. Writing is my first love because it was the first thing that gave me a feeling of potential.

When I was a Junior in college, I "found" myself as a writer. People use this phrase in reference to their inability to understand themselves previously. I mean it as the awakened knowledge of what I lacked, what I wanted, and how I could get there. I knew writing was in me the way athletes respond to the question of "how do you do it?"

How do I not?

I wasn't a typical college girl. A wild night to me was spent writing, peer editing, coffee-drinking, and infusing wit into bored papers. I am exaggerating, of course. But, this persona is funnier than the simple truth that I went to a Christian University and so of course I spent my evening hours working on homework while watching Signs with friends. I preferred to go to bed early and wake up early-ish. I couldn't do all-nighters. So, I would sleep early and wake early. This was the only way I could crank out an essay. And, if you're a writer, don't believe the lie that waiting until the last minute is detrimental. If you love to write, then moments of inspiration are more important than timing. Sometimes those don't come until the morning of. If you wake at 4:00 am with an idea, then go. write. and keep going until it's either gone, dumb, or finished.

I had an English class Junior year that hung me out to dry in terms of making me feel inferior as a writer. Oh, there was talent in that class. I think the reason I learned so much is because she broke down our egotistical walls, showed us we sucked at writing, then showed us examples of those who didn't. She didn't really do a whole lot of "teaching," but more collaboration, modeling, and discussion. "You're not concise enough. You don't flesh out your ideas. You write in detail which is good, but what about the other information?" It was a bee I couldn't swat and so I was left with a sting on my ego and a mission to get it write.

And it was hard. And it was annoying that I cared so much. And it was embarrassing when I failed. But, it was beautiful because it was with a few strangers and allofthesudden they knew who I was and what I lacked, and I couldn't hide a single thing. We were all known for something. She was awesome at details. He was a beast at research. She had perfect clinchers. He had a talent for humor. That class was my little hide-away where I could nerd-it-up with my fellow writers and pretend we really were on to something life-changing.

And then it was over. And I became a Senior and I became an adult and I got a job and now here I am, trying to prevail over my hectic schedule by keeping a blog that I update only semi-regularly. And I have no writers to bounce my work off of and I have no teacher critiquing and telling me I stink. And I miss it.

I still try, But, there is a kind of fear that takes over a person when they approach their art. They know what they want to do. They know the process they should take. But, sometimes the product is too beautiful that they get scared and intimidated, and it's easier to step away for a while than to try and fail.

But then.

There is this passion that comes back and a stubbornness that controls and makes this person sit down and just do it and try and try until it comes out wrong, and then break it down and try again. The whole process is the point. The climax isn't the finished product. The climax is when it clicks and you keep going, knowing you've done a good thing, but not a perfect thing. The climax is knowing there is farther to go but what you've got is pretty darn good.

And you have to protect this sort of thing in you. Because it's you, really you, and sometimes it's the only thing that's yours.

But then you let it seep out, line by line, and hope, hope, that someone half-way gets it.

And Sometimes...

You lie awake at night and think "is this how it goes?" So you lie in bed (and lay your head down) and wish you could lay your thoughts aside while wondering if you're believing in a lie.

You get stuck writing and so you start playing with words "that are easily confused" (Chicken Little lies down to lay eggs).

Days go by quickly and weeks go slowly by and you wonder if you're doing it right.

You think that maybe you're the exception and everyoneelsehasgotittogetherexceptforyou.

You get distracted because the word "titto" screams at you from the words you just strung together and you hope that that doesn't mean that you're weird.

You decide that it doesn't. You just pay attention to strange things (all those T's...)

You think "tomorrow will be better. I will..." and you create this shamtastic list and get really excited.

Tomorrow comes and you don't know why you had such high expectations of yourself.

People tell you "you're doing a great job" but you feel empty from all the rush and wonder why you started.

You get home and you take off your shoes and you let down your hair and you look in the mirror. And you see what you want and not what you ought and you wonder if maybe God has invested too much in the person staring back.

You forget.

You remember what lies behind but forget what is promised. That He is there and He is willing and He cares. That He goes before and He paves the way and He leads and He loves and He knows.

You forget that there is beauty in the mess and so maybe you can rest in the hope that He is working.

You wish you could fall asleep with a sigh because what else can you do when you realize you're loved better than you will ever know.

You just can't live out the rosy ending you envision and so you lie awake at night and succumb to the normalcy of a tough night's sleep while you sort through the lies you are believing.