Making March Happy

Even before we hit the first of March, I knew the first few days of the month would be difficult ones. My not-so-little-anymore brother left yesterday for Basic training in the Air Force. There’s a Lemony Snicket quote that goes, “It is always sad when someone leaves home, unless they are simply going around the corner and will return in a few minutes with ice-cream sandwiches.” This is no simple errand for ice cream sandwiches; he’s signed up for the next four years and after today, I don’t know when he’ll be home again. I’m not even 100% sure when I’ll see him again (I’m hoping to attend his graduation at the end of Basic, but that’s still in the planning stage).

So, March is already off to a rather difficult start. It was hard to watch my younger siblings hug him goodbye one last time Monday night. And it was hard to hug him goodbye one last time at the recruiting center after watching a leiutenant swear him into the Air Force.

March 1, 2 and 3rd have been rough. A bit teary, even. But the happiness? The happiness is my family. We’re not perfect, we’re prone to drama and we don’t always get along. But we’re a tight-knit group and love each other fiercely. Sure, if we didn’t love each other, if we weren’t so closely bound, the sadness of saying goodbyes wouldn’t be so sad. But on the other hand, we wouldn’t share in the joy and the love that comes with the sadness, either.

This is part of the Making March Happy project on Krista's blog Between the Stacks. Click over to see more posts on Making March Happy.

- Written March 3rd, 2010

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Longing for Home

There's more that rises in the morning
Than the sun
And more that shines in the night
Than just the moon
It's more than just this fire here
That keeps me warm
In a shelter that is larger
Than this room

And there's a loyalty that's deeper
Than mere sentiments
And a music higher than the songs
That I can sing
The stuff of Earth competes
For the allegiance
I owe only to the Giver
Of all good things

So if I stand let me stand on the promise
That you will pull me through
And if I can't let me fall on the grace
That first brought me to You
And if I sing let me sing for the joy
That has born in me these songs
And if I weep let it be as a man
Who is longing for his home…
- Rich Mullins
Sometimes, life surprises me with its beauty. Days go by and I don’t notice the sky as much. I used to see the leaves on that tree across from my office and admire them every day, the green against vivid blue. How long has it been since I stopped looking up?

One day, I look up.

And I am surprised, once again, by that sudden and intense ache in my chest. I’m not so much surprised by the beauty, but rather by the ache. It’s a sudden rush of joy, yet homesickness, too, combined into a most bittersweet of flavors.

Beauty does that to me, when I truly notice it. I’ve written about it before. I find myself smitten and homesick, nostalgic for things I’m not sure I’ve ever seen or known. “Do I dream of heaven?” I ask.

I think I do.

Recently, while reading Things Unseen by Mark Buchanan, I found myself once again pondering my homesickness and wondering if these pangs are longings for a place I cannot see or experience yet. A heavenly Jerusalem.

“When God wants to carry a point with his children,” Emerson said, “He plants his argument into the instincts.” Our deepest instinct is heaven. Heaven is the ache in our bones, the splinter in our heart. Like the whisper of faraway waves we hear crashing in the whorls of a conch shell, the music of heaven echoes, faint, elusive, haunting, beneath and within our daily routines.

There you are, standing at a window, watching oak leaves flutter down from dark boughs, and without warning your whole body fills with a longing for something you can’t name, something you’ve lost but never had, that you’re nostalgic for yet don’t remember. You sense a joy so huge it breaks you, a sorrow so deep it cleanses.

Or in line at a store one day, you turn and look at a child who doesn’t notice you. The skin on her face curves down flushed and smooth along her cheekbones and creases into delicate folds at her eyes. There is a wild hope in those eyes, and her beauty pierces you in a way you don’t understand.

Or you listen to Ralph Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending and somehow it is both laughter and mourning, spring and winter, homecoming and exile. It makes you feel supple and playful and young and yet old, with brittle bones and trembling hands. And you wonder, How can this be?

This is how: You want to go home. The instinct for heaven is just that: homesickness, ancient as night, urgent as daybreak. All your longings—for the place you grew up, for the taste of raspberry tarts that your mother once pulled hot from the oven, for that bend in the river where your father took fishing as a child, where the water was dark and swirling and the caddis flies hovered in the deep shade—all these longings are a homesickness, a wanting in full what all these things only hint at, only prick you with. These are the things seen that conjure in our emotions the Things Unseen. “He has set eternity in the hearts of men,” the writer of Ecclesiastes said, “yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end” (3:11).

I think I’m finally beginning to understand it.

Yes, I dream of heaven. I’m homesick, homesick for a place I’ve never known. My loyalties aren’t to this earth, but to a kingdom to come. I love this world, this shadow kingdom, but it’s a love that makes me ache, which is just as it should be.

And there's a loyalty that's deeper
Than mere sentiments
And a music higher than the songs
That I can sing
The stuff of Earth competes
For the allegiance
I owe only to the Giver
Of all good things
I want to always notice the beauty and always ache with the hope of what is to come someday, someday, one day when all things are new and all is well with the world, the whole, whole world.

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Summer

Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
- Edith Wharton

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Lost

The book I am reading is old, faded and reeks of the musty second-hand store in which I bought it. I can smell the dimness of the lights, the dust and the clothes that, in spite of being washed, still have the scent of their previous owners. I can see the yellowy dime romance novels that surrounded this one treasure, the creases in their spines odd next to the lurch of the binding of the one in my hands. The second-hand shop is not my favorite of places to linger. There are still strains of cigarette smoke and the young man with tattoos stares disconcertingly.

But I am home now. Someone is playing Bach on the piano downstairs and the crickets are chirping as dusk falls. A cool breeze pushes a page past my fingers as I reach for my ice water. Still, I can see the place where I bought this book, feel the sweat dripping down my back and hear the traffic in the street outside. The fan is humming above my head and I can feel my hair frizzing in the afternoon heat. It is all so clear, even as I read the words…

Until…

Until a line snatches away the façade and the view is clear, oh, so clear. I can see it, truly see it now. I’m no longer in my bedroom, but rather on a boat sailing to unknown lands. I can see the sea stretching on and on, the waves pulling us forward to that thin line that meets the sky. I can hear the wind in the sails and waves smacking together in a splotchy wet sound. I’m off again…

I do so love a good book.

- written in 2006

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Worth It

While trying to organize my bookshelves somewhat better the other day, I renewed acquaintances with a few old friends. While flipping through the pages of L.M. Montgomery's The Blue Castle, I found this quotation that made me pause for a moment to think:

"I'm glad I never had any children," said Cousin Sarah. "If they don't break your heart in one way they do it in another."

"Isn't it better to have your heart broken than to have it wither up?" queried Valancy. "Before it could be broken it must have felt something splendid. That would be worth the pain."

I can't help but think that there is some truth in it. Understand that I'm not condoning falling in love with or giving your heart to just anyone. But in trying to shut up all love, romantic or sisterly, I cannot see it as right. As C.S. Lewis said,

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.

One of the problems with the emotional purity and courtship movement lies in how we can tend to lock our hearts away – oftentimes out of fear. Fear of being hurt. Fear of falling. Fear of being vulnerable.

We talk about boundaries, about not becoming close friends with guys, about maintaining emotional purity. But at what cost? Are we truly seeking to please God or are we foolishly trying to insulate ourselves from all pain? You see, to love is to be vulnerable. And to be vulnerable is to open yourself to the possibility of pain.

But, in the end, I think it is worth it.

Everything comes at a cost. Everything has a risk. Love - true love - cannot live with fear. Fear stifles and freezes more than anything. Don’t be reckless with love, but don’t be afraid of it. Trust God with it. Be vulnerable. It will hurt sometimes, but the beauty and the joy that results…it’s worth it.

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The Rain

The sun has finally come out today.

It feels as though it has been hiding behind rain clouds and gray skies forever. It’s funny how the weather seems to add to life. If the day is sunny and bright and cheery, my mood improves and the stressful things don’t seem quite as bad as they do on the gloomiest rainiest of days.

I’m glad for the sun.

And for the rain.

The sun would not seem so beautiful or the skies so blue today if it weren’t for the rain. If it weren’t for the struggles in my walk with God, there would be no growth, there would be no blessed sigh of happiness when God let’s the sun back in and says, “Yes. I’m here.”

Even if it’s just for a moment. Even if it’s just a snatch of blue sky.

The rainy days come.

The rainy days go.

But the sun…it’s always there. Somewhere.

I’m remembering that God, like the sun, is always there. It might not be easy to hear Him or see His hands at work; it might hard and gray and a struggle.

But He’s there, in spite of the grayness. He’s there. And it’s beautiful when He’s so clear, like the sun against the blue sky. It’s beautiful…because without the rain, I’d take the sun for granted. And without troubles and stumbling and falling, I would take God for granted, too.

Today, I thank God for the sun, but I also thank Him for the rain.

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Journaling (again)

So, you want to keep a journal. How do you begin?

You need a journal. This can be as simple as a simple 10 cent notebook from Wal-Mart or as fancy as a leatherbound book. It might be a weblog or an online journal, or just a document on your computer. Find what fits you best - some of us write better by hand, others find typing easier - and start writing!

And write.

And write.

Write when you can. Don't beat yourself if a month goes by before you get another chance to write; just pick up the book and start writing again. I've found that I put off starting up again because I feel like I have to recap the missing weeks between now and the last time I wrote. If that's holding you back, don't worry about it. Forget about going into all the details of life. If you must recap, keep it short, brief and sweet. If not, just skip it. Skip it and move on to what is happening now.

Write short entries. Yeah, details are great. But sometimes details hinder you from writing. If you are short on time, short entries are awesome. Ten short entries are better than nothing! And sometimes the brief entries are the most poignant and memorable.

Write longer entries, too. Okay, so that sounds like an oxymoron. If you do have the time, include the details. Even if they seem silly. Looking back, details can be great! Details aren't necessary, but they are...icing on the cake. Cake is delicious, but the frosting completes it. Details finish off the story - and yes, that's what you're writing. The story of your life!

If you have trouble coming up with what to write about...

- write about daily life. So maybe it's boring, but see how you can make it interesting. Little vignettes about your world...someday that will be interesting!

- write about what you see. People watch. Listen. Learn. Now write about it!

- take a headline from the newspaper and write about it. What are your thoughts on the current politics? The latest media craze?

- journal about...your thoughts on life. What has God been teaching you? What has grabbed your attention the most while reading His Word?

- journal your prayers. Some of the best entries will be your prayers. They don't have to be eloquent, just heart-felt.

The biggest key is:

write.

Just write. When you can. Where you can. It's hard to find the time, but if you really want it, you will find it.

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In God I Trust

Growing up, I had so many fears. Armed with an especially vivid imagination, I'd hide under the blankets in my bed, certain that all of my fears came to life when the lights went out. The White Witch lived in my closet and the Wicked Witch of the West under my bed. Nagina from Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was lurking somewhere out of sight nearby my bureau and the wolves from Little House on the Prairie, they were just down the hall.

Books and movies were both my friend and enemy in those days.

Lying in bed, I'd repeat snatches of Psalms in my head, even while I evilness that kept my eyes wide open to watch for witches, wolves and cobras. What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee...I will not be afraid of the terror by night or of the arrow that flies by day...

(or the imaginary monsters that never frightened me by day)

I grew up. I outgrew my fears. Well, those fears at least. I grew up and lost my fears of characters from stories and movies, but I haven't lost my fears.

I'm still scared of change, even though I'm getting better at overcoming it. I'm still afraid of what people may think of me, afraid of conflict, afraid of...so many things.

My fears have different names, but the remedy for them is the same. I will never lose being afraid of something, but I hope and pray I never lose the way to deal with them.

God.

Prayer.

His Word.

God.

So many unknowns...but I'm hanging onto the prayers and Psalms.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty
I will say to the Lord, "My Refuge and my Fortress. My God in whom I trust."

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Star Wars, Sock Monkeys and Siblings

I’m sitting on my bed, listening to country music - and my five year old sister playing with Star Wars action figures. The rest of the family is scattered all over the house, some are working on craft projects, others have homework to do. The baby, who really isn’t a baby any more, is giggling in the living room. My older brother is sleeping and my mom, who got up early this morning, is still working on her never-ending list of things that must be done.

Such is life in a family of thirteen.

I’m down to the wire on this post again this week and am wondering if God has anything in particular He wants me to write about. He’s been pretty quiet about writing with me lately; one story idea keeps bumping into the sides of my head, persistent but not quite ready. Blog posts? They’re pretty well-hidden.

But today, I keep getting the nudge to talk about family.

My second-littlest sister is five, going on six, keeps chattering away to me tonight. She wants to know what the singer is talking about in this song. Holding her Star Wars action figures, she tells me, very seriously, that Leia’s father is Anakin, because he was Anakin before he became Darth Vader. “That says ‘and’,” she says, pointing at my computer monitor, “and that’s, ‘she.’” She has a question for everything and a story for anyone who wants to hear it.

She’s five. Adorable, and she knows it. She’s a bit of a distraction, I will admit. Kids are magnets, don’t you know? Five minutes ago there was just one child on my bed, and before I can finish writing three more sentences, three siblings are clambering about, asking questions about music – “Are they married?” my sister inquires of a song that a country artist is singing on my computer. “Yes,” says I – and paint on the ceiling and why don’t I ever wear that dress in my closet?

Life is always interesting in a large family. Distracting, noisy, head-enducing, prone to drama and well, interesting. Interesting can be good and interesting can be bothersome. Today has been a busy, gray day in our corner of New England. A few of us have come down with colds (again) and others are grumpy. Tempers are fraying now at the end of the day. There have been moments when I, sniffly and sore-throated, have hidden in my room with a pile of tissues, just to get away from the noise and chaos.

Life isn’t peachy. But this life that I lead…in spite of the noise, in spite of the chaos, in spite of the arguments and the fact that grumpiness is incredibly contagious in a large family, in spite of this…

This is where God has me. He has me in a house with five sisters and five brothers; He has me sitting on my bed tonight, writing to you all and listening to my sisters ask a million questions and tell me all sorts of stories that I’ve heard before and I’ll hear again. Living with little children has taught me patience; they teach me to listen and love and learn. To see things that I’d forgotten to see and hear things that I may not hear.

They teach me unconditional love.

They teach me how to maintain a sense of humor – when your sister shows up wearing your pantyhose on her head at the dinner table you have a choice: laugh or cry. And when they start telling family friends every secret they know about every member in the family, you have to laugh (while covering their mouths with your hands to prevent anymore secrets from escaping). Laughing is much more fun and just may prolong your life.

They teach me to find joy in every day things. It is so easy to forget the excitement of the first violets of spring and the joy of sleeping with not just one, not two, but THREE pillows.

They teach me that love is a choice and not an emotion. I don’t always like my brothers and sisters, old and young. But I will always love them, because they are my siblings, they are my family. None of us are always loveable, including myself, but my siblings have shown that love to me: forgiving me when I’m hurtful and sin towards them, always loving me.

So, I may never have my own room. I have to remind Mia that my diary is not for her own perusal and I know to hide behind my bedroom door when getting ready for bed at night because not everyone knocks before entering (small children are somehow so forgetful).

But I don’t think I’d trade them.

Love your siblings. Enjoy today while you can. Sock monkeys and questions and stories and stuffed animals being thrown about the room. Um, yes. You’ll have to excuse me; there are now four children in my room and I have to deal with an argument over who gets to play with my sock monkey.

Have a blessed week.

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IDDiots Unite!

Last Sunday, three more of us IDDiots had the chance to meet! Maureen was stopping in Boston, on her way home from London, and Krista and I met up with her for coffee. For about 2 1/2 hours we talked about books, writing, family, more books and, of course, IDD. What a blessing to see the friends we'd goten to know so well through IDD in person.

Krista Valerie Maureen

Note: Yes, the coffee cup in front of my face is intentional! Not that I distrust any of our readers here, but my family rules prohibit me from posting my picture online. :-)

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Almost Flew

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again...



Never give up.

When it comes to dreams and following God's will...never give up. Even if, in everyone else's eyes, it just looks like jumping.

Because you just might almost fly today.

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Joy

Today didn’t begin well. Mondays are never my favorite day of the week; the beginning of the work week and the weekend so far away. And this morning, I woke up earlier than usual, but from an unpleasant dream, in which I had already woken up to mayhem and unpleasantness. No clothes found suitable to be worn to work and fighting siblings at the unearthly hour of 5:30 AM. Or so I dreamt. I awoke and lay there for a full five minutes, trying to decide if my dream was real or not.

It was not a pleasant way to begin the day and I couldn’t help feeling gloomy towards the world as I rummaged through my clothes to find something to wear to work, as I ate breakfast and made that last mad dash around the house to get everything I need for work ready.

And was nearly late punching in.

I worked for eight hours, came home with a headache and a scratchy throat, and sat down to tackle homework. More inclined to be grumpy and not at all willing to play Nice Girl, I gave a neighbor boy a look of doom when I discovered that he was annoying my middle sister. I ate supper, I texted, I worked on my homework and remembered a million and one things that should be done and won’t be before bed tonight – because I am so very, very tired.

But this blog post must be written first.

Today wasn’t a horrible, no-good, bad day, like the one in the children’s book; it was just plain out, ordinary, busy and…full of things that needed to be done, as much as I didn’t want to do them.

That’s life, at least in the adult world. We rise early when we’d rather sleep in. We go to work when we’d rather play. We bite our tongues, when people are cranky in the workplace and when our boss piles another thing to do in our in-box, or when our littlest sister is whining for the umpteenth time. We do what must be done because it has to be done and that’s life.

But we are Christians. There’s got to be something different. There has to be.

The one thing missing from my day?

Joy.

Joy doesn’t always mean happiness. Joy means rejoicing, in spite of all circumstances. Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say, rejoice.

Take a moment. Breathe. Thank God for your day, ordinary or horrible-no-good-bad or brilliant-sky-blue-wonderful. Thank Him. Rejoice in what He has given you. Take joy in His strength and rejoice.

Always.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. That’s part of Always and I’m going to at least try to get up rejoicing tomorrow morning.

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The Art of Keeping a Journal

"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train."
- Oscar Wilde, “The Importance of Being Earnest”

As a writer, I find myself loving words, loving nearly anything that has to do with the art of creating words, creating stories, reading...just about anything about stories and words, words, words.

I just don't mean to make people feel guilty or weird or stupid if they aren't as crazy about them as I am. Take journaling, for instance. I absolutely love journaling and have kept up a journal of some sort for most of my life; for me, journaling has come in the form of pen on paper, but also in the form of an online journal for friends to read and comment on. Journaling is just something I have always done because I enjoy it. I love writing. I love journaling for many, many reasons.

But I know that it isn't for everyone. Not everyone likes to write. And not everyone likes to journal.

That caveat aside, this post is about journaling and most definitely is pro-journaling. Why? Because...well, I love journaling and want to offer up a few reasons why you *might* want to keep a journal.

Journal…

1) for posterity. It’s true. Even if your life feels the most boring on earth, we are living through a time period that future generations will look back on as HISTORY. We are living in historic times, people! For the first time ever in American history, we have a black president – that mere fact alone is history. We are living during one of the worst economic recessions since the Great Depression. It isn’t fun; it can be depressing. But it is history. Tell your journal about it. Tell your journal what you think about it.

Journal about every day life for you and how what is happening affects you. My journal entries lately have told stories about my family and friends, but also about how my job situation has changed because of the economy. I’ve clipped articles out of the paper and tucked them in between pages, too. Someday, it may be interesting to look back on and see how my references to the economy pertain to these news clippings.

2) for yourself. A journal can be a wonderful way to work out things in your life. A journal is a quiet place, where nobody else can comment or criticize. Your journal can be the place to sort out things in your spiritual life with God.

Recently, I went back and read a journal I kept last summer and realized that events that occurred laid a bit of the foundation of things that are occurring in my life right now. Without my journal, I might not have realized quite as fully when and how these things began. A journal gives you an opportunity to keep a record of the intricate threads God sows into your life on a daily basis. Some of them may blossom into glorious things…others into hard times, but it is always amazing to see where God is leading.

3) for writing material. Write about the people you see waiting for the bus every morning as you travel to work. Jot down conversations you hear, amusing and intriguing tidbits. As a writer, these notes could one day prove to be invaluable, a ready source of material for stories and articles.

There are a million reasons to keep a journal. The key isn’t so much to figure out why you keep a journal, but to keep one. Keep one for yourself or for family members or just because. But if you keep a journal, write. Write what you see and hear and think. Just write. That’s all it takes to keep a journal.

To be continued…

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Music & Praise

We all arrange ourselves into neat rows, the last few stragglers hurrying to put down coats and water bottles, pull out sheet music. It’s one of the last few practices before our concert, our first rehearsal in the church where we will perform. Our sheet music is marked, penciled and yellow highlighted lines to remind us where to come in, where to pianissimo and where to fortissimo. We’re all shivering as the warmth from the heaters goes straight to the high-vaulted ceilings. Shivering, but laughing and talking away, just about every one of us.

The director claps her hands together, trying to quiet the chattering of all four sectionals. Finally, all: altos, tenors, basses and sopranos are hushed and expectant, waiting. The director lifts her hands.

We take a collective breath and begin to sing.

We’re singing Rutter’s Requiem, beautiful lyrics, including scripture, matched with gorgeous music. One of my favorite movements is number four: Sanctus. It is so joyous…I have to smile as I sing and praise God.

It’s beautiful. We’re still making mistakes and it still isn’t perfect, but…oh, it sounds gorgeous. We’re blending our voices to make amazing music to glorify God. I get chills as I hear our voices echoing off the high vaulted ceilings and wonder if God’s pleasure listening to us is anywhere near the thrill I get just singing and hearing others around me.

I think He must.

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth.
Pleni sunt coeli et terra gloria tua, Hosanna in excelsis.
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini, Hosanna in excelsis.

Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of hosts.
Heaven and earth are full of Thy glory. Hosanna to God in the highest,
Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord. Hosanna to God in the highest.

Holy is He, indeed! And so we sing. We sing and we praise and we give glory to God.

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Stone Walls

As I drive home from choir practice, I can see snow still remains in the woods. There are patches here and there, startling whiteness against a carpet of brown leaves. It’s mostly in the hollows where the sun rarely goes, sometimes banked up against stone walls.

The winding stone walls that have been there for nearly two hundred years are surrounded by trees where they once marked the edges of pastures and fields, the borderlines of a farm’s property. During the winter, those walls disappear under a covering of snow, and I almost forget them. But with spring - with spring and in spite of the untouched hollows - they return and I wonder about the people who built them.

There is an old legend about the Roxbury ‘pudding-stone,’ immortalized perhaps in Oliver Wendell Holmes’ poem, “The Dorchester Giant.” Although I have lived in the New England area all my life, I had never heard of this myth or legend until I read Melissa Wiley’s Charlotte books. A fabulous interesting story…

As the poem goes…

What are those lone ones doing now,
The wife and the children sad?
Oh, they are in a terrible rout,
Screaming, and throwing their pudding about,
Acting as they were mad.

They flung it over to Roxbury hills,
They flung it over the plain,
And all over Milton and Dorchester too
Great lumps of pudding the giants threw;
They tumbled as thick as rain.

. . . . .

Giant and mammoth have passed away,
For ages have floated by;
The suet is hard as a marrow-bone,
And every plum is turned to a stone,
But there the puddings lie.

The stone walls in my area may not be made of puddingstone, but when I see them, my mind turns to giants - and enormous bowls of pudding.

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Spring Cleaning

It’s that time of the year again. The world is coming back to life again after a long, cold winter. Birds sing outside my window in the morning again and glorious spring skies stretch on and on.

And it’s spring cleaning time.

Every year, we go through the entire house and clean. We empty the cupboards in the kitchen and sweep away cracker and bread crumbs. We removed every speck of anything that is leavened, anything that is made with yeast or any other form of baking product that makes things rise. Why? Because Passover is creeping closer and closer with each and every warmer and brighter day.

And so, we clean.

I sweep under the bed and in the corners, wash the windows and…think.

Every year, as I clean for Passover, I think of the house that is my soul. God dwells there, I know, and as I live the life of a Christian, I strive to keep it clean for Him. But…I’m lazy. I’m a sinner.

And crumbs, big ones, small ones, still linger.

I can try as hard as I can to sweep away all the crumbs, but I can’t wash the house clean. Only God can. I fall, I disobey, I sin and I make a mess of the house again. And again and again, He is there to forgive me, pick me up and to tell me that this house can be set to rights. That yes, it is dirty, it is filthy…but it can be clean.

And so…this spring, I spring clean an earthly home and thank God for cleaning the house inside of me.

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Happiness

God made us: invented us a man invents an engine. A car is made to run on gasoline, and it would not run properly on anything else. Now God designed the human machine to run on Himself. He Himself is the fuel our spirits were designed to burn, or the food our spirits were designed to feed on. There is no other. That is why it is no good asking God to make us happy in our own way without bothering about religion. God cannot give us happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.- C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

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Dream like New York

Mail time has always been a much anticipated event at our house. People have argued over the priviledge of getting the mail from the mailbox and everyone jostles over each other to see what has arrived in the day's stack. Will there be letters from pen-pals or the latest issue of a good magazine? Maybe there will be a surprise package even!

And then there are days when the mail is a disappointment. Usually it's the lack of fun mail that is disappointing. But today, for me, it comes in the form of an envelope that holds a rejected manuscript from a children's magazine.

I had promised myself not to get my hopes up, but in spite of myself, I did hope and wish, for maybe, just maybe, a nice slim letter telling me that they loved my short story and would be happy to publish it.

They didn't.

Most of me didn't expect to receive the response that I would have liked, but I'm still a little sad. I wish they liked it. I wish it were easier to find a magazine that would want to publish my work.

And I'm trying to fight discouragement today. Writing hasn't been easy for me lately, inspiration being low and time even scarcer. Will anything I write ever be something worth publishing? I find myself re-reading journal entries from close to two years ago. In one entry, I copied and pasted the lyrics to a favorite song, and suddenly, I find them incredibly encouraging.

Race to work again today
From nine to five
I only strive to stay awake
But the child inside me
Dares to believe I still can fly
Can’t let those dreams just die

I got to dream like New York
As high as the skyline
Aim for the stars above those city lights
I want to dream like New York
I’m running down Broadway
I got to catch the next train
I’m making my way
("Dream Like New York" - Tyrone Wells)

With life as of late, full of work and studying and busyness...I feel like I'm constantly striving and not always succeeding, especially when it comes to writing. But...I still dream. I dream about words, longing to create something that will thrill the reader, just as words have always excited and thrilled me. I want to write. I have to write, even when my words feel petty and small and foolish.

Setbacks always come. Discouragement always comes. But we can't give up on dreaming and trusting and hoping. Dreams always take work, but in the end, it's worth it.

This week will find me going to the post office with another envelope and another manuscript for another magazine.

I'm dreaming like New York and this manuscript just might make it on the next train.

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Today

We must try to take life moment by moment. The actual present is usually pretty tolerable I think, if only we refrain from adding to its burden that of the past and the future.
- C.S. Lewis

Sometimes life is busy and hectic and crammed with things to do now and things to be done tomorrow and even more on the next day. It is then that I begin to feel overwhelmed. My workplace is busy, with papers and things to do piling up; a co-worker is out sick and I’m the only one left to scramble to do both her work and mine. I have homework to do and a test coming soon. The choir concert is just weeks away and I’ve barely practiced. My entire family has colds and oh dear, what if I catch one, too?

I have to remind myself to take a breath and stop. I don’t need to worry about everything right now. Tomorrow will take care of itself. I may not be in control of all that may happen, but God is. And if take today, moment by moment, it won’t be quite so bad. It might even be better than I could expect.

So…whatever you do, whether you are overwhelmed with schoolwork, work, mundane or crazy turn of events, hang in there. Live today and don’t worry about tomorrow or all that may or might not happen. Don’t add to your burdens – give them to God.

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Closer

Each day is one day
closer to the end
And each day is one day
closer to the beginning

Darkness eases, creeps slowly,
like the beginning of an early dawn
Spring prying winter's fingers
away from the frame of the world

One less day of cold,
snow, grey, darkness.
One day closer to warm,
life, sunshine, color.

And I hold my breath and then let it out,
trying to control my impatience
One minute, one hour, one day closer
to both an end and a beautiful beginning

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