tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34302738230858369702024-02-07T19:39:56.775-08:00count it all joyBethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17860189631455050010noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430273823085836970.post-70311456876190241922013-08-13T21:42:00.000-07:002013-08-13T21:42:15.819-07:00How Much More"I will throw open the windows of <b>Heaven</b> for you. I will pour out a blessing so<i> <b>GREAT</b></i> you won't have enough room to take it in!" -Malachi 3:10<br />
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"He truly does <i>care</i>, Bethany. He cares for <i>us.</i>" Liz's words seemed so simple, and yet, the context of shattered, shallow beliefs I found myself in at the moment they were spoken made them deep. Life-changing even.<br />
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<i>My God LOVES me and He CARES.</i><br />
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To fully understand the weight of these words, I must share a few stories. Stories that should have been proclaimed from the rooftops long ago. Lord, forgive my silence.<br />
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It started my Senior year of college. My Christ-fearing friend, Liz, went on a run with me as she often did. Lifting up some prayers to our Savior on this run, we both began to pray for a simple, yet immediate need I had. Running shoes. "Lord," we prayed, "could You provide these?"<br />
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Rummaging through my room the next day I found $40 in an old letter from my mother which I must have overlooked a few weeks prior. Ecstatic to so CLEARLY see the Lord answering prayer, I rushed out to tell Hanna, my roommate. She praised God with me and then pointed out, "Beth, Melissa and I were planning on buying you shoes, so if that's not enough, we'll cover the rest." And that same afternoon, I carried my new shoes out of Hibbets and the smiles were incurable. God provides.<br />
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A few days later, the realization came that the $40 had been intended for upcoming necessities. Us brilliant college students rarely plan ahead, or at least, I constantly failed in that area. And so I did what now seemed logical. I went to Liz and again we <b>prayed</b>, "Lord, could You provide?" This was around 4pm. The next morning when I went to work in the post office, an anonymous letter awaited me in my post office box. $40 and a typed note simply saying, "You are a blessing to me." My supervisor said she didn't see who dropped it off, but she noticed it came around 4 o'clock the day before. I asked so many of my friends if they knew anything about it or where it came from, and they all promised they did not. O God, how exact You are in Your miracles, making it EVIDENT beyond argument that <b>YOU</b> PROVIDE.<br />
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Months later, as a poverty-stricken college graduate, I was living off of nothing and rent was due. Anxiety, I admit, did get the best of me for quite awhile. But somewhere along the way I chose to BELIEVE--God <i>will </i>provide. The night before rent was due, I sat on my apartment floor, gaping at an envelope full of $175 in cash. More than enough to cover what I could not. The words came rushing back.<br />
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"He truly does <i>care</i>, Bethany."<br />
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And in all my weeping and offering up of a sacrifice of thanksgiving, I realized that I must NEVER wonder again. He <b>WILL</b> always provide.<br />
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Less than two weeks ago I drove onto campus at Southwestern--jobless, rent due, friendless; uncertainties--my largest cargo. The question, "what am I doing?" would not leave my worried mind. Had I not seen miracles before? Was I such a disloyal follower as to doubt, after ALL my Shepherd had done, that He would again provide?<br />
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"I have faith, Father," through my trembling it felt a funny thing to claim, "but it is so very small." And because He CARES, He shared this comfort with me:<br />
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"Of how much <i>more</i> <b>value</b> are you than the birds?" His Words pierced through my clamped-down thoughts, "I <b>FEED </b>them... Now, consider the lilies--Solomon in <i>all</i> his glory was <i>not</i> arrayed like one of these!--I <b>CLOTHE </b>them. How <i>much </i><b style="font-style: italic;">MORE</b> will I clothe <b>YOU</b>?" (Luke 12:22-34)<br />
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How much more? <i>How much?</i> Have I made enough room for all that You provide, O God? I don't know if I ever can, because in ONE day, I had <i>everything</i> I needed for the semester. And all that I can think now is this:<br />
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<b>He CARES. For me.</b><br />
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<br />Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17860189631455050010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430273823085836970.post-66194460105758040882012-03-20T21:49:00.000-07:002012-03-20T21:49:25.763-07:00salty<a href="http://youtu.be/eAUCHRzY4lI">http://youtu.be/eAUCHRzY4lI</a> (A little mood music)<br />
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The waves come crashing in. Funny how soothing and gentle they seem from shore. "<em>Rolling</em>" is so often used to describe their movement. Yet out here they turn vicious. You try to "roll" with them, try to duck under them, or even attempt to jump above their foaming, stinging heads as they rush at you. None of it saves you from the salt. Gets absolutely everywhere. Taste it, feel it. Singes your eyes. Transforms your throat into a burning cauldron. Irritates the flesh 'till most of your body feels raw. You are wracked and beaten by the end of your ocean venture and the salt has dried you out. <br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Sometimes I think the salt gets into my head as well. Makes my imagination click into "rabbit-speed." There is something unavoidably romantic about the ocean. And no, I do not mean chic flicks or cheesy love stories. I refer to the classical idea of romance, one to be often found in medieval narratives--heroic or fantastic events; an inclination towards adventure, mystery and excitement--strange happenings far removed from what we deem <em>ordinary</em>. </span><br />
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I tend to fantasize over a few stories embedded in my mind as a child. The first is always mermaids. Sure, I suppose I owe my initial imaginings to Ariel and her incredibly colorful parade of aquatic friends, but numerous other day dreamings swim into my head as well. Deep, dark tales of half-human, half-fish creatures. Trapped in a state of in-betweens. Lullabied by the underwater echoes of orcas at night. By day, drawn to the light and warmth above them which causes their scales to glisten and shimmer--jewels of the sea. Where do they come from? Where do they belong? With salt seasoning my lips, I watch the rippling horizon. I imagine mermaids. I imagine the longings and satisfactions of one who truly lives life "under the sea." Danger, beauty, adventure, mysteries... Romance.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos.igougo.com/images/p203334-Mozambique-Indean_Ocean_Sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="http://photos.igougo.com/images/p203334-Mozambique-Indean_Ocean_Sunset.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>The second eerie tale I turn about in my wild thoughts is one I barely remember. I simply recall watching something as a little girl--a story about a woman that once was a seal. I can remember very little of it, just a short clip, where the woman lies pale and vulnerable on the deadly rocks, her shed seal skin offers no protection from the environment she used to dwell in so naturally. And a man comes. He finds her, wraps his coat around her and takes care of her. Strange occurrences and heroism--Romance.<br />
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I like to think that I can relate to both stories in some small way--through the last and most memorable story, the one that my ocean day-dreamings always return to...<br />
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"One day He got into a boat with His disciples and He said to them, 'Let us go across...' So they set out, and as they sailed He fell asleep. And a windstorm came down... they were filling with water and were in danger. And they went and woke Him, saying, 'Master, Master, we are perishing!' And He awoke and rebuked the wind and the raging waves, and they <em>ceased</em>, and <em>there was <strong>calm</strong></em>. He said to them, 'Where is your faith?' And they were afraid, and they marveled saying to one another, 'Who then is <em>this</em>, that <em>He commands even winds and water</em>, and they obey Him?'" ~Luke 8:22-25~<br />
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I am a helpless woman, once a seal. For I sinned and fell short, but the grace of my God reaches out to me, covers me. I have shed the old ways, and though I am vulnerable in the new self, Christ is the man who comes to my rescue. He finds me. He takes <em>care</em> of me.<br />
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I am a mermaid. I do not fully belong on this earth, for my destiny and my treasures lie in Heaven.<br />
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I look out to the rippling horizon again. The sun is setting now. My favorite time to be out here. I like to think that His ship is just beyond the farthest waves I can see, He's coming back in <em>for ME. </em><br />
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I am the doubting disciple. Jesus calls to me, "Let us go across!" and in my selfish desire for romance, adventure, excitement, I say "<em>Yes!</em>" and eagerly climb on board. But when the waves come and pound my weak, mortal body and confuse me in my vulnerable state of in-betweens I panic and can only yell one thing--"<strong><em>Master! I am perishing</em>!" </strong>And what does He do? He rises and <strong><em>calms</em></strong> the waves. <br />
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I am left standing in awe, nothing but foam over stilled waters. And the taste of salt on my lips.Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17860189631455050010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430273823085836970.post-10822799870971095962012-03-15T21:20:00.000-07:002012-03-15T21:20:20.762-07:00Yoga<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">(This is a short fictional narrative I wrote to submit to the literary journal my English Honor Society publishes)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yoga</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My dress was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>the color of the ocean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandma Jen said it was, beautifully so, but it was not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blue folds were far too bright, too perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There is nothing oceanic about this dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>But I liked how it looked on me, looked good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dress that is; I can’t recall what I looked like last time I glanced into that frozen frame of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mirrors aren’t really too important, they just reflect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as we all know a reflection is simply the bending back of a structure upon itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least, that’s what I learned in AP Biology last fall.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I wonder how a person bends back upon themself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I certainly wouldn’t want to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sounds painful—slightly yoga-ish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I hate yoga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time my two older, more flexible sisters convinced me to partake in the supposedly rewarding activity of a yoga video.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not pretty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hmphs</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guuhhs</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oofss</i>, that is what erupted from the uncanny mass of myself as I attempted to twist my body into very unnatural positions—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who does this? I am </i>not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">silly putty, you skinny, pink-topped lady on the TV screen.</i> My sisters laughed of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They found my sorry attempts amusing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I did too ‘cause I laughed as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laughed defeatedly through most of the experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was humiliated—my pride was twisted all up and then deflated in a very un-ladylike manner. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t help being a bit perturbed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am normally so much more dignified</i>.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But this is not about my dignity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is about a transition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I stood before a crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I donned a ridiculous, square cap and ginormous blue gown. One must note the mocking tone in which I say “gown.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I think of that word, my mind waltzes off to a far-away place that begins with “once upon a time” and ends with “happily ever after.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picture balls and prince charmings and all other sorts of magic pumpkins and chipper old women with sparkling wands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This “gown” might as well be a pumpkin on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I stood behind a podium, trying to not shake, not stutter, not lose myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe Cinderella felt similar at the ball, but she at least had glass slippers to boost her self-esteem<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just had me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">How does one pass from a current state of being into another?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what can be said to a crowd of people—stone-faced and dull—when such a shift is occurring?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">life?</i> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well I said something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speech done, faculty appeased, diploma received, gown off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Check, check, check, check. </i>I stood before my Grandma Jen and a handful of other relatives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My un-oceanic, blue dress danced around impatiently in the breeze, the way I was not allowed to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get me out of this crowd, tired of people on every side.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just wanted a moment, one that was all mine, in which I could stop and think about what just happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About life.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Citrus locks mingle with the earth like oil and water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There together, but separate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have my moment now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My long hair is pressed underneath me as I lay alone in the overgrown field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps my curls will sit here long enough to be planted and sprout into something, hopefully not an addition of me though; I already have more of that than I know what to do with.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Four years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s over now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no possible, un-humiliating, sane way to ever go back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t want to either, even if there was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that doesn’t mean I know what to do next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For months people have asked, “What will you do after you graduate?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For months I have blabbered about anything and nothing that comes to mind upon their inquiries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now I see what I wish I had said—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it’s not about <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">what </b>I will do, it is about <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">who</b> I will be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">These shifting periods in life—they just keep happening, don’t they?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be foolish to believe otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I will always be me in the midst of them, won’t I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course I will.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So if transitioning is actually what makes up the majority of life, and if I am never completely changing my identity, what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>the big deal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Circumstances will shift, different people will flow in and out, but I think it’s safe to say I will someday look back on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">next </i>four years and see many parallels with the four I just conquered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Conquered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That particular term often draws my memory back to a rainy summer afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those same two sisters had convinced me into a ridiculously dorky past time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were re-enacting <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and somewhat re-inventing a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord of the Rings </i>battle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The oldest was Aragorn, valiant and passionate, bearing a sturdy blade that was closely comparable to a large stick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there was the next sister, Legolas, smooth, swift and graceful, grasping an elven bow which also appeared very similar to a large stick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And lastly, I was Gimli—fiery-spirited, stubborn dwarf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a little stick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">axe.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We orienteered through every acre of our woods like spies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was the part where we worked to believe in the world we were creating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally the climax—the battle—took place in a field not unlike the one I now lay in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was the part where what we were playing at became <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of our comrades died in battle, falling tragically to the bloody blades of the orcs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">conquered.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No victory could have felt more true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as we stood on top of a nearby hillock, headed back into the woods, we turned to glance upon the battlefield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The field was littered with bodies and our hearts were full of accomplishment; accomplishment dirtied with pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aragorn made some touching speech and I swear to this day that she—being my oldest sister in reality—shed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Legolas too started choking up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The battle was over and we were far too old to play such games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all knew this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps that is where the tears came from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We weren’t just walking into the woods, we were walking back into real life, uncertain if we could ever come back to this, this world of wonderment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And I didn’t cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I just knew, we will always have fun together, we will always use our imaginations to go on great adventures, and all that is really changing is our race—dwarf to human being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That was a joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">truly</i> changing is the context of our adventures, the circumstances we find ourselves in when we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">choose </i>to go on being us and having a blast doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We actually will do very similar things throughout the rest of our lives, for the human character doesn’t allow for a very wide variety of changing, if looked at logically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will be me and life will go on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like it or not, I will just be doing a lot of reflecting—bending back upon myself and what I’ve already done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like it or not, life is full of a lot of yoga.</span></span></div></span>Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17860189631455050010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430273823085836970.post-42015705396777395482012-03-08T06:17:00.000-08:002012-03-08T06:17:05.982-08:00Once Upon a Distraction<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I <em>have </em>to return this pigeon to its flock" says Snow White, "it's the only chance it has. Or else it'll be lonely forever; no one should have to suffer that."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"But," protests Prince Charming, "there's a storm coming...at least let me take you?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"No. I'll be fine." Her face appears determined but her eyes reveal a deeper sense of worry, conflict, and helplessness. She says. She doesn't mean.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And surprise, surprise, the next scene reveals Snow White, typical damsel in distress, hanging from a fatal cliff in a thunderstorm. Idiot. Why didn't she just let the prince help her in the first place?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Luckily for her he has the decency to follow her and ensure her safety. Yet upon his saving her she does nothing more than regain her breath, shake herself off, and remark, "I <em>have</em> to return that pigeon to its flock." Without allowing herself a moment's hesitation, she marches right back to the caged bird. Thunderstorms--those are easy. Prince Charmings--they are the <em>real </em>danger.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzhwq2n6Gq1qlzhayo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzhwq2n6Gq1qlzhayo1_500.jpg" width="278" yda="true" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">See, this Prince Charming happens to be, well, unavailable. Irregular fairytale, but then again, isn't that what life is truly like?--A mixed up, distorted bedtime story? And Snow White is simply trying to face, with courage, the fate that has befallen her. What more can any of us do?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sure, the guy is handsome, and yes, his presence releases your wild, eager heart from its cage of emptiness, but certainly, there's a catch more often than not. He's taken, he doesn't return the feelings... maybe doesn't even know you exist, let alone desire to know your soul on a deep level--the way you <em>feel </em>you already know his. Us princesses, we are all so similar--ready to jump at love before it even shows its face. We can't even resist the fantasies we invent. What could we possibly do against a real-life prince when he's before us?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Distract ones self.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That's all you can really do. Snow White had the right idea--focus on that pigeon! So long as her attention, passion, love, devotion, service, and loyalty were all preoccupied with something else, no matter how insignificant, she could walk away from temptation. First she <em>had </em>to recognize this--Prince Charming--as her potential downfall. After all, aren't temptations beautiful more often than not? Fairytale-like? Too good to be true? Well if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Not to say what you want will always be out of reach, just that a lot lesser things will tempt you to settle, while on your journey. Don't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Easier said than done, right? That faithless boy is <em>so </em>attractive, that unavailable man is so good at drawing you in, and those feelings... they know how to control ALL of you. Even if they're not returned.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So go, do, serve, and in time--forget. Each time you focus on someone else, you are one step further away from falling all over Prince Charming in a pathetic fit of blind infatuation. Trust me, when you finally master GENUINE distraction, that is <em>only </em>caring about the ones you are serving, <em>NOT</em> what/who you can gain, the true Prince Charming (the available, equally love-struck one) will come riding up and never want to leave you again. Others are most taken with us when we are the least taken with ourselves.</span><br />
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<div align="center"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The End</span></div>Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17860189631455050010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430273823085836970.post-4980478239965655712012-03-05T06:42:00.000-08:002012-03-05T06:42:05.195-08:00the guardian of my heartWoke up this morning to the spring-like sound of birds outside my open window. So many things to get done today and no motivation to do any of it--joy is <em>not</em> my first instinct. I toss the bird song over my shoulder nonchalantly and begin to move about in a to-do-list sort of way. Shower. Check. Eat. Check. Quiet time with God. Che.... wait. It shouldn't be like this. My soul knows it and attempts to tell me. It tries to tell me in what <em>should</em> be the most obvious way, the way that I so often just ignore--through a feeling of unrest, discontentment--<strong>no</strong> <strong>peace</strong>. <br />
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How is it that I can wade through my day as though there were weights on my back and <em>not </em>recognize that something is <em>wrong</em> down deeper? Certainly the thought might occur to me from time to time but I usually just think, "my day will get better tomorrow, or in the next few days, or next week when I'm less stressed, less busy... When life slows down, I will get some peace." But peace is <em>always </em>within our grasp, regardless of our schedules, problems, pain. And it is a command.<br />
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"Rejoice in the Lord <em>always</em>; again I will say, Rejoice! Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The LORD is at hand; do <em>not</em> be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the <strong>PEACE</strong> of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." -Philippians 4:4-7<br />
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The simple fact that this command is repeated, adds emphasis that isn't seen in many other commands. Not that we should take that as more than it is, just that the great importance of this should be noted. "AGAIN I will say--REJOICE!" :) And if you are rejoicing, it follows that you should also be a <em>reasonable </em>person. An essay is due tomorrow, the laundry <em>still </em>isn't done, that deadline is rushing in quicker than you can possibly get the work done, that relationship is just...hurting. These are all important to us as humans, and therefore God does care about them, for He cares dearly for us. But <em>NONE </em>of these are liscence to loose control, to freak out, to begin behaving coldly to others around you, to turn from God. <strong>They are a part of</strong> <strong>life</strong>. And you do not throw an antique away because it is old or a little scratched up--that is part of its <strong>beauty!</strong> If you can manage joy in the midst of your daily routine, people will see that you are <em>reasonable, </em>for somewhere inside us all is the sense that small things shouldn't be made into huge deals. Life hands us crap sometimes, but reasonable are those who accept this with a smile, for they hardly see the troubles due to how strongly they are gazing towards God and what is TRULY important.<br />
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Are we taking life in with the realization that the problems are just one ingredient? Do we see that it's our choice how much we want to add of joy, and that it can easily overpower the taste of anxiety? Are we praying? And thanking our LORD? Are we honestly asking Him things? It <em>is </em>okay to ask Him for things, in fact we are supposed to make our requests "known to God." And if these things are happening, even in the midst of a monotonous day, <strong>peace <em>will </em>be the guardian of our hearts. </strong>:)<br />
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So I correct myself: Go back to the song of the birds, breathe in deeper that which has been placed in my path to bring me <em>joy</em>. Be reasonable. Find peace. Have a lovely day!Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17860189631455050010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3430273823085836970.post-32974198382192298692012-03-04T14:13:00.000-08:002012-03-04T14:13:24.874-08:00count it all joy<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Blowing the steam off the surface of my fresh coffee, I sit down for a few moments to enjoy something. Life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As simple or as complicated as one chooses to make it, life is a gift. And what does one do when a beautiful gift is given to them? They rejoice! They exalt, exclaim, gawk, tear up, giggle, blush, thank and thank again--to be thought of, to the sweet extent of having that thought materialized and presented to them, is truly a precious thing. A gift is physical proof of love. And love, more than anything, causes one to feel content, comfortable, special. Love MAKES the soul <em>want </em>to rejoice. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is for the days we <em>want</em> to have joy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let it out! It is there; it's tickling the heart with happiness and lining the soul with smiles. Show it! For as Mother Teresa once said, "Joy is a net of love by which you can catch souls." An image comes to mind--shy flowers timidly revealing their beauty to the vast heavens. Green vines flowing across pebbles that hardly show up amidst the overpowering grass and clover. And small, determined feet that thump, thump, thump through this little garden as though it was their own personal jungle. Chubby Little hands clutch an old wooden net, crowned at the end with a lovely trap of twine. So many things to catch, nothing else to occupy the mind but catching, keeping, treasuring.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xMFUc6_Vx1yULC86OQ2k6oS7gno67n18-tFJpeylTNT-8l5gdiqLSa7gZaiUXrYJ33nIHoVnmz7jcHXrztlwxg89jxtJMoeRqlb7Xme6Xazw1CtHkT7pWnw3RImcnLWfLtii_QsmcBQ/s1600/beauty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xMFUc6_Vx1yULC86OQ2k6oS7gno67n18-tFJpeylTNT-8l5gdiqLSa7gZaiUXrYJ33nIHoVnmz7jcHXrztlwxg89jxtJMoeRqlb7Xme6Xazw1CtHkT7pWnw3RImcnLWfLtii_QsmcBQ/s320/beauty.jpg" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What occupies <em>my</em> mind when joy is bubbling up within me? Is it the thought of "catching souls"? Or is it the selfish plans of a selfish person to make the joy last as long as it selfishly can?</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In Nehemiah 12 a day is described in which the people of Israel are <strong>rejoicing</strong>. They rejoice <em>because</em> "God has given them great <strong>joy </strong>(verse 43)." But what is it they <em>do</em> that perfects their rejoicing? How do they turn their joy into something that glorifies God? They offer "great sacrifices" as their thanks and then they go on rejoicing in such a way that it can "be heard far away!" So we should do likewise. <strong>Respond first in gratitude, second in generosity.</strong> <em>Share it</em><strong>.</strong> Give your joy wings that it might spread through hearts as though it were contagious. Go light up a room, lift a fallen countenance, care for someone else--fight to hold onto your joy by striving to give it to others. And your joy will grow. And you will shine into darkened souls. And you <em>will </em>glorify God.</span>Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17860189631455050010noreply@blogger.com0