This Solid Ground

a pattern

2012-02-06T20:14:00.000-08:00

Just for today, this is it. What do you think?

New science and new ideas give birth to new art.

Art--visual, musical--encourages certain patterns of thought.

Patterns of thought influence the next new ideas, new science.

If this is true, what does it mean for us? For people who've gone before us? For our professions, our lives?

[image has multiple sources]

Rose

review: beauty & the beast, 3D

2012-02-04T20:26:00.000-08:00

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Alright. Yes. A very good friend of mine and I decided to go see the 3D version because we are both still mentally stuck at age eight.

Age eight or no, I feel a review coming, even though it's a Disney princess movie and this space should honestly be used for something else and so on. Just so you kno, it's going to be short because most of us know what's going on here. And so, without further ado, here goes.

the 3D
I'll be honest. I didn't expect much out of the 3D and was just there because it was an excuse to watch that movie on a huge screen and eat popcorn. I generally don't even like 3D. But here, in my opinion, it was truly stunning. The movie used the 3D in such a way that it brought out all the little intricate details that had faded into the background far too much in the earlier versions. I found myself freaking out over all the stone masonry in the Beast's castle (geeky, yes), and the little details of the forest came out. The 3D also made the Beast's castle seem larger, more imposing, and the country side vaster. The colors seemed richer, the soft movements softer, and it all really was a story book come to life. I like story books, so this is a very good thing.

One problem I had: they still don't know how to do rapid movements properly, and so things still seem minutely disjointed and dizzying and not entirely real when characters move quickly. As a result, I felt like the epic fight scenes (though they were still epic) didn't quite have the fluid, true-to-life feel of the older versions. The other problem I had: the 3D threw off the shadows on Gaston's face in the scene where he's rallying the villagers to go kill the Beast. I know, I'm picky, but still.

what (I think) is the heart of the story
It's no secret that this is, by far, my favorite fairy tale/princess movie on the planet. I just love this story. And I feel like I should at least say something slightly deep about this while I'm at it. (By the way, for some apologetics and Beauty and the Beast stuff, go here.)

To me, the Beast's repentance is by far the most touching part of the movie. Not just him changing and realizing he's wrong and so forth at the end, but his knowing he's wrong and trying to make things right throughout the story. He could get so angry and inflamed and proud, yet, in a moment, he'd realize that and would be off trying to make up for what he'd done. And his whole way of repenting got less and less selfish as the story went on.

In the beginning, he repented to the enchantress because he was awfully afraid that she would, well, do her enchantress stuff. He repented of being harsh to Belle by trying to make her happier about being a prisoner, though that was still selfish. He just really wanted to stop being a Beast. Then, after he scared Belle away from the castle, he threw himself between her and the forest's wolves to try and keep her safe. Later, he let her go, even though he thought it would mean him staying a beast forever. All selfishness was gone at that point.

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I love this. I love that he could be wrong. And I love that he would always, always, throw him self into trying to make it all right again. It's almost like repentance itself was purified.

Alright. Short review, but I had to do it.

And long live Beauty and the Beast.

Rose

bigger than we think

2012-02-03T20:02:00.000-08:00

You all probably know I love C.S. Lewis, and that fact hasn't changed. There are always usually a few of his ideas hovering in the back of my mind because that's just how I roll and I'm obsessed.

A few months ago, I read 'The Weight of Glory.' His ideas in that are basically this:

-We don't know who's a Christian, who's on the way, who's having an officially horrid day, how this action will effect that person, etc.

-There are two ways a person can move: towards God or away from God. There's really no middle ground because, hey, it's a war out there.

-Therefore, every single one of our actions count. Each of our words to someone will either bring that person closer to God, closer to beauty and goodness, or further away. Everything we do, in fact.

That's kind of huge.

I know I'm not much of a person for smooth transitions, but I have another quote for you.

'And why should the good of anyone depend on the prayer of another? I can only answer with the return question, "Why should my love be powerless to help another?"' --George MacDonald

This is also kind of huge.

And I'm thinking, these two things are probably connected. If we, in a twisted sort of selfishness, don't think our actions our big enough to help or hurt or lead or confuse someone, why would we think that our prayers could mean something? Or, if we didn't care enough to think about our actions, why would we care about our prayers?

You see, I've realized lately that I really don't pray for people like I should. I don't even have a 'mental list.' And, in a sort of reverse thought process, I now think, 'If I don't think of people enough to pray for them, if I don't think I'm "big enough" to pray for them, how am I really treating people? More, do I really understand the kind of love God has for me? If He died for me, hasn't He kind of made me "big enough?"'

Praying, putting our scrawny souls in God's bathtub and showing Him our and other's dirt, changes our heart. 'Doing' shows our heart. The two things can't be disconnected.

We can only consider the weights of our actions in the lives of others when our souls are looking at others the way God looks at us. We can only have that kind of vision when we pray for others, just like Jesus did. We can only honestly pray for others when we know exactly where we are ourselves: in God's bathtub, getting scrubbed.

And, just for the heck of it all, another quote. Which is also up there on the sidebar, but I really don't care.

Rose

on inception, music, and honesty

2012-01-31T08:56:00.000-08:00

First off:

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I am a despicable human being.
(Or blogger.)

I know it, I know it, I know it. I've been blogging so much less. But today, today is a new day. Today the sun shines, today the wind comes from a different direction, today, my friends, I blog anew.

Enough with that nonsense. On with the post.

I really like the movie 'Inception.' If you haven't seen it, you should watch it. If you have, go watch it again. There's always something to think about, and the story goes deeper than logic-puzzle-ness, though there is a lot of that.

One quote, this last time I watched it, particularly stood out to me.

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'You keep telling yourself what you know, but what do you believe?'

For some reason, my mind wanted to hug that quote and shove it away at the same time.

'But we have to tell ourselves what we should know,' part of me said. 'We forget.'

'But we have to be honest, don't we?'

'Yeah, but you're not getting it.'

'Of course I am. I always get everything. You know that.'

'You're not getting this, though, are you?'

...arguments with myself never get anywhere quickly, but you get the idea.

And then I wondered, how often do we try and cover up unbelief or doubt or just pain with mind-shouts of 'this is what I know, this is what I know'? Is that mind-shouting more of a constructive, repetitive movement, like singing a song you love again so you know the words better, or is it more of a mask so we don't have to deal with ourselves?

I think it's more often a mask. And, unless they're on superheroes or opera house phantoms, masks have the tendency to be bad ideas.

Let me throw out a few thoughts, will you? Bear with me.

When you're learning to play a piece or sing a song, it's just as much about how the music feels as it is about what notes you're playing. You may know all the notes, you may be able to tell yourself what all you 'know,' but, unless you understand the music, the notes will sound dry.

And so, maybe we need to pause, stop telling ourselves what we know, and ask, 'What do I believe? Where are my doubts? Bring them out; I'm really not scared. What do I believe?' You'll be looking at how the song sounds, at how your heart sounds, and that's the important thing.

And then, after this, you can turn back to telling yourself what you know (or, even better, asking God to tell you that), because you'll know what you need to know but don't. You can go back to this little note here or this one there, and you'll be thinking about the whole song, the whole range of belief, not just a small set of pitches. What's more, you'll have saved the masks for the superheroes.

Rose

imperfect prose: on fear

2012-01-27T14:40:00.000-08:00

I'm guessing that most of my readers are around my age or at least going through the whole process of trying to figure what they heck they're going to do with their life.

It's scary, isn't it?

Here's what I'm afraid of.

i'm afraid of becoming a shell for ideas--especially for bad ones.
I don't want to go to a university or a school or a church or any place, really, and become an unthinking casket in which people bury ideas. I want to live somewhere, or be somewhere, or be with people who force me to stretch my notions of life, of God, of myself, of people, of freedom, of happiness. And then I pray and ask God to fill me with Himself so I won't be that unthinking idea-casket.

Ruth wasn't a casket, and Esther wasn't a casket, and James wasn't a casket, and David wasn't a casket. They were too full to be. God, can I be like them?

i'm afraid of committing to a life that i imagine is amazing and then waking up a few years later and suddenly realizing that no, it's not, and it's not really worth much when you think about it.
I'm one of those 'live life to the fullest and don't waste a single moment!' people, but I'm so introspective that I sometimes lose touch with the real world, and I know this. Thus the fear. And so I pray that God balances my imagination with some dirt, plywood, and reason.

i'm afraid of losing freedom. or of not even caring about it.
If I get married, will I marry the wrong guy, and will I give up my freedom for the wrong thing? Will I give up my freedom to some other wrong thing? If I don't get married, will I be lonely? Will that loneliness make freedom just...not? And so I ask God for a Boaz (or a Mr. Darcy or a William Wallace or a...) or for contentment.

i'm afraid of getting distracted by things that aren't meaningful.
I guess all these fears overlap, don't they? But I don't want to get sucked up by one thing and then turn around and realize, 'Oh there goes life.' So I pray to God that He teaches me the definition of 'meaningful.'

Maybe we're all afraid of these things.

Rose

when i was pippi longstocking

2012-01-23T17:04:00.000-08:00

When I was about nine or so, I fell in love with the story of Pippi Longstocking. And I had my reasons, too. She lived alone, sans rules. She cleaned her floors by tying brushes to her feet and skating around on the suds. She had an appaloosa (spotted, for you less informed individuals) horse on her front porch. She had a monkey named Mr. Nillson. She had red hair. She didn't have to learn her multiplication tables. She was the strongest girl in the world. Her daddy was a sea captain.

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Have I made my point?

And when I was nine, I wanted to be Pippi. I had wanted to be other people before, too. For example, at the age of eight, I went around dressed up as Han Solo (it wasn't very convincing). I then switched to Chewbaca. At the age of seven, I perfected a White Witch impersonation (my mom still talks about it, though perfection isn't generally the word used). But Pippi, Pippi was quite serious.

I had a jumper that I taped red paper squares to so that it would look patched. Even though I was decidedly blonde, I convinced myself my hair was red. I put it in pig tails and learned how to tease hair so it would stand straight out from my head, just like Pippi's. I wore mismatching long socks. I made a habit out of doing cartwheels and summersaults. I bought myself a toy monkey from the zoo with my allowance. I asked people to call me Pippi. Then, I read and reread the book so I could act like Pippi, too. I just had to get her right.

At first, I wasn't Pippi all the time. Then, it got to the point where it was so much fun that I would be her more and more. This went on for months.

One day, when my dad came home, my brothers and I performed our ritual back door assault. Imagine four kids, three blonde and one brown-haired, shoving for the first hug and you get the idea.

After all that quieted, my dad looked down at me.

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'Am I a good Pippi?' I asked.

'You are. But why don't you be Rose?'

'I like being Pippi.'

'I like Rose better than Pippi,' my dad said.

'You do?'

'Yeah, I do. Say, how many times have you read the Pippi books?'

'This week?' I asked.

I heard my mom laugh about someting in the background, but my dad looked utterly serious. 'You know what, I have a book that I think you might like. It's hard, and it's a little bit scary, but we can read it together,' he said.

'And I'm brave.'

'You are very brave, Rose.'

'You'll read it out loud?' I asked. This was a key point.

'Yes.'

'What's the book called?'

'The Screwtape Letters. It's written by the guy who wrote Narnia.'

I was sold.

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Maybe one could argue I was a bit young for that book. But my dad knew I would love it and that I would learn so much from it, and he was very right. We would stop every few paragraphs and my dad would talk to me about what was going on, what was being said and I marveled at how very evil Screwtape was, and I stopped dressing like Pippi Longstocking.

But I did perfect a Screwtape voice, and in the past three years or so I've read The Screwtape Letters at least thirteen times. And each time, I freak out about something I've either forgotten or haven't noticed before.

That's all part of being Rose.

My dad likes it.

Rose

P.S. Heh. :D

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showdown review: the patriot vs. gladiator vs. braveheart

2012-01-21T19:48:00.000-08:00

A bit of a break from what I normally do.

Okay, just to get rid of any suspense, Gladiator wins, Braveheart comes in second, and The Patriot is last. (I'd fail at marketing, I know.) And, while this is just a seventeen-year-old girl's opinion, I'd very much to talk about why I think of these movies like this, and, beyond that, why this genre of war epic is incredible. At the moment, nerdiness is an intense reality. And it's bound to express itself in rather lengthily. Read on if you dare, and feel free to disagree.

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Alright. I guess I'll work through categories to keep some minor appearance of being logical. And, to make it a bit more entertaining, I'll give each movie a score in each category (scale of 1-10, 10 being the best) and I'll tally it all at the end. It adds to the general aura of nerdiness.

general plot

Gladiator: This is one of the most suspenseful movies plot-wise I've ever seen. While, at the end of the movie, you can look back and see how every little bit of the plot had to occur for the characters to be who they were (which is the best kind of inevitability in any story), you don't know the characters thoroughly at the start of the movie. Everything is cohesive. It flows. While there aren't many plot twists in the movie, and while it certainly isn't a convoluted mystery, there's a beauty to that. It's a simple, rather tragic, powerful story. And it's that simplicity, that kind of 'one of two things is going to happen' that makes this as incredibly moving as it is, because each of those two things could mean something incredibly profound for all of the characters. It goes straight to the core. And I cry ever single time I watch this thing. score: 9/10

Braveheart: This is another stellar plot, and, I'm not going to lie, the plot to this movie is even better than Gladiator's. It keeps that profoundness and depth of choice that Gladiator has, but it involves more characters and more possibilities and it's even more surprising. Tragic, powerful, complex. And again, I cry. score: 10/10

The Patriot: I admit it. This one just didn't impress me as much. It's a good story, yes. Interesting things happen, yes. But there were so many characters that it felt like you only caught one or two qualities of each person--even of the main character--in all the plot, and the plot itself seemed inevitable in many places simply because the characters were so straight-forward. And it's wasn't inevitable in the way that Gladiator was inevitable, because the characters weren't so deep and depthly. See the cycle? It had many powerful moments, though. Spoiler alert: my personal favorite is, after hating her father and never speaking around him, the little daughter runs after him shouting and crying, 'Don't go! Don't go! I'll say whatever you want me to; just tell me what you want me to say, just tell what you want me to say.' /Spoiler And I still cry. score: 7/10

good guy

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Gladiator: Russell Crowe is amazing as Maximus. I'm firmly convinced nobody could pull it off like he did. He masters the gravitas, the quiet but very fierce strength, the aura of control and cunning that makes an amazing gladiator who isn't just a gladiator, and the magnetic personality of someone who can draw followers even as a slave. I can't even fully explain it. Maybe I'm just a silly fangirl (it's entirely possible seeing that this guy is my favorite actor), but Maximus' character is so huge that it overwhelms me each time I watch this movie. And the way his character develops...you see clearly in the beginning of the movie what he wants and what he doesn't and why, and throughout the movie it's incredibly clear how the actions of others help bring out facets of who he is. And, in the end, you see why it couldn't have worked out any differently. Again, Gladiator keeps to the side of complex simplicity instead of choosing to try and work in too many different elements into characters or plot like coughThePatriotcough. Yes. Anyways. score: 14/10 kidding. 10/10

Braveheart: Mel Gibson is also amazing as William Wallace. He's so very different from Maximus. His strength isn't quite as silent and assured as Maximus' is, but that brings in some other interesting things. William Wallace wants so very badly to believe in people. You see that in his face when he is betrayed, that sort of brokenness that comes from seeing something you thought was true become a lie. You see that in his rather rushed (but amazingly so) romance with Murron. Maximus isn't quite withdrawn, but you see a streak of caution in him that you just don't in Wallace. I'll bet this has a lot to do with the whole 'freedom' thing. Wallace wants the freedom to love people, to do as he wishes, to have the awesomest proposal ever, to protect what he loves. This kind of passion, especially when mixed with the raw kind of intelligence he has (I mean, he wears a kilt and he speaks Latin, French, and other languages), can't help but win admiration. This really forms the backbone of the movie. We all know the ending line. ;-) I wouldn't say Wallace has quite the same depth as Maximus--and that might just be because of how different they are--but he does come close. score: 9/10

The Patriot: Alright. It's Mel Gibson again and, while he's an amazing actor, I just don't feel like the main character here (Benjamin) was quite as stellar as either of the previous two. And again, the true problem here is that there's simply too much going on. Spoiler alert: Ben's wife is already dead, two sons and a daughter in law die over the course of the movie, one of the sons who dies gets married to the daughter and law who dies, Ben finds new love, Ben switches on whether he's fighting in the war or not twice in the movie, Ben comes to terms with what his various actions have meant for others many times, etc. /Spoiler I mean, yes, all of this makes for an interesting story, and there is some really true kind of character there, but you don't get to the striking depth of Braveheart or Gladiator simply because there's too much going on and two or three hours just can't do all of that justice. It's simple complexity instead of complex simplicity. On the other hand, all of those elements do make for some fascinating character, and it's always cool to see how that unfolds. Gibson does it brilliantly, too. score: 8/10

bad guy

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Gladiator: Joaquin Phoenix as Commodus was. the. best. performance. I've. ever. seen. Hands down. Better than Russell Crowe, even. He is amazingly twisted and hateable and disgusting and, honestly, frightening. He frightens me. He's this rather insane, cowardly, indolent, violence-obsessed, messed up guy who also happens to be a fiercely cunning Emperor. Problem much? Scary much? And he's a perfect opposite to Maximus. I also find it interesting that this coward who refuses to go to battle is more blood-and-gore-obsessed than a general-turned-slave who's fighting in the ring. Commodus also has one driving desire: he wants people to like him. He wants to be admired, and he automatically connects power with admiration. It's this desire that triggers a crime in the beginning of the movie, and it continues to trigger all of Commodus' actions throughout the movie. Spoiler alert: Obviously, you get a delicious irony: Commodus earns no love and dies more unloved than he was in the beginning. On the other hand, Maximus has earned respect of an empire and the admiration of an emperor's sister even as a slave, and in the end he dies to be with the beloved wife and son he lost. /spoiler It's powerful, and it wouldn't have been any more powerful if Joaquin Phoenix wasn't Commodus. score: 16/10 or 10/10

Braveheart: Again, Braveheart has more complexity than does Gladiator, but it manages the complexity because it uses the elaborateness to go deep. This movie has more than one villain, but one chief villain. And you get to see the irony, too, in how the story ends and in how the evil do come to ruin. My favorite bad guy isn't the kind or the prince but rather the old bloated guy. His character....gagh this is getting too long. Just watch the movie. :P At any rate, I felt like the complexity of many bad dudes was managed quite well, but not mastered. score: 9/10

The Patriot: Here this movie breaks with its overly complex nature, but not very nicely, I feel. The bad guy was bad and well-acted and so forth, but I felt like he was a bit of a cliched British bad dude. He also didn't reek of power like the bad guys from the other movies did. As a result of all of this, the kind of paradox I adore was limited. The showdown was pretty epic, though. Guns blazing, swords slashing...yes. I do love me an action movie. score: 7/10

supporting character strength

Gladiator: This is getting quite long, so I'll try to make this quick. Supporting characters were kept to a minimum here (again, simplicity), and they were done wonderfully. Lucilla, Commodus' sister, was acted just as well as Maximus. Simple, yet complex. Driven, but held back by her brother. Her son, Lucius, had a very small part but was also fascinating to see. His reaction to Maximus was especially interesting. The slaveholder to whom Maximus is first sold goes through another brilliant but simple story of his own. Again, simplicity rules here. score: 10/10

Braveheart: The same goes here as it went for Gladiator, only I'll again say that the Wallace/Murron romance was just...pardon the girl in me, will you? Girliness alert: Here's roughly how Wallace proposed to Murron:

Him: 'Yes. I want to work the land, my father's farm, and I want to build it back up and work it till the day I die.'

Her: 'Your father's farm? Won't that be a lot of work?'

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Him: 'Not with all my sons.'

Her: drawing back 'You have sons?'

Him: 'Not yet. I was actually hoping you'd help me with that.'

Her: 'You mean marry you?'

Him: 'Well, that's rather blunt and sudden, but yes.'

Made me laugh so hard, and in a good way. Just to note, I'm not saying this is the way every guy should propose because it might come out sounding like a jerk. Just making that clear. And of course how he speaks in lots of languages and how he takes her on horseback rides through Scotland...but I digress. /Girliness score: 10/10

The Patriot: Heath Ledger and Cornwallace were just as strong or stronger, I thought, than either the main bad guy or the main good guy. They had the simplicity they needed to be deep. All the children, too, were quite wonderful, and I thought that Benjamin's love interest was a somewhat strong element to this story. The other characters, though, including the lady Heath Ledger's character loved, left some to be desired. Again, I just thought simplification would have done some good here. score: 9/10

the score

Gladiator: Some of it is a bit too backgroundish, but when Hans Zimmer needs to make a scene more powerful, he pulls out all the stops. The theme running throughout the music is incredibly Maximus, too. I'm not an expert on this, but I loved it nonetheless. score: 9/10

Braveheart: Alright. I hoard soundtracks in a very amateurish way, and this is my favorite ever. Every song is moving, but it doesn't overpower the movie. It comes alongside it as almost another character. score: 10/10

The Patriot: Again, very good, but not like Braveheart or Gladiator. 8/10

general filmmaking

Gladiator: Amazing shots. Everything is used to great potential--the columns of the palace, the arena, the forests of Germania, the lighting. It's the kind of clean grandness mixed with some awesome shots that just makes me happy. Minimal computer generated imagery (CGI), too. score: 10/10

Braveheart: Okay, I'm a complete sucker for everything Scotland. The shots of the green mountains and forests...literally, I was sold. I also love how Gibson seems to enjoy bringing multiple languages into his movies. Did it here, did it in The Passion. It makes it all the richer. Definitely a different style when compared to Gladiator. Even here, this film goes for the more complex, and, as usual, it pulls it off masterfully. More inventive shots, more languages, more close-up on average (nicely reflecting the personality of Wallace when compared to Maximus), etc. score: 10/10

The Patriot: The filmmaking of this movie was one of the truly fabulous things about it. I love how they did the woods attack and the swamp scenes and the ending battle. Wasn't quite Braveheart or Gladiator, as I might have said before, but it was amazing. score: 9/10

the tally:

Gladiator: 58/60 (it's first because I just like it better, okay? Numbers aren't everything.)
Braveheart: 58/60
The Patriot: 48/60

You see, I love this genre because it can do so much. I love it because it can go down deep into characters through action and wars and ridiculously awesome sword fights and large-scale politics. I love it because it can be so full of paradox and yet so simple: a guy wants his freedom. A guy wants revenge.

And then you have those marriage proposals and good looking heroes. Those help, too.

So yes. There you have it. A break from what I usually do here. Nerdiness. Etc. Again, this is all my opinion, and feel free to disagree or debate or email me and tell me there's something seriously wrong with me. It's all good.

Rose

on prayer, yet again

2012-01-19T20:40:00.000-08:00

It's strange that people can pray and pray about practical things but never really pray about what's going on deep inside their soul.

And on the other hand, it's strange that people can pray and pray and pray about things they think are going on deep inside their soul yet forget to say, 'God, I'm late for work and this has been a bad day. Help. And now I just missed my ride. Help.'

We're quite amusing creatures, you know, and we'd make ourselves laugh much more often if only we weren't so blind.

I'm not quite sure why this is, not sure why we're like this. Because we're trying to address God only in one way because our picture has been taken from a very limited angle? Because we don't see that He loves us in more than one way? Because our love is yet limited to one way? Because we're still growing up in loving Him? Because we're trying to feel 'spiritual' in some way or another?

Again, I'm really not quite sure. Blind souls?

And so, God tells us to pray, for we don't know our hearts, and because He's going to have to deal with them before we can go about understanding ourselves. And then I wonder, what would we think if we understood ourselves to the depth that He did?

But we pray, and then we wonder if it really matters, and is it just some sort of spiritual exercise that could be accomplished in some other way and does what we say really matter in the slightest, anyways?

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(I love Van Gogh)

'"How should any design of the All-wise be altered in response to prayer of ours? How are we to believe such a thing?" By reflecting that He is the All-wise, who sees before Him, and will not block His path. . . . Does God care for suns and planets and satellites, for divine mathematics and ordered harmonies, more than for His children? I venture to say He cares more for oxen than for those. He lays no plans irrespective of His children; and, His design being that they shall be free, active, live things, He sees that space shall be kept for them.' --George MacDonald

I can't really express how beautiful I find this. I'm afraid to comment any more on it for fear I'll muss it up.

Should His children, given all of that, then, speak so much? If so much's to our words, what shall we do?

And so, this quote. It's long, but do read, if you please.

'Some of us feel thoroughly inadequate as "pray-ers." We wish we could pray beautifully and consistently and effectively, and we know we are not much good at it. But how "good" does one have to be to come to God? Take a look at these prayers:

'Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.'

'Lord, my servant lies at home paralyzed and in terrible suffering.'

'Lord, save us! We're going to drown!'

In each case the situation looked irremediable, but the petitioner recognized that there was One who might possibly do something about it. They saw the need. They saw their own helplessness. They saw the Lord. They made a simple statement to Him. That sufficed.

When Amy Carmichael found her cabin on shipboard infested with cockroaches she "went and told Jesus." Just such a little thing as placing a situation before Him has a calming effect. Then we can go on and do whatever the next thing may be. Jesus says, 'Come to Me. I will give you rest' (Matt. 11:28). What a foolish thing it is to hesitate on the ground that we don't know how to make fine prayers.' --Elizabeth Elliot

(my word strangeness)

As cliched as it may be, in giving our selves--our world, our troubles--back to God, for it is truly His, He gives us a bit of Himself, a bit of grace, just enough for the moment. We get a bit of Him, and hopefully, in our wandering way, we can reflect it to the world, so our world and our troubles look a bit more like His. And all that in prayers, maybe soul-searching, maybe taxi-searching, from poor confused souls.

I think that's lovely.

Rose

P.S. I'm going to give up on Project:100. It's done absolutely nothing so far, and I'm half way through January. I might include some stuff something along the lines of what I was hoping to do, and I'm a review-ish person so no need to worry about some of those popping up...but I need to just do whatever I'm doing right here for a while. No more of this new strangeness. The old strangeness is quite fine, thanks.

on prayer and wealth

2012-01-18T17:15:00.000-08:00

Pray. Even when you know God has it covered, because sometimes praying's about letting Him cover your soul.

'Sometimes to one praying will come the feeling. . . "Were it not better to abstain? If this thing be good, will He not give it me? Would He not be better pleased if I left it altogether to Him?" It comes, I think, of a lack of faith and childlikeness . . . it may even come of ambition after spiritual distinction.' --George MacDonald

Pray. Because that's where He does cover your soul.

'In every request, heart and soul and mind ought to supply the low accompaniment, "Thy will be done"; but the making of any request brings us near to Him. . . . Anything large enough for a wish to light upon is large enough to hang a prayer upon: the thought of Him to whom that prayer goes will purify and correct the desire.' --George MacDonald.

via
'Bride of the Wind'
because this reminds me of 'At the Back of the North Wind'
by George MacDonald

A low accompaniment. I like that word-picture of music being like a prayer, and the 'Thy will be done' running beneath all the notes like a mighty chord that somehow can fit every melody.

Pray, because there's a very real sort of wealth there.

'There could be no riches but for need. God Himself is made rich by man's necessity. By that He is rich to give; through that we are rich by receiving.' --George MacDonald.

This guy is so wise. And very Scottish. He makes my day many times.

Rose

notes and dietrich bonhoeffer

2012-01-17T17:16:00.000-08:00

A completely irresistible note from today.

My six-year-old brother: 'Dad, I'm going to be a quarterback.'
Dad: 'You going to run the ball, pass, or sneak?'
Brother: 'None of those. I'm always going to fake a pass.'
Dad: 'You're going to be a real pioneer in the business, aren't you?'

Brothers are awesome.

via

Learning to live is learning to be (occasionally?) ridiculous.

It's true.

And did you know Dietrich Bonhoeffer, an awesome German theologian who helped Jews escape Hitler, wrote deep and depthly books, and nearly assassinated Hitler (and who is one of my very biggest heroes), failed his driver's test three times?

Also: people think it's strange when they hear a girl trying to sing along to the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack as loud as she can while sitting in a car in a parking lot. Especially if said girl is using the seat in front of her as a drum and is drumming upon that seat with what can best be described as a rolled-up manuscript. Keep that in mind. Just for future reference.

Wish me luck on exams, will you?

Rose

souls with closed mouths

2012-01-16T18:59:00.000-08:00

I've been wondering lately: what do you do when you want to want to want God, but just don't? When it's a dry time in your life and you're looking at the Bible and saying, 'This should be saying something and I should be thinking something other than "huh?" but I'm not, and it's not.'

via

It's almost as if you know you should eat something, even if it's M&Ms for crying out loud, and you're vaguely aware that you're hungry, but the food God's offering you just doesn't look appealing. You know it should, and you want to want it, but there's something in you that clamps your soul shut. You won't eat.

I've had many of those times. Now is sort of one of them, in fact, so I'm really writing this post to myself. ('Alice in Wonderland,' people.) And if you've read this blog even semi-consistently, you'll know I'm not one of those people who is always on a spiritual high. It would be nice, but I'm not. I'm stubborn. I'm distrustful. I'm easily sad. To add to that, I'm rather good at covering that up with a hearty serving of evasive goofiness.

And so, lately, I've been asking God, 'When I get like that again--and we both know I will--how do I not run away? How do I keep trying to pursue You through my own heart's weakness?'

This is certainly not exhaustive, and it's certainly not a wisdom bombshell, but here are a few thoughts.

be honest with God. Really--what's the use of putting up a false face before God? He knows, He really, really knows. Unload everything. He's more than strong enough. He bore the weight of the world, remember?

find one person. Just one person you can be utterly honest with and say, 'Okay, this is going to sound like I've suddenly joined an anti-breathing, tomato-worshipping cult, but...' Because carrying the dryness alone is hard. It's really hard. Keeping specific doubts all holed up is even harder. And, even if you just have one person you can be completely honest with, it'll make it easier. If you don't have that one person, find a horse. They're good, too. Just make sure they have food and they'll listen to you like you're the next Cicero.

read a little bit of something. Even if it's just a few verses, or one verse, of a Psalm, or a page out of an old favorite book.

doing what's right is more right when it's hard to do. Not really. But it sort of is. In 'The Screwtape Letters', Screwtape (a highly trained tempter demon) is saying how God likes to pull away from His 'favorites' so they can learn to walk without Him, so they can grow more like Him while He watches from behind. God's not looking to give us cushy love. He's looking to give us a deep, rich sort of love, a love that's most like His. That kind of love grows up best in the rough places, and so God lets us teeter along on our own spindly legs for a while through those rough places.

be honest with God. Again. Because that's what it all really comes down to, I think. That and not hiding out in selfyness. Just be honest. Stop wrapping your hands around your heart when you're before God. He sees through your hands, you know, so really, what's the point? Maybe, in all the unwrapping, you'll see something in your heart you haven't noticed before, something that explains the dryness but that you couldn't see earlier because you really don't have God's eyes.

And maybe, while your mouth is open to speak, God will manage to get some food down your throat.

You never know.

Rose

happy sunday & a video

2012-01-15T21:06:00.000-08:00

Alright. So. New idea. From now on, on Sundays, I'm going to be reciting/reading my poetry, somebody's else's poetry, sharing general thoughts about an awesome quote, etc. instead of writing a traditional post.

And here's a video of me badly explaining that I came up with this idea because by the time I sat down to write a post I really didn't have time and only had time for a video but that that turned into this whole process of me messing up and getting distracted by something in my messy book piles or...yeah. Some sort of video or audio recording from now on, on Sundays, and I hope that whatever I do is mildly insightful or helpful some of the time. And this is a bad video of me explaining that badly and ending suddenly. Hopefully the videos in the future are far better than this one. Maybe. Or I might just forget I had such a bad idea by next Sunday. Who knows, right?

That's the main idea.

(Do you know how long it takes to upload a video that's not YouTube or anything like that to Blogger? And yes my hair looks dark in that video. Who cares. Besides me. Anyvays.)

Rose

the grey time {poetic prose}

2012-01-14T20:29:00.000-08:00

A little something explaining how I try to see that time of the year between fall and winter, the Novemberish weather that I sometimes like to hate.

via

Theytry to hide it but, every year, in the Grey Time, it shows just enough that themost watchful of us can see.

Notlike Spring bursts through. Spring, she is a different season. She is merry andserious and young and old all at once, all very much at once. Spring is a different story.

Autumn.Here she bends, here she gives, generous yet quiet, windfully sighing andsinging and cool like night. She loves the night, and, while she doesn’t dressin it too much when she first comes to the Earth, she gradually begins to choosemore of night’s dresses, to try on a few more stars, to wear the moon aroundher white neck. Other times she chooses soft blue sky and yellow sun. Butsometimes her heart remembers, sometimes sheremembers, and it is then that she wraps herself in clouds and rain, knowing that rain willbring life, just like life is born out of suffering. Autumn is wise.

Andshe is a strong creature, too. She is able to give more than any of the others, any of the other seasons, becauseof it. Sometimes she holds back for a moment in chill and quiet strength, andother times she’s tumbling over fields of golden wheat, running on the wind anddancing on top of pumpkins, rolling in bursts of warmth. But she is neveralways.

Always is something she hates, you see.

Iknow where she goes when she does go away. There’s a reason why Autumn and Winterrun away and leave the Grey Time to watch the world like a curtain watches awindow. It's a secret. Shh. Sh, sh, shh. Don't tell. You won't tell, will you?

Alright, then. I believe you.

Winteris the one who starts it, and, like Autumn, he’s always different, alwayschanging, always whirling--but not quite like Autumn does, see. Sometimes he walks slowly up behind her and touchesher hand and blows puffs of snow on her feet. Autumn loves snow. Of course shepretends she doesn’t, but she does, she really, really does. Or other times, Winterwill come up behind her, and, yelling with the laughter sort of love, he'll dump coldon her head, and then they will run away together while the Grey Time watches the Earthfor them.

They never have long. Nobody thinks they should be together, see.

Winteris so cold, they say. So heartless, they say. His ice covers the land and makes asphalt slick enoughthat the plump little children fall on their rear ends, but not so slick that thelarger children don’t rule the world for the season. He likes it that way, although that’s not why he covers the world in ice.

Autumn, she's the only one who really sees Winter’s ice. She sees that ice isn’t death ordepthless cold, but that it’s life. Water is life, and ice is still water.Winter covers everything in still, waiting water, waiting life, solid in itsstrength yet beautiful in its hardness.

That’s why Winter covers the world. Heprotects, and Autumn gives. That’s why they love each other. And, when youthink about it, they’re really quite perfect that way.

Rose

my bucket list

2012-01-13T19:10:00.000-08:00

1) Visit New Zealand and go around dressed up as an elf.

2) Go to the UK and see if my accent can pass me as a local in all of the different districts. I'll fail utterly, but the look on everybody's faces will be nearly as valuable as my plane ticket to the UK.

3) Go to France.

4) Go to Russia and meet some of the Nomads of Siberia. And some other people, too.

5) Be involved in some sort of movie. Hopefully many, and hopefully some of them foreign.

6) Play the part of either Christine Daae or Eliza Dolittle on stage...and somehow get a totally different voice to do so so I wouldn't scare everyone away.

7) Write a novel.

8) Do the Iditarod.

9) Climb Mt. Everest and Mt. Denali.

10) Rock climb at the Garden of the Gods, CO.

11) Hanglide.

12) Ride in an Alaskan bush plane.

13) Haunt an old mansion. (This might come after #19)

14) Steal a castle. Legally.

15) Ski in the Alps.

16) Get lost somewhere really really awesome.

17) Learn French cooking, and with great, marriage-proposal-earning success.

18) Go to Russia. Again.

19) Die during some really awesome adventure. (This'll be last. Just so you know.)

20) Have a separate adventure with near-death experiences, deliciously evil villains, and one particular. I'm rather hoping the hero will be the one to make a near-death and not a death experience. If you know what I mean.

21) Find Narnia (sorry Rachel). Or Neverland. Or Middle Earth.

22) Read every single word ever written by C.S. Lewis (and quote a good deal of it).

23) Ban the number 23.

24) Find buried treasure.

25) Bury treasure and leave an awesomely intricate and C.S. Lewis-book-alluding trail of clues.

26) Invent a superhero.

27) Go out in public dressed like a pirate at least fourteen times.

Rose

where's the bridge?

2012-01-12T19:03:00.000-08:00

That's been a question on my mind lately.

I love a good debate. I love the feeling my mind stretching and a new idea coming and being forced to reconsider something, forced to dismantle some shabby little establishment that I've built in my mind. And, wonder of wonders, the pirate wanna-be does sometimes consider things logically. (Though some, one particular person, actually...and yes, you know who you are...might doubt it.)

But I also love a good story. Gladiator and the fight for justice or anything else remotely epic, sweeping, deep, moving, or like Napolean Dynamite. Even though Gladiator blows Napolean Dynamite out of the water.

via

Yes, that was intentional. I'm sorry. Really, I am.

At any rate, I love seeing souls in stories.

Which leads me to this. I found this on A Deeper Story, which you should all read if you don't because it's one of my very favorite blogs, and it's been bringing out some thoughts that have previously been simmering somewhere in the back of my mind. It's a quote from a commenter on A Deeper Story quoting someone else who wrote previously on A Deeper Story. That means I don't know who originally said it. All the same:

'…the more I write my life out, the more I become convinced thatthe church doesn’t need more argue-ers, more fighters, more convince-ers. No,we need better story-tellers. Better lovers. Better truth-live-ers.'

This is true, and the more you look around you, the truer it seems. So very true.

But then I wonder, where does arguing come into storytelling? Fighting into loving? Living into convincing?

Here's my thought, as short as it is: the best arguing is storytelling, and the best storytelling is the best argument there is. Read the Bible and you'll see it. We fight through loving. We convince by living, and we can only really live if we're living to show truth.

The shallowness of mere words flying back and forth, of here's-the-formula apologetics, the pretended depth of squabbling over big issues that haven't truly been turned over to God to be properly weighed--we don't need that. Enough people have bumps on the heads from overzealous Bible-wielders, thanks.

But thinking and sorting through life's dirty-laundry-that-isn't-quite-white-or-dark is beautiful, especially if you do it with someone else. It might come to flying words over a particular black-and-white striped sock, but at least those words might fly a bit straighter, and at least they might not be aimed for the other person's ego.

The nice thing is, you'll be able to talk about the little things with someone who lives like that, like how their day, why they love cheap coffee, where they saw a swarm of birds land on telephone wire. What's more, you'll be able to live with them, and you'll see a story in their argument.

The reason C.S. Lewis could tell a good story was because he dug into what the words and the pictures actually meant. The reason he could argue beautifully was because he was always re-reading God's story.

perfection
(because this post needs a picture that's not from google images)

It starts with a story, though. The story, if you think about it. And how utterly convincing is a God who woos through blood on a cross?

What do you think? Where's the bridge in your mind?

Rose

imperfect prose: ten per cent

2012-01-11T16:33:00.000-08:00

Itrained today and was about 39 degrees or so and cloudy. I can tell because Ilooked out the window and stepped outside. It generally helps, to step outsideand look out the window.

'Iknew she was dead when you hung up the phone and began to cry,' my littlebrother said. He’s six years of boy-sympathy, six years of watching, six yearsof seeing that the pensive bluntness he has can help.

Icouldn’t watch them put her down, I couldn’t watch her die; my sort of love isn’tstrong enough for that. So I stayed home and played piano through a headache andwaited for my mom to call and tell me.

Itrained today, did I tell you? It was about 39 degrees or so and cloudy. TheGermans would say ‘bedeckt.’ I like that better, ‘bedeckt.’

It’shard to cry, to really cry. I couldn’t cry on the phone because I don’t cryover the phone. I’m afraid of phones. You can’t cry when you’re afraid; it’sjust too hard to be sad and crying and afraid and talking on the phone all atonce.

Therewas really only a ten per cent chance of rain, really, only ten per cent, butit rained all day. I guess ten per cent is certainty. Aren’t numbers funnythings? Ten per cent is certainty.

Andthen my mom came home and said that Saphira went as peacefully as she could andthat the vet said I had done it right and that I was strong, that I had done itright by Saphira. And I knew I couldn’t have been there, not while all that washappening, because look at me now and do I look like I could have handled it?No, I’m not strong. Ten per cent chance I’m not.

It’sraining out the window right now; I might have told you. Raining like oldfingers brushing against taut canvas.

Andthen I’m thinking again and wondering if some of learning to love is learningto let leave, and then I wonder how many different sorts of love did God need? Howmany? He needed to let leave so many things, things like a rebellious Israeland a broken creation and of course His Son, too, and then He needed to hold somuch, and He needed to crack open the grave like an egg and let death drizzleout and turn into scrambled eggs.

Scrambledeggs are good for broken creations. They have lots of protein. Everybody knows that.

And now Hegives, sometimes giving words and sometimes scrambled eggs, and I’m here listening to the rain, stumblingly learning to love, toalmost love, just figuring out the beginning of the letting leave sort.

Ican’t give all of my heart to Saphira, but I’ll give her ten per cent. Thecertain part of it.

I’llgive God all of it, even the part I gave to Saphira, because she won’t mindsharing. She really never has, and I don’t think now changes that. She’llprobably help God tease out some of the snarls, probably watch Him as He makesme all ten per cent-ly like Him.

Itrained today.

Rose

confusion, put into clear terms

2012-01-10T17:15:00.000-08:00

Um.

That's exactly what's going through my head right now. That one word.

Congratulations. You now know the height and depth of my thoughts for today.

just slightly quizzical
(and more than a bit filthy)

Okay. I promise I will get deeper and that I'll make a point. Give me about four hundred words, and I'll make it all alright, okay?

Good. Thanks.

My horse is probably going to have to be put down within the next day or two. I've moaned and groaned about the complications that led up to this, but I'm not going to do that here. I don't want to anyways.

I'm obviously sad. She's been a huge part of my life, and the past week and a half or so in general has been rough. (That's responsible for some of the confusion.)

I went up there to the barn today and took so many pictures. Saphira usually hates it, but today she posed for me.

But another part of the confusion is the fact that I won't have to take care of Saphira anymore. I won't have to be responsible for another life to the extent I was responsible for Saphira. It feels wrong just thinking about it. In fact, it's scary.

demure
or
she's being an idiot and not letting me see her face

Being responsible for another life gives me something to work for. I get up earlier because I want to have time to take care of Saphira. I work more because I need to feed her. Not having that seems like it's going to take away something from inside me, like it's going to take way some measure of love that only comes with responsibility. That's what's scaring me.

And this isn't a very deep or depthly post, I know, but it does make me wonder. Let me spew these thoughts out and don't judge, will you?

What has our society's delayed 'growing up' process really done for us?

What has such an extreme focus on school/sports/hobbies/self-y-ness done for us?

I can't help but wonder, really. Would teens be better off if they finished what schooling they wanted sooner? If it wasn't so stretched out? If they were caring for another life, or caring for themselves and for a work they're passionate about, instead of lolling in activities that'll be forgotten in a couple years? What if teens weren't just children in adult bodies but were actually young adults really learning to love something or someone? If they had learned how to 'theoretically live on their own' quicker and stepped out into the world sooner so they could take life a bit slower?

I have to wonder. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe teens would ravage the nation if something changed.

But nonetheless, I feel like my heart would be a shallower place without Saphira.

What do you think about all of this? Yes? No? I'm stupid? (Nathaniel don't answer that last question?)

Rose

how to make yourself feel better

2012-01-09T11:06:00.000-08:00

When my day (or week) is just horrible, here's what I do:

1) Do trigonometry and listen to this:

2) Try to learn the above song and still feel happy even when I know that it's going to take a long time because, hey, that song's awesome.

3) Read The Screwtape Letters and work on a Screwtape voice. Thinking Andy Serkis helps here.

4) Pretend to be Batman. Nuff said.

5) Deliver a lecture to a stuffed zebra on the importance of the interconnection of writing and acting. Again...nuff said.

6) Read one paragraph of Don Quixote, one of Edgar Allan Poe, and one of The Epic of Sigurd the Dragonslayer. Repeat cycle as long as necessary, or as long as dyslexia stays away.

7) Listen to this:

8) Watch anything Christopher Nolan.

9) Create three or more characters, go on a walk, and pretend to be each of them. To increase the GAL (general awesomeness level), make the characters be from different time periods (different accents help here), and make them debate the meaning of life. And make them quote Calvin and Hobbes. Actually, make them debate about the meaning of life as proposed in Calvin and Hobbes, The Far Side, and Peanuts. In accents. Yes.

10) Read Calvin and Hobbes.

via

11) Operation C.C.B.H.H.K.:

1) Find a candy cane (but not one of those heinous and unholy fakey-flavored kinds)

2) Stick it in your mouth.

2.5) It's now your pipe.

3) You're now Sherlock Holmes. Disguises are to be encouraged. Feel better and go rid the world of the hum-drum and evil Professors. In that order, too.

4) C.C.B.H.H.K. = Candy Cane-Bearing Ho-Hum Killer. Be one. As always, a suitable accent is always an awesome idea.

12) Cliche, I know...but pray. Keep calm and carry on. Strength and honor. And all that good stuff. (I'm pretty sure this is the one I fail at.)

You are now equipped to turn a bad day into a good one.

Rose

playmobil speaks

2012-01-08T19:21:00.000-08:00

Today, my family had some guests over--a Muslim family. I just have to say, I love them. I love hearing their stories, love learning about them, love their family.

There's this Playmobil room in my house. It's tucked into the eaves of the room, and it's painted so the walls look like mountains and cities and sky and prairies stretching off into the distance. And, of course, there's tons of Playmobil there. I used to have everything set up just so (though the 'just so' was ever changing...I mean, what with the pirates and all, you couldn't expect there not to be perfectly explosive wars, right?). Everything from the police speed boat to the Victorian mansion to the Viking ship was part of a huge story, and I had it all mapped out in my head.

via

I tried telling my mom about it when I was eight years old or so, but she just looked at me like 'What on earth are you talking about, child?' so I gave up. So I played there for hours, quiet and happily alone, making barns for the extra goats out of kleenex boxes and construction paper and never missing a line of the story. The room's been a mess for years now. It's sad, really.

I took some of the little girls to this Playmobil room. They were quiet at dinner, but, the instant they stepped into that room, they started chattering and exclaiming and picking everything up. It made me laugh. I wondered if they saw a big story in all of these little plastic figures too.

Then one of the girls found a prince. She looked at me, confused. 'Where's the princess?' she asked.

'I don't know; there's lots. You want me to find one?'

'Oh, no. We need the princess.' She looked very serious and quite grown up for a moment. 'Don't worry, Rose. We'll know which one she is.'

I believed her.

Rose

in defense of inevitability

2012-01-06T20:25:00.000-08:00

Hundreds of years ago, Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo painted. Buildings were built of outrageous proportions and they were expected to paint stuff in outrageous proportions. And today, it's still awesome.

the colossus at rhodes.
via

Further back, Greek dudes made the Colossus at Rhodes. And the Romans made the Coliseum, and temples, the Babylonians made the Hanging Gardens, and the Jews made the temple of Solomon, and the Mayans built all kinds of stuff. People put on plays, and countless crazed authors have holed themselves up in some sort of attic to churn out beautiful gibberish. Some of that gibberish actually has made sense, what's more. And that's not saying anything about Beethoven, Mozart, or any of those amazing dudes.

Most people look back on all of that and, regardless of who built it for what purpose, they say, 'Wow. That's incredible.' And then they can't imagine their world without those things because those things help make us, us.

You want to know what strikes me as a big inconsistency? When people complain that, 'Oh, we're spending so much money on entertainment these days. It's not really important. There are so many other ways to use our money.'

Wait, you don't like that, Rose? What are you thinking? Justify yourself why don't you.

I will. I do think that we do spoil ourselves and soften our minds when we could be sharpening them or going outside and putting in some honest work in the dirt. And I do think that there's a lot of junk in the media.

And yet.

'here's my card'
via

There is great art. Heath Ledger's performance as the Joker and Christopher Nolan's brilliant filmmaking count. Lord of the Rings' general epicness and ingenuity and scope...those movies count. They're art. Are they wastes of money?

If they are, then they're beautiful wastes of money. The human race is driven to create and to marvel at creations. Most times, we churn out and plunk down in front of mediocre stories and cheap TV dramas. The Gladiator films are rare. But that's okay, really, because it's better than a world of grey cubicles and conveyer belts and rubber totes. If God would have wanted us to promote a world like that, he wouldn't have made us in His creative image.

And you know what? I bet the Greeks had statues that seemed like 'wastes of good coin.' And I bet some of them were, too. Some well-meaning Christians probably bemoaned all the excess put into the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, saying it was just 'another excessive collection of paint from this "Renaissance movement",' just like some Christians make a habit out of complaining about the postmodernism or existentialism of many films today.

But there's something about art--and big, sprawling, expensive art--that's inevitable. Humanity is compulsively, irreversibly creative. They'll always be laboring over some huge magnum opus or other, trying to come up with more science and math techniques to accommodate their imaginations. (Because art drives science, in many ways. Just look at the computer programs George Lucas needed to be made and you'll see what I mean.)

Aragorn.
via

That's what God does too, really. He's constantly working stories on this earth, dabbing the rain here, sending the wind there, letting the snow fall just so. He's excessive. He's a Creator. The Creator.

What actors and actresses and filmmakers do with their earnings doesn't concern me. Should they be generous and help the poor? Yes. But should people shun movies on the basis that they should have spent all that money in a better way? I don't think so. Works of art give something to the world that food can't.

We need food to stay alive, but we need to create to make staying alive beautiful. God likes beauty.

But really, I have to laugh at myself. Art'll obviously survive without some girl piping up in her small corner of the blogosphere. I'm just defending the inevitable. Oh well.

Rose

notes on aragorn, roaming, & hearts

2012-01-05T13:32:00.000-08:00

Remember my one word from my last post, the word I'm going to focus on for the entire year? It was roam.

I've been thinking about it lately, seeing I am supposed to focus on it, and about how humans can be so very different and weird and crazy.

And then I got to thinking, what are some basic components of people? What builds their psyche? How does this fit in with the whole idea of roaming that I have for this year?

Here's what I came up with. Every single person has some sort of creativity, because we're God's children, and creativity is in our gene pool. Every single person has a soul. Every single person is practical to some extent or another. And every single person has a mind.

But obviously, we each have different bents within these categories. Practicality for Aragorn wasn't exactly practicality for the hobbits. Creativity for me, as a writer and musician, isn't creativity for an architect. I may apply logic differently than someone who, say, adores Chemistry. And, while people all have souls that need Jesus, each person will see the same Jesus from a slightly different angle. We're each made in the image of God, but, at the same time, each person reflects a small, unique aspect of God through the particulars of their hearts. People can also be stronger in one area or another, and obviously the areas intertwine and mingle and make the categories blissfully messy. It's rather magical, when you think of it, that complexity and craziness. Especially when you think about how complex and crazy God must be.

Then again, if these areas overlap, what would happen if selfishness permeated one area? Laziness? Any such nonsense?

It would easily get to the others. It would slow the magic craziness. That sounds sad.

You see, lately, I've begun to notice an extreme practicality issue in my life. I'm not a very practical person. I go with my feelings so often, and I can obsess over a puzzle or a piece of music or a poem for hours. While that has its good points, it also has its bad. It soon comes to the point where I just look at the good and say, 'Yeah, I'm fine,' and then secretly slip in excuses for why I don't have to be practical for others. It gets selfish. And then I start resenting inconveniences even more than I do already. I don't see the glory in the grime.

That selfishness has leaked to the other areas. It has impacted my creativity, because stress in my life and petty conflict caused by my actions stalls creativity. It has hurt my mind, because the rejection of a lot of good practicality may lead to some interesting ideas, but, at the bottom of it, it still limits the kind of depth I can get to just in everyday thought. It has hurt my soul because that's where all of this selfishness comes from, anyway.

It's time to stop. It's time to slow down and look at my heart honestly.

Aragorn roamed. Aragorn roamed all over Middle Earth and into the depths of the human soul and into the depths of truth and beauty, just like I want to roam.

But when he was still Strider, even then, he couldn't roam without a certain kind of trail-grown wisdom. To rescue ring-bearing hobbits from Black Riders, he had to know how to build a fire. He had to lead in the small things.

If I'm to roam, I guess I have to learn that kind of stuff, too. Learn to give my selfish little heart to God and let Him teach me how to build a fire or saddle a horse, because it's those tiny things that make roaming true roaming and not lostness.

'Not all who wander are lost.' --Tolkein

I want to be in the non-lost roaming group.

Rose

a project & a single 'one word'

2011-12-31T09:57:00.000-08:00

So I have an idea for the new year. I want to make this blog a better blog (says the girl who hasn't posted for a few days), and I want to challenge myself in areas where I relish a challenge. Thus, I came up with Project 100.

Project 100 has two different "branches": cooking and books/movies.

I'll start with the latter. In the long gone year of Twenty-Eleven, I've seen a few different people read and review 100 books. That seems like a cool idea, and I want in on the fun. But I'm going to give it a little twist to include movies. A few rules:

-I cannot have read them/watched them before.

-They cannot be from school. (That would just make it too easy, right?)

-I can't do a straight-forward review.

The last rule needs some explanation, I know. What I mean is this. A lot of people review books and movies, and a lot of people do it better than I ever could. And so, I want to do it a bit differently. Maybe compare books from within a genre? Maybe talk about similar ideas from multiple books? Maybe have a showdown of favorites? Maybe talk about how the ideas in that book or movie move around in the atmosphere?

I don't know. But not knowing is the fun part.

Let's talk about the cooking bit of Project 100.

Confession: I'm not a reliable cook.

Confession: I can cook complex things really well, but when I have to cook out of a box it's like my mind says "this is stupid" and then leaves. (Later: Mom: "Why is there cardboard in the oven?") So it's either complex things or salad. Nothing in between, sorry.

Confession: I don't know how to cook a lot of the more complicated stuff.

Confession: Thus, I really can't cook a lot.

BREAKTHROUGH: And so, I've made myself a list of a 100+ different recipes from all sorts of different cookbooks. Game cookbooks, colonial cookbooks, Greek cookbooks, pan asian cookbooks, good ol' American cookbooks, pastry cookbooks, etc. I figure if I work through that list in a year (and it's not a huge commitment, since I can just cook about one recipe a week and still get through it), I'll learn to cook.

And I'm going to take pictures and brag about or lament or threaten the food. I'll probably have a couple different recipe results in any recipe post so you're not getting a blow-by-blow account of my scatterbrainedness. Because that could get old. Ergo, contain the scatterbrainedness! Let it be confined!

But not to fear, there will still be plenty of This Solid Ground-iness. There are 365 days in a year, after all.

Building a better blog sounds nice, but the idea of becoming a better person also has some appeal to me. Limited, maybe, but still. :P And so, I've decided to do this "One Word" thing. It's where you scrap all the resolutions and choose one word to focus on for the year. A word to think about. To ponder. To explore.

I chose the word "roam." I want to roam, and I want to always be roaming even when I'm sitting still. Roaming in the resting. Roaming, exploring this life, learning about God, not bowing to cultural stuffs and not always following the road signs to a t. Roaming through the many worlds of my stories, roaming through the worlds of other people's stories, and, most importantly, roaming farther and farther into God's world. Not roaming into shallowness because there's no space in shallowness. Not being afraid of confronting shallowness because, as with any true roamer, I've been places. I've been taken into the arms of God and shallowness has nothing on me now. Roaming because I can roam and because I don't have to be afraid because Jesus already blazed this trail. Roaming because life is for the taking. Roaming because life is art.

roam.

Erm. And about the word count. I don't even want to update because it's so pathetic. My mind was...well...roaming. But it was good roaming. Made-the-story-better kind of roaming. I guess it was okay, but still. The word count is pathetic.

So yes. I'll make a little page for Project 100. Be on the lookout.

Happy New Year.

Rose

on hearts without ribcages {something of a review}

2011-12-28T10:11:00.000-08:00

I have a pet peeve. I have a lot of them, in fact. I don't like it when the sawdust in horse stalls isn't evenly mixed. Two-tone sawdust is uncool sawdust. And I don't like it when I have to do school or write in a room where doors are open. Or when too many lights are on. Or when there isn't any moving air. That's why the fan in my room is always on.

But I'm going to talk about something specific today.

A while ago (I was actually hoping to review this before I first stopped blogging, so this is a very old idea), I read "Uncompromising" by Hannah Farver. Had high hopes. It came off of the "Rebelution" website, and, since I rather respect Alex and Brett Harris, I had enough respect for this highly-recommended book to buy it. Downloaded it to my Kindle, started reading, finished it quickly because it wasn't that long. And I was sorely disappointed.

The book attempts to show what "uncompromising" womanhood is, what it means, what it isn't, and how to go about becoming "uncompromising." To be brutally honest, it didn't. It really felt like someone on an emotional high (real or otherwise) reciting ideas that aren't quite old and aren't quite new. Sure, Miss Farver had some lovely analogies in there, a few good anecdotal bits. And I do believe she really loves God. But beyond that, it really felt like she was trying to give someone a heart for God without first realizing that a heart like that takes something more than a peppy book, more than a few good analogies, more than a well-placed anecdote. More than all of that.

Human hearts (or at least my specific heart) don't change like that. They fight. They aren't eternally on fire because sometimes they're gun-shy and they run away. They're confused. A heart like that takes more than an emotional high. For one, it could use a bit of "here's what you do when your heart is stupid" advice. Because my heart, for one, needs guidance.

And here's a thought I've had for the past few months. It's more of a critique of something I see in myself and in others than anything else, and I'm afraid that it's still a bit garbled. But there might be something here, so just listen.

It seems to me that Christians my age (myself very included) like to separate all of those passionate feelings from everything else. We like to make our grand goals, to "do hard things" (as wonderful as that is), to make it all into a huge banner that we huddle under. We set our hearts on fire. We pour theology and philosophy into them and let them run in circles.

To be honest, I'm as clueless as the next teenager. I don't know how to love God. I love theology but I'm still struggling to see God's face. But here's a thought: maybe all those passionate ideas we IV into ourselves need to be eaten and chewed slowly every once in a while.

Maybe we need to slow down and think, "Is this really true? Where's my Bible? Does my conscience revolt at this? Is this helping me love God? Or is this just something a particular banner-hoisting group says needs to be done if I'm a 'true follower'?" But let's slow down for a moment.

It's okay to wrestle with God.

Give God what little soul you have instead of dressing it up like a Thanksgiving goose and shoving it in the oven and hoping it gets warm. Because who knows, you might not know how to cook souls, and you might get burnt.

It's okay to not be on fire every once in a while. Not even Jesus was always "on fire." He just did what was right and beautiful and true. Just do the right thing because it's right, not because some group or clique or branch of thought says "do this just like this and oh look out, avoid them and don't do that."

Life in God doesn't even always start with a heart on fire. It starts with listening, like Samuel did. Or like Mary did. Or like Joseph did. Or like the other Mary did. Or like the other Joseph did. Or like Moses sort of did. It starts with knowing we're honestly clueless and going from there, because we really can't start anywhere else in life. If we do try and start with the fire, we end with a heart that's wandering and lost. Like a heart without a ribcage. Like a deaf heart without a ribcage, actually.

And that's my key issue with "Uncompromising." We don't start with fire. We can get to a fire, yes. But we start with listening.

Rose

grand theft christmas cookie

2011-12-25T20:31:00.001-08:00

[Note: this post was found as I was mindlessly wandering through my blogger draft folder late one night. This is actually from last year, but for some reason it was never published. Or maybe it was. I don't know. But it was in the draft folder so I assume not. Anyvays.]

The terminology of the title is of utmost importance. It’s not “how to snitch a cookie” or “cheating Santa of his extra calories.” Oh, no. It’s Grand Theft Christmas Cookie.

Don’t underrate the Grand Theftness of this endeavor. This mission is not for the faint of heart or for the inexperienced. You must have completed Mission 101 (stealing magazines from family members), Mission 201 (filching interesting-looking books), and Mission 301 (French fry robbery). You’ll need the speed acquired in Mission 101, the stealth learned in Mission 201, and the apparent innocence (before, during, and after the crime) demanded in Mission 301. This is the grand test of skill. Only the strong will survive.

Here is your procedure:

you need to choose your people. Be amongst people who are not very alert—or at least, alert to the wrong things. Contrary to popular belief, overzealous cookie guards are actually excellent targets. Their attention on the cookies is so concentrated that the slightest slip in their guard will almost certainly mean a total disarming. The casually observant, ever-alert person is the worst possible—unless, of course it is a less trustworthy, not-in-command individual (say, a younger sibling with a knack for exaggeration).

you need to choose your cookie. If all of the cookies look the same, good for you. Your job is easy. But if you have a whole assortment of cookies to choose from, choose one of the most abundant specimens. No one will notice if one of the little oatmeal raisin cookies are gone, but even some of the more absent-minded individuals will notice if the giant, rainbow-decorated sugarcookie that is the size of a wedding cake is missing. (However, if you can successfully steal a cookie of such merit, you are only a greater thief. Kudos. And hugs.)

you need to choose your time. You know what I mean. One person is absently gazing in your general direction, a few have turned their backs towards you, and one person is walking near you (and thus could also be held deliciously culpable). This is your moment. You might also consider stealing a cookie immediately after it is taken out of the oven—this is a proven technique (for no one is expecting it), but one must mind not to scream, make faces, say 'oh my gosh my hand,' or do anything of that sort. That could ruin the whole game.

you need to know how to tie off your theft. As any good thief knows, you can’t go off chortling to yourself. You must continue doing what you are doing as if you never stole the cookie. If you were wiping the counter, keep wiping the counter—just cup your free hand around your cookie and hold it under the counter as if you are catching some loose crumbs in your hand. You may save your cookie until you can safely eat it (or hang it up in your gallery, if you're that kind of person). If you are the especially good sort, though, you will eat it in the presence of everyone else in the room—taking a nibble here and a nibble there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Purge the world of any Christmas cookie excess, dudes.

Rose

in which I finally 'get it' (and Merry Christmas)

2011-12-23T19:06:00.000-08:00

I know I said I wasn't posting, but I had to share this. I'm kind of overly excited.

Have you ever had a moment where you finally get something on a deeper level than before, just because someone said something differently? The moment in which you say, 'God, I think I finally understand what You're saying. Or at least I now know what I need to try to understand better'?

I'm pretty sure I had one of those moments last night. Couldn't sleep, pulled out some of my go-to books, and then 'at last I see the light.' (Name that quote.) And I'll let these quotes do the talking.

'When God denies us the particular results we expected from our work, it is one of His mercies, for in this He purifies our souls from self-seeking. It is an opportunity for us to learn to make His glory our sole object. "But this piece of work was meant for His glory." Even so, He knows better than we what best promotes that end. He is glorified in our trustful acceptance of His disposals, though no eye but His may see that act of faith. Perhaps it is for the eyes of the angels, too, an the great cloud of witnesses who watch us run the race that is set before us. Whatever glory God intends, we may rest in the sure confidence that when we pray for HIs will and His honor God knows exactly how to answer our prayer. What seems to us to have come to nothing the Lord knows how to turn into something. Leave it to Him.' --Elisabeth Elliot, The Music of His Promises

I'm freaking out over it all over again as I'm typing. I read it three times last night in succession and I'm still hanging on every word all over again. Anyvays. One more, dudes:

'Everything difficult indicates something more than our theory of life yet embraces, checks some tendency to abandon the straight path, leaving open only the way ahead. But there is a reality of being in which all things are easy and plain--oneness, that is, with the Lord of Life; to pray for this is the first thing; and to the point of this prayer every difficulty hedges and directs us.' --George MacDonald, 365 Readings, Collected by C.S. Lewis

This quote made me think for a moment because the word 'easy' always makes me go, 'What? Easy? That's the stuff of bad Andy Griffith shows! Why should I want easy?' (Even though in a sense that's me saying that 'easy' is 'hard' for me to put up with. But I digress.) But then I thought of this: even in heaven, we'll be finite. God will always be the Infinite One. And even there (and perhaps even more so than on earth), He'll be stretching our 'theory of life,' expanding our hearts, enlarging our souls. Because we will never, ever be able to drink all of Him in.

You know how the wine that Christ gave to His disciples during the last supper was a Hebrew symbol of marriage? Of the groom pouring out his life for the bride? It's like that, only in heaven, we'll always be drinking up Christ. It won't run out. The marriage will always be old and rich but, at the same time, ever new.

That just strikes me as beautiful.

housekeeping interjection:
(And I know I haven't updated the word count. Suffice it to say that I don't think my goal will be reached this week...maybe next week. I hope. That's one of the 'denied particular results' from the earlier quote, see. God had a different story for me to live than the one I'm writing this week. And I was lazy and watched too many 'Monk' re-runs. And I'm learning from my laziness. I never miss a class when it comes to learning from laziness.)

(And I have some hopefully-cool ideas for this blog for twenty-twelve. But ja.)
end housekeeping interjection.

My Christmas gift to you follows. It's one of my favorite songs ever. Right up there with my favorite country, soundtrack, 80's rock, alternative, and Chopin music. Everything about this song gets me. Just...just listen. Tis good.

Merry Christmas. May God make your eyes more like His this season.

Rose

just a warning...

2011-12-20T21:57:00.000-08:00

No posts until after Christmas. Unless I am taken by the blogging muse and am compelled to at least write something.

Thing is, if I'm to reach my word count goal by this December 24th, I'll need to put in, on average, 8,000 words. That's a lot. And it needs some serious focus. (And, after the words are in, some serious editing...but that comes later. I certainly won't be looking at the mess for at least a few days.) Thus the blogging break.

And then, of course, I'll take a break over Christmas.

And then I'll be back. I'll miss you. :)

Rose

on cussing

2011-12-20T18:52:00.000-08:00

I don't really know how to properly begin this (do I ever, really?), so I'll start right where my thoughts slow down long enough that I can grab hold of them.

I think I caught one. (Yay!) Here goes.

Maybe I'm shallow, but the quickest way to convince me of anything is to show me how it's beautiful and how it rings with contentment and general depthliness. And how it's different/edgy when compared to what I usually see. Simply said, if it sparkles, me likes. It's pretty base.

That sometimes leads to good things. It led me to fall hopelessly in love with Psalms and (somewhat ironically) Ecclesiastes. And Socrates. And Jules Verne. And, oh heaven help me, C.S. Lewis. But I digress.

But it's also led to many a bad thing. One of the bad things has been me cussing like cussing is eating: regularly, and with pleasure. And lately I've been wondering, is this really a good thing?

The simplistic Christian answer is 'um, no. Cussing is bad. And yucky. And the word 'cuss' just sounds so southern. And "oaths'' sounds more like Lord of the Rings. Let's say that instead. Only, don't let's say it around the little ones. They can't get any ideas."

I don't like simplisticness. But I do agree with the Lord of the Rings point. Anyvays. Let's have some fun.

I really don't think it's the actual words, the actual odd mix of syllables that matter. That's one reason I listen to rock music and enjoy it. It's syllables with a couple of 'socially unacceptable' syllables thrown in. I wouldn't let a kid listen to it because, well, I just wouldn't. I would let them listen to it when they're older and could actually grapple with the stuff and maybe even like the music for the music's sake, but again, I digress.

But me saying those words myself? What is actually going through my head? Is it helping the work of art that God wants me to be? Is it giving God's painting the good edges, the strokes of reality and proper grit and fearless assessment of life, or is it just a teenage girl spewing stuff because it's edgy and it gives me some sense of freedom?

Eh. Well. It's the second. I don't like it, but it's the second.

And then I've been thinking back to how Jesus uses the gritty and socially unacceptable. He's not afraid to rant against the idiots. He calls the Pharisees white-washed tombs, vipers, dogs, etc., all of which I understand are incredibly 'socially unacceptable' things to say. Especially in the original language of the Bible.

Jesus is edgy. Jesus cussed.

But Jesus also spoke with love and kindness. When He spoke in the synagogue, the people asked, 'Who is this man who speaks with such eloquence? Could He be the son of a carpenter.' The thing is, Jesus knew when things were needed. He knew when it would be best to let loose and let 'em have a piece of His mind, and He also knew when to speak with grace and eloquence and in MLA format. And when He did that, you KNEW that when He cussed, He meant. You knew that He was being serious. You knew that He meant what He said. His words were high art in some of the lowest places. They fit together. They worked. They were proportional. Just like a painting, or a poem, or a war epic. Or, come to think of it, like the Psalms.

And that's what I've been missing.

What's some teenage girl's stupid, vaguely freedom-oriented cussing when it's compared to God's glorious, vivid Truth? It's some teenage girl's stupid, vaguely freedom-oriented cussing, that's what.

I don't know if you've read C.S. Lewis' "The Weight of Glory," but it's a good essay. And its basic idea is that whatever we do is either a) pushing people around us and ourselves towards God or b) pushing people around us and ourselves away from God. That's what it really comes down to. What's cussing doing?

Pushing other people away from God for the sake of some sort of vague freedom? That a fair trade, anyone?

But should Christians be as uptight about cussing as they are? I honestly don't think so. At all. When it's appropriate, when God would use it, use it. There's no shame. I'd rather see someone (or myself, for that matter) cuss when it's not right in the attempt to try and cuss like God than see someone keep their mouth shut because they're chicken. I respect people who happen to let a word stray every once in a while ten times more than the people who avoid the tough issues. But cussing like God would and not cussing like God would is the goal. Any lower goal is, quite frankly, rather lazy. And it's not what it should be in terms of pursuing God.

I think God can teach people to cuss like Him. I think God can teach people to cuss like Him.

Lord Jesus, help me cuss like You. And help me know when I should keep my mouth shut and not say anything at all.

Thanks for reading, dudes.

Rose

what I shall be doing this Christmas break

2011-12-19T17:03:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know, I haven't posted in a few days, and what on earth have I been doing, have I died, did I suddenly lose all desire to blog, and did a tie-dyed hippo eat me and so forth.

My answers:

1) I wasn't home this weekend.

2) Not that I know of.

3) Absolutely not. I'm a new creature, remember? A blogging machine I am.

4) If a tie-dyed hippo ever chose to try to eat me, I would take it down with me. Or just take it down and heck with the dying. Whichever seems more noble at the moment. And that of course depends on a somewhat relative definition of 'noble.'

All of that aside, this is what I shall be doing this break:

This is completely my kind of movie. Explosions, wisecracks, accents, explosions, evil bad guys (no really, most bad guys are, shocking I know), epic music, explosions, period costumes and (hopefully) a reeling plot. And explosions.

And it's also review material.

I do hope that we all see the marvelous potential here.

Oh yes. And before I forget (because I actually did but then came back to edit...oh the many wonders of modern technology), I finally updated my book's word count. I know it's not where I should be, but my goal remains the same. I want to finish before Christmas Eve.

Rose

these unraveled words

2011-12-15T20:09:00.000-08:00

[Poetic prose from moi. And I will update my book's word count soon. I promise. Anyvays. Here goes.]

Life is a story, a painting, abeautiful string of words unraveling in the hands of God. A story to expressHim and His love and His glorious, infinite craziness, for God is a huge ofwind of words and color and the truest goodness there is. His wind circles theuniverse and turns the compass of the earth when the mapmakers are gettingcoffee. Mapmakers get coffee a lot. If God keeps turning the compass, theycertainly need it.

When we die, our bodies sink into the ground like autumn leaves.Some are brown and tattered and some are red and whole–sometimes mirroring thedoctor’s opinion of our souls, sometimes not. It’s not neat and tidy. But that messyinconsistency is there because God is so huge that we can’t represent His broadnessall at once. Only He can do that. But the glory is that He will do that. The most glorious thing is that Healready has done that. The most beautiful thing is that we are grimy shards of glassmirroring pieces of God, and that He is happy to watch us.

It’s God’sstory, and it is in the darkness that the Light shines brightest, and sometimesit’s the brownest leaves that become blackest, richest earth. And earth growslife-harvest. Our life, our particular string of words and color, cannot haveresolution until there’s been the hardness. Until parts of us—or all of us—havebeen buried alongside the brown leaves, we cannot be harvest.

And oneday, on earth or in heaven, we’ll step back and the unraveled strings of wordswill be a woven tapestry of glorious story. We’ll see God’s portrait there. AndHe Himself will stand behind us and put His hands on our shoulders and laughand cry with us at the story, because the story will be the very best therecould be. Then we’ll turn around and see His face. His face will look like theportrait. Yet He will be so much more.

Rose

when you must be solid ground

2011-12-14T18:24:00.000-08:00

Today I thought I was going to put my horse down. She's been acting like she's going crazy lately. It doesn't matter how 'small' a horse is: they've got weight on you and they can use that weight. If they're crazy, they can hurt you.

I walked to the barn with a book under my arm way before the vet was expected. I wanted to sit with her and read a book, just like I did when I was recovering from my concussion.

When I'm stressed, I can't eat. So when I was walking to the barn, I had this awkward feeling of knowing I had to eat soon and feeling like I had to throw up.

I got to the barn and fed Saphira, cussed at Saphira, told Saphira to get better, told Saphira I loved her and that she had to shut up and stop acting like this. I let her out into her flat little paddock and sat out on a bucket and read, but Saphira stood there for moment, looking at me. She knows when I'm sad.

The vet came, and I brought Saphira back into her stall. When the vet entered, Saphira flipped out. She screamed in the way only horses can and nearly shoved the vet into the brick wall. I started talking to her and she calmed down. Then, the vet did some tests.

Turns out, Saphira was almost completely blind. And it's not a blindness in her eyes--it's a blindness in her brain. She either a) hit her head or b) has some kind of cancer in her brain.

She wasn't crazy. The chances she could stay alive went through the roof. I didn't feel like I had to throw up anymore.

Then the vet moved some feed bins into the aisle of the barn. 'Let the rope out all the way and let her walk towards these,' she said. 'Let's check if she can see the bins before she bumps into them at all.'

I let out the rope. Saphira followed the weight of the rope and came to my hand. She bumped me with her nose, the 'You're here, right?' kind of bump that horses give their leaders.

The vet laughed. 'Try again. Let out the rope even more this time, and let her lead. Just stand there.'

I did. Saphira walked towards the vet (the vet was shaking a can of food from behind the ) for a couple steps, then balked. She looked around for me. She could see that there was something in front of her, but she didn't know what. She followed the weight of the rope again and found my hand. She swung her head gently into my arm.

'It's crazy how much she trusts you,' the vet said. 'You must have really helped her out.'

The vet's assistant had known Saphira before I had her, when Saphira was about 40 pounds underweight and when she didn't really have too much love. 'You've done something special for this horse.'

I laughed. 'She's saved me plenty. I owe her.'

It's all crazy, really. I don't remember much of the summer of 2010. My concussion has made sure of that. But I do remember when my parents knew I needed a reason to get better. I do remember Saphira. She's when I started remembering again. She's when I stopped sleeping 20 hours out of the day and started sitting outside in her pasture, reading. I got better because she needed me. She saved me.

And here I was, standing with the vet and talking about how this horse trusts me for her sight. She looks at me for solid ground just like I looked to her that summer.

And this blindness of hers might be the cause of her hitting her head. This old white horse and I, we're the same.

'You might be able to train her to stop being so frightened of others,' the vet said. 'She trusts you so much already that she'll probably be able to learn to cope with this. Since this blindness might be caused by some cancer in her brain, she might not have too long. Then again, she might be fine for years. She seems to be able to navigate her paddock fine.'

Sometimes God puts us in a place where we have to be someone's solid ground, someone's sense in the world. In part, that's what love is. Learning to be someone else's solid ground and learning to let them be yours.

Jesus was solid ground even while He hung dying. 'Take care of my mother' 'Don't be afraid' 'Care for one another'

Lord, help me be solid ground. Help me teach this horse. Help me give her comfort.

Saphira.

Rose

a word of apology and true names

2011-12-13T17:10:00.000-08:00

Yes. I just wanted to say sorry for my "goodbye post." I really kind of lied to you all. I mentioned this in my last post, but I just wanted to say sorry for reals. I know I said I wanted to step back and figure things out in that goodbye post. What I meant was that I wanted to ignore my problems without having a blog to nag at my conscience. I'm sorry. Please forgive me.

Now that we have that out of the way.

I don't know if any of you have read/are reading the last Inheritance Cycle book. I am, but I'll save my thoughts for a review. And don't say anything about this book in any comments because I'm not done and if you spoil a book for me I'll probably cry and then bake a cake with your name on it and then throw the cake through the window just so I can watch it fall and splatter.

Enter Inheritance Cycle. Epic fantasy series. There's this idea of a true name there. It's the name that encompasses you to such a sweeping degree that it is you, the name that will change with you when you change. Very few people know this true name. You yourself might not know it. (And this name can also control you, but just go read the books.)

This is rather shallow and brief (sorry, I'm trying to have time for working on my book yet tonight *smiles and expects a pat on the head*), but just ask yourself who you want to be. Who you want to wind up as, who you want to become, where your story is going. Do you even know who you are? What's your true name?

I've been asking myself these questions lately.

Here's a fraction of one of my answers. I want to be someone who is strong, strong enough to stand alone when it's right and to know when standing alone would be standing with fear, strong enough to be fierce when I need to be, strong enough to not need to constantly be drastic, strong enough to be gentle, strong enough to not run away from God in my heart whenever I get scared or angry. And I want to dress like a pirate.

Some music for you here. It's in French and, though I'm learning French, I understand so very little of it. The singer could be cursing the world or she could be calling down fire from heaven or both. I wouldn't know. I don't know what's up with the stalker guy, either. It's a pretty song, though.

I feel like this was a tuppence of a post. Oh well. I'll try to be stunning and horrifically mind-blowing tomorrow, maybe.

Daily bragging: see my word count up there on the side bar? It's going to get even bigger tonight. I want exactly 86,819 words by December 23. That's exactly 3,333.3 words per day, not counting Sundays. I'll be bribing myself with chocolate. It always works.

Newsful information: I'm also going to try and get Driver's Ed done when I get my book done. How's that for goal-setting. The way I see it, either you set yourself up for big success or a moveable degree of failure or you don't set yourself up for anything. I'll take the distinct possibility of success, please.

Rose

we've spoken before.

2011-12-12T17:31:00.000-08:00

I can't believe I'm doing this.

I swore off of blogging, remember?

Am I high on dark chocolate? It wouldn't be the first time. Did someone slip it into my rice?

The rice didn't taste good enough. Though I am a huge fan of rice. I'll be the happiest broke college student ever someday because of it. Rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And dark chocolate for dessert.

But I digress.

So a while ago, I stumbled upon some new blogs. Good blogs. Blogs that weren't like other blogs. I'll talk about them in future posts (yes, I said it, future posts). They made me wish I was blogging again.

But no, I said. I'm working on a book (it's a somewhat badly-kept secret, but not quite so bad as to make me say something about it here). I have school to do. And, heavens above, I need to finish Driver's Ed. I hate Driver's Ed.

All those arguments weren't quite as successful as I had anticipated. See this post.

I'll skip the long-winded story because I have work I still need to do yet today. Instead, I'll just give you my reasons. And because I'm most likely high on rice-flavored dark chocolate, I won't use proper numbering.

my reasons

3) I need to finish my book. Thus, I'll keep a word count on here. Bragging into empty cyberspace is so motivating. I'm already at 56,000ish, but I know the story won't end until I get at least 30,000 more in. And I want to do that in two weeks. And so, I'm going to exploit my own vanity and use it to help me finish my book.

17) Reading those really good blogs (Canvas Child, A Deeper Story, Paradigm, but more on those later, okay?) made me realize something. I hadn't really stopped blogging because I wanted to figure stuff out. I wanted to stop blogging because I didn't want to feel like I had to figure stuff out. I wanted to roll in my different questions and issues without really having to confront them. More on all that in the future, maybe. :P [Continued on Reason 17.5]

17.5) And, to boot, I wanted to hide. Honestly talking about God and life and yourself without putting too much of a mask is hard. For someone who loves to keep people guessing, it's taxing and (more than) a bit humbling. But God's given me a love for words and for telling stories and for trying to love Him. Those loves need to come back together if I'm going to grow at all, and the first place I think of bringing them back together is, well, here. Being stagnant is stupid. I'm being stupid. I don't want to be stupid. I need to stop being stupid to cease being stupid. Complex, I know. :P

7) I want to write. I want to write again. I want to write on here again. I just decided this--not even kidding--five minutes ago. And here I am. Accuse me of being impulsive and you'd be speaking truth from heaven. Sue me. Throw me in jail. Just let me write.

what to expect:

Everything you've previously seen, only different. You're going to get more realness, I hope, even if I haven't figured everything out, because I've never really had everything figured out.

Expect questions, expect theology, expect poetry, expect rambling accounts of my crazy dreams, expect book reviews, expect hockey rants, expect Mister Mike, expect movie reviews, expect quotes (duh, that's the one thing you should expect from me), expect literature ravings, expect triumphant tales of dishwasher genocide, expect a stupid wonder of astronomy and marine biology, expect me to talk about the Bible. And expect some more, too. But don't, I beg you, expect it all at once, unless you're trying to see how few people can meet your expectations, in which case you'll rightly be expecting me to fail your expectations. Which I expect would get kind of get counter-productive.

Wow. This feels good. I still can't believe I'm doing this. I'll post before I can take the words back.

Greetings, reader. We've spoken before, but it was a while ago.

Rose

that's all, folks

2011-06-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

I am exceptionally good at writing long-winded introductions that are uniformly bad, so I'll spit it out right now. This is the last post for "This Solid Ground."

These past couple weeks I've been doing a lot of thinking--about areas in which I need to grow, about writing, about writing's purpose, and, mostly, about God. About where my relationship with God is.

An exceptionally wise person who gives (almost) uniformly brilliant advice once told me that learning to trust God is like rowing in a boat: you see His faithfulness as you look back at what He's done. Seeing that I think rowing is the best thing ever since the best thing ever, that was a very good analogy to give me. Now, I think I understand that analogy a bit better, though I'm still probably missing some huge piece of it.

You only keep seeing God's increasing faithfulness as you keep moving (I know, I know, it takes me a while). My biggest, most dreadful fear is that I live a life that's a bad story, that has the kind of plot that would make a wonderfully glum Arthur Miller play, or that's liberally conservative with no risk and no confusion and only a comfortable suburban happy-life haze to its credit. This fear is a good thing, I think. It keeps me thinking and keeps me moving. But I took that fear and put God inside. I was so afraid that I would love God in the wrong way, or fall for some complex hypocrisy in the church, that I stopped moving forward (making me a simple hypocrite; oh the irony). But the thing is, when you're rowing and you stop moving forward, you feel every little bump in the water, every little wave, every bit of debris that hits the boat's thin shell. When I stopped pursuing God (for longer than I'd like to admit), I didn't see any more acts of faithfulness, so of course I got even more afraid.

What does this have to do with "This Solid Ground?"

Well, I've found that this blog poses a particular challenge to me. I'm probably a bit more introvert than extrovert in most situations. I love to chew over things. I obviously love to write, so I chew over things here. What I really need to be doing is chewing over things with God, not here. Ask any of my friends--I'm easily distracted, and writing isn't exactly a weak distraction for me. And I honestly should be doing less chewing and more moving forward. For example, I have a passion for fighting human trafficking, and I want to help raise support for a ministry that does just that. That kind of movement--not this kind--will probably be better for more people than this blog. Besides, let's face it: there's only so much sage advice a sixteen-year-old girl can give.

But I won't delete this blog. Maybe someone will stumble upon it and read something that will help them. Maybe someone will have a laugh over something stupid I said. Maybe some people will find comfort in knowing that, yes, there is someone as confused as they are. Hopefully this blog has done a little bit of that already. I hope something I said maybe made you laugh, or think, or feel comfort, or feel the kind of discomfort that's annoyingly healthy.

So, in case you're wondering, here's what I'm thinking about my life: I'll be writing. And learning to cook from a Bobby Flay cookbook (that would probably make a less distracting blog--all it takes is amateurish food pictures and complaints about how the sauce failed, right?). And rowing. Hopefully, a ways down the road, I'll be a novelist and screenplay writer and maybe an actress. (Translation: I'll be a penniless artist.) I hope to go to a good college. (Translation: I'll be worse than penniless.) I hope to impact people in Hollywood. And here's what I've come up with concerning guys and marriage: I won't waste my years of being a single. I'll learn all I can about cooking and child care and so forth but I'll be educated and capable enough to be single for my whole life. Who knows, maybe I might be. It would be a shame to waste my time if that's what God has for me. And as far as I see it, it will take a good deal to induce me to get married but, then again, I'm certainly not against being induced into marriage by a good deal. ;-) And when I die, I want to go out with a bang. This is my story-loving self talking, but I kind of hope to die saving someone. And I hope whoever kills me does it with a bow and arrow. There was always something that appealed to me about heroes who died by bow and arrow. Probably something to do with Lord of the Rings. Anyways, I hope they're a good shot and that I'm not laying there for hours. That would not be very picturesque.

"Yes, Rose, why don't you end talking about dying. You're so uplifting. And do talk about how you want to die. No, go ahead. Describe it. I would really like to hear about it. Seriously. Don't let me stop you."

Thank you for reading. Over and out.

In Christ,

Rose

a quote from someone far wiser than me

2011-05-17T06:57:00.000-07:00

Thought that, after the last post, you might appreciate it.

This is one from Elisabeth Elliot (particularly, from her book "The Music of His Promises"). It gave me a good slap across the face.

"Sometimes God told the prophets of old in advance that their prophesying would be futile. Nevertheless His orders stood: Speak to my people. Prophesy.

'Man, you fellow-countrymen gather in groups and talk of you under walls and in doorways and say to one another, "Let us go and see what message there is from the Lord." So my people will come crowding in, as people do, and sit down in front of you. They will hear what you have to say, but they will not do it. "Fine words!" they will say, but their hearts are set on selfish gain. You are no more to them than a singer of fine songs with a lovely voice, or a clever harpist; they will listen to what you say but they will certainly not do it.' Ezekiel 33:30-32

Are we to quit a task God has called us to do simply because people do not respond as we hope? Should we take visible results as the condition on which we persevere? Not by any means always. Let us be faithful. God give us the grace of continuance even when the prospects are bleak, visible effects nil. He is at work behind the scenes, we are simply to do what He says--'as one who saw the invisible God' (Heb. 11:27).

O God, clear my vision. Help me to see with the eye of faith the things that can be seen in no other way."

I have a few quotes like this I really, really want to share with you. Maybe I'll put this kind of stuff up once a week or so?

God bless you, dear reader.
Rose

misunderstandings

2011-05-12T08:20:00.000-07:00

Since finals are approaching, I really. really. really. need to write something a bit more light-hearted and reminiscent, so don't judge me. :P

I was a child who misunderstood a lot of things and worked to misunderstand a lot of things. Some of these moments were funny and others truly heart-wrenching.

When I was four, my parents told me that Christmas was Jesus' birthday and said we were going to have a birthday party for him. We made cake. We decorated. I even cleaned my room in honor of the occasion. Imagine my disappointment when Jesus didn't attend the birthday party (at least, not like I was expecting).

I had so much faith in stories. :P

When I was five or so I saw Toy Story and was firmly convinced that my toys came alive while I wasn't looking. I would memorize the location of all my playmobil and dolls and stuffed animals, exit the room for a few minutes, then come back in. When that yielded quite limited results, I decided that the toys had known what I was doing. I reasoned that I would have to spy on them, so I put my toys outside my bed room window (in the yard) and attempted to spy. They must have known I was doing that, too, so I tried to hide in the closet and leave my toys out in my room. The trouble with closets is that you can only hide successfully in them if you close the doors all the way.

When I was six, I began to suspect that Santa Claus didn't exist--either that or Santa Claus and Mom have identical handwriting. Desperate to believe that magic and Santa were alive and well in the world, I reasoned that Santa mimicked Mom's handwriting so that I could more easily read. The fact that the "magic trails" he left in the house looked strangely like the glitter Mom used to decorate provided only a slight hiccup in faith.

When I was eight, I listened to a scary "Adventures in Odyssey" episode on the radio and became convinced that there was a murderer living in the basement. I also saw the old Superman movie for the first time. In doing so, my conviction that time travel was possible was strengthened dramatically.

When I was nine, I tried to go to Narnia. I made myself paper rings and sprinkled magic dust on them (in the fashion of The Magician's Nephew) and then hid in the closet (though I called it a wardrobe). I figured that if I combined the two most widely used methods of earth-to-Narnia transportation, I'd get there. When that didn't work, I reckoned that I was in the wrong closet, so I tried every closet in the house. Then I thought I might have the wrong ring on (after all, maybe the rings work differently in America than they do in England?). There must have been an unknown error in my procedure because I never got there.

With a tree this beautiful, who wouldn't believe in magic?

When I was ten, the evidence that help disprove Santa Claus' existence was overwhelming. I tried to convince myself that my grandpa was Santa and that all grandpas are their families' Santas and that they each hide their reindeer in their attics, but that seemed a bit far-fetched. I couldn't make Santa work with what I saw around me, so I did something truly gut-wrenching: I gave up believing in Santa Claus.

When I was eleven, I read Peter Pan and saw several movies about him. Apparently I hadn't learned much from the Santa Claus experience. I wrote Peter Pan a letter with detailed instructions on how to open my bedroom window, since Mom wouldn't let me leave it open at night (I

taped it on the window--I wouldn't send it

Peter Pan would teach me to fly through clouds. :D

because I knew Captain Hook had his spies stationed in post offices). I also informed Peter that I was very good at telling stories and could make an excellent mother for the Lost Boys. When a huge sinkhole appeared in the backyard, the strength of my belief tripled, for such a sinkhole could only mean one thing: Peter Pan was trying to land Captain Hook's stolen ship in our yard at night. I gave him another letter with clearer instructions. Sadly, it didn't work out. I think Peter forgot, because Peter Pan is rather forgetful, you know.

I'll save the Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and The Door Within tales for some other time.

God bless you, dear reader.
Rose

rose + camera = undefined

2011-05-08T17:43:00.000-07:00

Greetings.

I usually use the camera when I'm trying to ignore some bothersome facet of my thought life, which doesn't usually happen because I love to wrestle with myself. But today I desperately wanted to ignore so much of my thoughts, so I grabbed the point-and-shoot and retreated to the yard and the library. And this is what happened. Read on if you dare. :P

I love this dude. I named him Rutherford. He lives in my horse's pasture. He's a skydiver (he flies out of my hands like nobody's business) and a bit camera shy, but with his looks he's destined to become a male model. I can't wait to see what he looks like after a princess kisses him. ;) And yes, that's my hand, in case you ADD people were wondering.

Curse dates in the corner of pictures that don't look good when cropped. I love this picture if I dare say so myself. At the risk of sounding (accurately) like I have no clue what I'm doing with the camera, I like how the light just filters through the green. And I like how the fiddle head is so beautifully centered. And how the focus is soft, just like the light.

This one's a bit dark, I know. A cloud went over the sun and I certainly wasn't going to waste time. But the flower's pretty, right?

This is my favorite tree. It's a crab apple tree and it's just about to burst into pale pink flowers. These are the buds. Curse the date in the corner. *Raises fist*

THIS WAS VERY COOL. I think I have mind power over robins, because when I was twelve I hunted out all the nests in our area and became such good friends with this one mother robin that she let me touch her and feed her babies when they hatched. No joke. I think I lost a bit of my touch, but I still got about five feet away from this one, who sat there for five minutes and let me take pictures of her--all of which were far too dark due to that stupid cloud that came over the sun. Obviously, I had to photoshop like pop singers autotune to get this light enough to post (and this was the most decent photo out of dozens I had of her, mind you). She had this worm in her beak and was trying to sing with her mouth full, which was pretty funny. That bit of information makes up for the auto-tune-esque edit job. :P

My horse, Saphira's, eye. I love horse eyes.

Bleeding hearts. The plant itself actually came from Monticello believe it or not. It's off center, but for some reason I like it. The goofy focus does something for me. Unlike that stupid date.

Probably my favorite bleeding heart photo I have. The way it lines up, the (obviously lucky) focus, etc.--it's enough to satisfy my novice photographer soul.

I like this one too. It actually has a center. (The whole world gasps.)

Eh. I don't like this one.

That's one of my brothers. He's pulling his mock James Bond face. While he's climbing a tree. Now that's talent.

Flowering dogwood. I cropped it (that's why there's no date). I kind of like how it's set against the maple tree in the background.

More flowering dogwood. It's way too busy and it has that date in the corner, but I like it.

A different species of crab apple. Goofy focus. Not sure if I like it.

I like this one.

This one's too...idk.

Would be nicer if there was actually some light. Editing didn't help when I tried it.

Not balanced, but I like it. The white (dogwood, I think?) in the background does me good.

Tulip with a dead bug inside of it. :P Probably my favorite for that very reason.

The tire swing rope. Cropped, obviously.

The creek. I like this photo.

This is Alfred. He's the mouse bookend. I named him when I was four and he's been part of the family since I can remember. I love Alfred. (I saturated the colors a bit; that's why they're goofy.)

I think this is absolutely hilarious. If you think it is too, good for you.

You still there? Impressive.

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

a family quote

2011-05-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

"When the meek inherit the earth, I'll be hoeing potatoes for some meek guy."
--my brother

post by me. photo by google.

titanic, antibiotics, and the renaissance

2011-05-06T18:23:00.000-07:00

My kitty and me. For no reason what so ever.

Did I ever mention that I love making titles like that? And have I ever promised that it will all make sense (or at least, it will seem like I tried to make it make sense--however successful that is)?

Because I'm never quite sure where to start, I'll start where my thoughts begin:

This past year has been a year of rough times for me. It started with an accident that led to a concussion. Then it went from concussion to depression, from depression into the kind of sadness that I can't rightly describe, from sadness to anger. Looking back, I can see a reason for it now: God was tearing away, bit by bit, what wasn't real about me. What's left isn't pretty, but at least it's solid(er than it was). What really amuses me, though, is that I knew all about God's sovereignty before the concussion. I knew it during it. I know it now. Yet, when I'm feeling a certain way or thinking a certain thought, I'm set in my way. My friends call me passionate. My mom calls me stubborn. My brothers call me ornery. I like passionate. That was the long way of saying my relationship with God isn't always smooth sailing.

And, looking back at what I was before my concussion, I can see a common thread that actually turned into shackles that I wore for about a year. I was basically saying, "God, make me happy." Not that I actually wrote that in my journal (I write far deeper, thoughtful things in there, of course :P). But that's what I was thinking. When I had my concussion, I got dropped into something that wasn't happy. (Probably had something to do with not being able to climb trees. "I want to climb a tree so badly it hurts"--actual journal quote. :P I'm so mature.)

Then, another theme begins to weave its way into my life about half way through the summer: a want for something outside of the ordinary. That became a shackle, too. During a school year in which I was half-sick and fatigued most of the time, that chain became very heavy--so heavy that it broke and shattered the first one.

Looking back, I can see how these two chains hurt me, but the second one was the worst. Why? Because it built off of the first. With the first chain, I was expecting happiness. When I saw that happiness didn't really last, I shifted to wanting something significant. The generally (but not always particularly) shallow happiness that I saw in many Christians around me became more and more apparent. It became about as disgusting to me as the sight of an old, loathed math textbook (that's code for very disgusting for you 'all math is amazing' people). It wasn't significant. All I saw were trendy emotional words around others while people around them were obviously having a hard time taking them seriously. I saw life as drudgery. I saw nearly everything around me as bland and common-place. In short, I got in touch with my inner spoiled brat.

Obviously, my trust in God wasn't actually growing as a result of concussion recovery. It was dying away. I had only relinquished my first chains because of the second pair, and this second pair proved worse. Sure, I had moments of trust, but the net result wasn't pretty. I realized all of this could be solved by shifting my gaze to heaven, but I just didn't want to. I refused to trust God and clung to my shackles.

Then, this week, I got strep throat and was put on antibiotics. For some reason these antibiotics make me feel like a million dollars. I don't know why. They're probably laced with something or other.

To make a long story even longer, I was outside on the trampoline because of this excess energy when a single thought popped into my head: "Who am I to say that this right here isn't significant?" The unenlightened part of me had no clue what that thought was saying. It clarified itself: "If God really is who you believe He is, then why shouldn't this right here--these little things--be just as meaningful and as significant as anything else? Maybe they're ordinary because they are extraordinary. Maybe God uses similar experiences, similar medicine on so many people because everyone needs them and because they actually work. Everybody likes chocolate for a reason. Maybe God uses these 'ordinary' circumstances for a reason, too." I still was in the dark. "Shut up and live your life. You'll fail any economics class you'll ever take, by the way."

Welcome to the world of Rose's mind. Half of it is dumb and half of it is snarky. The other half likes to talk about how it's half dumb and half snarky. All of Rose's mind takes a heck of a long time to see what has been, invariably, sitting right in front of it. Go figure.

Anywho, it all started to fit together. I saw that the "happiness" I had originally wanted before my concussion wasn't the cheap, "suburban Christian" happiness I now see it was. I was cheating myself. What I truly wanted was the spring-time happiness that only comes after a bitter, harsh winter that leaves every tree bear and every root parched. I wanted the spring-time happiness that grows only after clawing for moisture and begging the Solid Ground for more nourishment. I wanted the spring-time happiness that, above all else, knows that life comes in seasons and that I'll have another winter and then another spring and then another winter and then some hurricanes and storms and then another spring. Most of all, I wanted the eternal happiness that knows that my solid ground, my Savior is always there to give me a slap in the face when I really need it. In short, it's continual renaissance--continual rebirth--and incessant salvation. And the purification process of that salvation often comes about in the unexpectedness of the ordinary and in the predictability of pain. Thank Christ for giving me what I really wanted--what I really needed--and denying me the "shifting sands" that I thought would do me good.

I love the movie "Titanic." It has some issues, but the small, underlying themes seem to apply to a lot of my life. In this movie, the main character (who happens to be named Rose) is fed up with her stiff, stilted, unoriginal life. Then she meets someone who shows her how beautiful life is. This someone shows her the small beauties--like throwing bits of ice at each other--right along side the great, tragic beauties--like death--and how they make life. Rose thrives. And I think that's what's happening to me. Only this Rose has it better. My Christ comes back from the dead. Mwahaha.

So. Love the little things in every sense of the phrase. Love the big things when they come. And know that, when the hard things arrive, that the Bible says this: "Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you." (James 1:2-5)

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

"I figure life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you... to make each day count." --Titanic

rebels with a cause of not having a cause because they lost their causes

2011-04-07T13:15:00.000-07:00

I swear that's my best title yet. But let's jump right into this, shall we?

The other day I was thinking about two things that seriously frustrate me: feminism and young adults wasting their teenage years. Then I wondered: if these things are indeed the weeds I see them to be, then why did society suddenly up and grow them?

Yes, John Calvin, sin. :) But I wanted a more detailed answer, so I scratched the surface of some history--some very interesting history.

The victorian age came directly before feminism. During the victorian age, the wealthy women were obviously very wealthy. Their children were taught and raised by governesses. Their husbands went to work and they stayed home and ordered servants about. In short, leisure was their only employment. The God-given responsibilities were gone. The most colorful moments of their life were, almost undoubtedly, like dishwater compared to what could have been. On the other hand, Abigail Adams, a mother of American independence, had managed finances, managed homesteads, wrote, housed soldiers, and raised and schooled children (one of whom was to become a president) while her husband was trying to help create a new nation. Abigail Adams lived a life of undeniable incandescence. But, as sometimes happens, wealth came in to America, which was then considered a third-world country. People could buy things. Women bought leisure and sold their responsibility and thus sold their joy along with it. Then they revolted precisely because they didn't have "equal rights."

Striking, isn't it?

Let's look at another picture. I'm afraid it's just as sad.

Up until the late 1940's, there was no such stage as being a teenager. Children were raised with the idea that they would become adults. They weren't to become teenagers who might, if they so chose, become mature adults. Pioneer children grew up and got married. Children were seen as being in training (but of course, in the Victorian age the wealthy girls sometimes weren't being trained for much) and, when they could, they either went on to study as adult students or went directly into work and, more often than not, got married. After World War II, America experienced a good deal of--guess what--affluence. People didn't have to work so hard, so everybody went into high school now--whether or not they thought they were going to actually use that education else where. More people were going into college--again, whether or not they thought they were going to use that education elsewhere. Further more, the government was taking a greater control of education now and made it, I dare say, a good deal simpler. Now, suddenly, these high school students had a lot of time on their hands. They weren't expected to do as much with their time, however. The teenager as we know it was born. And in the 1960's, many teenagers died from a dramatic increase in substance abuse, amongst other things. Even today, teenagers are still expected to be fun-loving, facebook-ing, texting, IM-ing people. And you know what? By and large, that's exactly what we are. Funny how expectations shape us.

Do you wonder why our nation is has grown further into debt and lost much of its constitutional freedoms after these movements and after this (apparently false, by looking at our debt) affluent laziness? I don't.

When we forget our responsibilities, when we forget the richness of our biblical heritage, when we forget what we're fighting for, when we forget life, all of it will be taken away. And suddenly we will be here--rebels without a cause who are wondering where our cause ran off to.

The only solution is to remember and to act on that memory. There's simply no other way.

God bless you, dear reader.
Rose

Sunday Musings: sermons.

2011-03-27T09:55:00.000-07:00

Do my senses deceive me? Am I actually posting two days in a row? *Gasp*

I got sick yesterday (on Friday I decided to rake and re-seed a pasture in 30 degree weather...sadly I forgot to put a warm coat on. I do that sometimes.) and so had to stay home from church today. I went online to listen to some sermons and sermon clips. What I found challenged me to think about certain things I haven't really thought about lately. I'll give you the links/youtube videos with some of my thoughts.

I really admire Mark Driscoll. Maybe I don't agree with everything he does, but I admire his standing for biblical truth and unfashionable orthodoxy. Here, he gives one of the best talks on denominations I've heard yet. Go watch it. It's short and you won't regret it.

False Teachers Among You, part 1
False Teachers Among You, part 2

Here you have Alistair Begg (yes he's Scottish and he has the accent), another pastor I can't help but admire. These two sermons (they're about an hour long put together, but they're definitely worth it) are about false teachers. Surprise. But, more honestly, it's on a few passages in 2 Peter that talk about false teachers, how to avoid them, how to avoid becoming them, etc. It isn't your usual "look out for the sneaky dudes" sermon--it probes deep into the text and into the listener's heart and mind. Please listen to it. :-) (Another reason I really enjoyed these sermons: a wonderful friend and I are doing a Skype thing-y where we talk about what we're reading in the Bible, and right now we've just started Ecclesiastes and 1 & 2 Peter, so it was incredibly applicable.)

God bless you, dear reader.
Rose

Why I'm Not a Photographer

2011-03-26T07:13:00.000-07:00

Firstly, I'd like to apologize--again--for not posting consistently or anything. How about we redefine "consistently."

Consistently = once, maybe two times a week, perhaps once every two weeks.

There we go. Now I'm a perfect blogger.

This is not going to be a terribly informative post, so if you have something better to be doing, go do it. Now that we've got all of that out of the way, let's begin.

This week I was wondering why I don't take very many pictures of things. When I'm bored, sometimes I'll take pictures. I'll take pictures occasionally on vacations when everyone else is taking pictures and I don't have a book handy. But, besides for that, the camera and I usually don't talk. Then I look at all my friends' blogs and see that they're almost all photographers. And I wonder: why don't I take pictures? I certainly see things that are very beautiful on a regular basis. I have three possible answers to this question:

1) I only think I remember seeing beautiful, picture-worthy things. My mind invents the memory, but in reality my life is actually very drab and dull.

2) I never have a camera on hand.

3) I'm the type of person who has a very narrow focus and who can only think about how beautiful something is, and thus doesn't even think of taking pictures.

#1 is too depressing to even consider--who wants to believe that? #2 is not always true; I generally have a camera near me and I always have my dinky phone camera if it comes to that.

That leaves #3. And, ladies and gentlemen, #3 is right. For example, the other night I attended a spectacular concert. I had a camera and my phone camera with me. The singers sang like you'd never imagine. The musicians (and, especially, one fantastic keyboardist) left me awed. Even the stage was dressed to impress. And, for the love of all things good in this world, it was my brother's first concert and it was his birthday gift. You'd think that maybe--just maybe--I'd take one picture. On my phone, at the very least. I didn't. I simply didn't think of it. That's basically the story of why I'm not a photographer.

Happy Saturday. I would promise that I'm going to write some great post tomorrow but we all know that it doesn't work like that.

God bless you, dear reader.
Rose

let's get on with it.

2011-03-13T18:11:00.000-07:00

That's something I've definitely been thinking lately. I look at the world around me. I look at the different passions I have. I look at my own personality. I look at culture swirling around me. And I just want to get on with it.

I'll tell you right now: this is probably going to be your classic post about teenage angst from a teenager who can only deal with it in light of the Bible and who, quite frankly, is confused and baffled. It's funny how many of my posts are like this, no? To continue.

So I look at all these things and I'm filled with an incredible impatience to just get on with it. I've been in high school for long enough to suit me. Yeah, I have stuff I need to learn, but I wish I had already learned it. I love my family, but I'm ready to head out and do something with my life. When does my story start? I wonder. This has been a nice introduction, but it's one of those five hundred words or less deals. Let's get on with it. I have ideas. I have goals. Small ideas and small goals, perhaps. But ideas and goals none the less: writing, working with movies, helping international missions, perhaps doing a bit of acting. But here I am, in my bedroom, waiting for Monday to come so I can be distracted from the "let's get on with it"-ness of life.

You know what was utterly wrong with everything I just said--with what I really feel?

There's no God.

That's kind of scary.

As you're probably getting sick of hearing, my year hasn't been easy. *enter violin music* Kidding about the violin music, but it still hasn't been easy. I feel like God's looked me up and down and taken away everything extra in my faith and left me with what's left. The trouble is, I'm not sure I like what's left. It's a timid, fearful, and angry sort of faith. Why on earth would I want my life to suddenly pick up and start running, then, do you ask? That's not the right question. The question really is why I'm not giving my impatience to Him.

Why not, then?

Here's an excerpt from one of the most amazing devotionals ever written, The Music of His Promises. If you don't have it...well. You'll feel deprived once you read this:

"When Satan came to tempt Jesus in the wilderness his bait was intended to inspire in the Lord the lust to do more than the Father meant for Him to do--to go farther, demonstrate more power, act more dramatically. So the enemy comes to us in these frantic days of doing. [. . .] If we fall for it we neglect first things: sitting in silence with the Master, to begin with. Then God-given work--being husband or wife, father or mother, spiritual father or mother to those nearby who need protection and care; hidden work, often which is never on the world's list because it lends nothing impressive to one's dossier. [. . .] May I accept with joy the work You have given me, Lord. Deliver me from the greed of doing more than You mean me to do, for Jesus' sake."

Wow. But first, another one:

"Christ calls us to walk on water. That is what walking by faith means. The usual supports are gone, and we are beckoned by Him alone to get out of the boat, the 'safe' place, and plant our feet firmly on what looks anything but firm. Like Peter, we are sometimes distracted, and we sink. If we do, shall we immediately conclude that it was a mistake to have gotten out of the boat? Was our guidance all wrong? Be careful how you assign causes. Jesus did not rebuke Peter for coming. He rebuked him for doubting."

I don't necessarily want to do more than God wants me to do right now, because I know I'm not doing some pretty basic things, but I do know I want to do different things. Even scarier, sometimes I just don't want God. I wouldn't even be following Jesus out onto water just to sink--I'd be tugging on a life jacket, hopping into a life boat, and rowing in the opposite direction. I can't recall who I had this conversation with, but it went something like this:

Exceptionally wise individual: [says something really profound about desiring God]

me: I wish I could want God like that. I want to want Him, but most times I just want to do different things. I want to have everything my own way. Half the time, I don't even want to listen to what God has to say. I'm like Edmund from the Chronicles of Narnia.

Exceptionally wise individual: Don't get me wrong; it's not like I never struggle with that. You're always quoting C.S. Lewis; remember when Screwtape tells Wormwood that a person is most dangerous for God when they pursue Him even when they don't "feel" like it? That's how it should be, Rose. Do what He says because you love Him. God changes you during that process. Not before.

Exceptionally wise individual, your words haunt me. I feel awful that I can't remember who you are. If you happen to stumble upon this, take me aside some day and tell me that you said these words. They're some of the best I've heard.

When Elizabeth Elliot talked about us wanting to do more than God wants, I think she also meant doing things differently than God wants: it's the drive to abandon what you know you ought to be doing for what sound glorious. Since the whole world's a stage, not everybody gets a huge audience. When you have a year that shakes you to the very core, then you might (like I have) looked at the waves like Peter did. But oftentimes those waves aren't quite so big as one imagines. They're the lack of excitement and the cloying entertainment that so marks our culture. It's the frustration with not having people around you who really want to think and live deeply. It's the gagging taste of hypocrisy. It's the putrid smell of over-wrought emotionalism in the church. These aren't necessarily the tossing torrents that Peter visibly saw, but rather the lazy lapping against a sea-cliff. But you know what? Give that lazy lapping a hundred years or so, and the cliff will crumble and morph. So it is with us--only it takes us about ten hours, not a hundred years.

So what should we do? What should I do?

I'll tell you what I'm not going to tell you first. I'm not going to tell you to "follow the Spirit's promptings" I'm not going to tell you that life is like a winding road through one of those ethereal forests that we just have to trust God to get us through. Let's face it: that pans out into zero action.

I'll tell you what I need to do instead. I need to study God's Word more. You don't know how much I've slacked off of that due to the bitterness I've had towards other people (which really doesn't make sense, I mean, if I were mad at someone, I'd go to God, right? You'd think I'd think of that sooner...oh well). I'm going to do hard things I can do right here, right now: work on that book I've been saying I'd finish. Write that screenplay I've been telling myself I should write--after all, if I read a few of the best books on screenplay writing, it shouldn't turn out too bad. Read books and listen to sermons by people I really respect so I can really grow. Love others. Write on this blog more often so I can do what I'm ordered to do: spread God's Word. I'll start asking my mom to take me out driving even though I think that SUV is going to eat me alive and then spit me out on the pavement somewhere half digested. I can start hauling myself out of bed a bit earlier so I can actually get those things done. Of course, this all comes gradually, but those are things I really ought to be doing but quite frankly am not.

Have you been feeling like you're dying to get on with it? How have you been handling that?

And I promise to post more Mister Mike and Tea-Time with Miss Israel this week.

God bless you, dear reader.
In Christ,
Rose

Just. Do. Something.

2011-03-09T13:42:00.000-08:00

That's the title of a book I just read about a week ago. And it's very good--so good that I believe it just solved a (somewhat) major crisis in my life.

Only, of course, it's titled "Just Do Something," without the periods for emphasis. That's just me selfishly trying to get you to read my post. ;-)

*Gasp* She said that?

Yes, I did. It was me being selfish. Now, on with the book review. Let the world continue in its course.

I bought this book about a year ago after a magnificent teacher recommended it. I feel guilty for not reading it until now, but anywho. Better late than never, right?

This book basically addressed how we are to go about living our lives wisely and biblically. It dispelled common myths that many modern Christians have about finding God's will. However brief that is, that's all I'm going to say here. Let's dive into the book.

Seriously. The cover is priceless.

Note: I'm a pretty dense person who learns things only after they've been (sometimes literally) smacked into my head. So if this book seems totally base and my excitement way over-the-top, then that's probably why. ;-)

The ~~Good~~ Really Great Stuff

It's a pretty short book--about 140 pages--so you could probably get through it in an afternoon if you aren't distracted by a re-run episode of MythBusters. (No further comments about MythBusters.) Though it is short, the author does not skimp on content. He has quotes from Augustine, Lewis and, of course, the Bible. All of his chapters are organized and easy to follow. He even made me laugh out loud a few times (not hard to do, but still). Kevin DeYoung (the author) doesn't just come to the table with organization and quotes and witty remarks, though. In this book that's essentially about wisdom, you can tell that he's thought through this issue. You can see the wise man through the words. And that's what gives this little book its compelling nature.

So, what myths does he dispel? First, he talks about how people dabble in many different areas in life and--selfishly--do not commit to any one area because they want to find the "perfect" fit for them, or the "totally fulfilling" life. While we are, he says, perfectly okay in wanting to pursue our dreams and our passions, so many of us hang back from making decisions about life out of fear or laziness or mock spirituality. More on the mock spirituality later. All of this means that we wind up not helping others like the Bible commands us to and instead we wind up being a burden to those around us. This all probably sounds a bit controversial or, more likely, unclear. Give me a minute to explain mock spirituality and perhaps that will clear things up.

Mock spirituality is basically us trying to discern God's plan for our lives before we live it. DeYoung makes it pretty plain that we are to love God, that we are to submit to Him, that we are to follow the Bible's commands, and that we are to obey authorities as far as they don't contradict the Bible. That's all well and good. Instead, DeYoung critiques those who try and extract solutions to nonmoral situations from inappropriate places and then call those solutions "signs from God." For example, random Bible verses probably aren't the way to figure out who to marry: you'd do best to turn to parts of the Bible that explicitly talk about what to look for in a spouse. The rest is, quite honestly, subject stuff that you need to think about wisely.

Rose, darling--duh!

Hang on! He goes on to say that so many people look for a "perfect peace" about what ever they do. They want "perfect peace" before they choose a car, a major--what have you. DeYoung responds to this idea by saying that, since we're creatures who are obviously intimidated by change, we're going to feel antsy about new changes or larger decisions. When you hit the nonmoral decision realm, the best thing you can do is honor God in all your actions, submit to His commands in the Bible, follow the advice trusted people give you, and pray for God to show you where you aren't following His commands in the Bible or where you aren't following good advice from trusted people. To quote C.S. Lewis, "Prayer doesn't change God. It changes me." After that, God may or may not calm your spirit: the important thing is you make a decision and move on with your life so that you may glorify God with everything you have.

Augustine's quote basically summarizes this whole book: "Love God and do whatever you want."

See? It's basically a wisdom book. There's much more he says and much more I could say, but he's still basically giving people biblical counsel on finding biblical wisdom. It's totally practical. There's no hocus-pocus. There's no jargon. And, best of all, he constantly talks about wisdom in context of God's Grace to us. It's an excellent book.

The Bad Stuff

I wish he would write a commentary on Proverbs. I'm serious--this guy knows his stuff. He could bring in quotes, pithy sayings--it would be amazing. I wish this book were longer so I could listen to him for longer.

Those are, quite seriously, the biggest misgivings I have about this book. What he doesn't address is simply not on topic.

{the little stuff that totally makes the book}

I love quotes. He loves quotes. I love Proverbs. He loves Proverbs. I love funny stories that maybe, just maybe, have a biting sense of humor. He tells stories that maybe, just maybe, have a biting sense of humor. I love satire. He loves satire. I love Psalms. He loves Psalms. I love it when people put things in the context of God's Grace. He puts things in the context of God's Grace. I love organized chapters. He organizes his chapters. AND the foreword's by Joshua Harris.

Love at first read, anybody?

Go read "Just Do Something." Type it into Amazon or something: Just Do Something by Kevin DeYoung.

Oh! And I promise I'll finish off the Mister Mike mystery. Call my absence from the blogging world a sick week. And then I'll do some Tea-Time with Miss Israel stuff. I'll also probably talk about some articles I've read recently. You don't know how much I love interacting with ideas that other people have written down. It's probably not even healthy.

God bless you, dear readers.
Love,
Rose

Mister Mike and the Case of the Stolen Liturgy

2011-02-24T08:55:00.000-08:00

Here's another Mister Mike Mystery. If you haven't read any of these yet, c l i c k h e r e. And feel bad that you've missed out on such impressive writing. ;-) Interspersed for your entertainment are some of my own photos.

Evil Edward.

It is necessary for me to explain him if I'm ever going to tell you anything else.

You see, a lot of your less intelligent-four year-olds involve themselves in playing frivolous games. They make up a fake nemesis. They make up fake businesses. Some even have the audacity to pretend they're detectives like me. But if you're an intelligent four-year-old, then you'll already have a nemesis, and a very intelligent one, for few people want intelligent friends--least of all friends who are as intelligent as themselves.

Evil Edward heads up the evil part of the kid underworld here in Sunset Ridge Neighborhood. He's generally behind any and all chaos that plagues the peaceful world I have worked hard to create.

There's just a few complications. We both know each other's real name. You see, we're both operating under alias, and for very good reasons. Take, for example, the Case of the Stolen Liturgy.

I was out back, next to my office, practicing my lightsaber skills (they are graceful weapons, not like the clumsy squirt guns that the other kids use). I was facing the Great Forest of Death behind my house (the adults call it a copse of trees but that's not true) when I saw a figure draped in a dark cloak streak through the gnarled branches of the the Death Trees. I wasted no time in giving pursuit. We ran deeper and deeper into the forest, slipping over wet moss and squirming between trees. Finally, I caught up with him. He whirled on me and pulled out a lightsaber. I drew my blade and easily knocked his lightsaber out of his hands. He fell to his knees and threw the hood back from his face.

"Please," he begged, beginning to cry. "What do you want? I'll tell you anything."

"What were you doing running through the Great Forest of Death?" I asked, my manner suave and confident.

"I was delivering this--" here he took out a large stack of papers from a sack on his back "--to Evil Edward."A pathetic sniff.

"Why?" I took the papers from him and thumbed through. "They're all liturgies! Why would Evil Edward want these? He hasn't stepped foot in a church."

"I don't know why," he said, beginning to blubber distraughtly. "I can take you to him! Just please don't hurt me."

"I won't hurt you if you tell me your name."

He looked at me through a teary cloud. "My name's Wesley. And I know, I know," he continued, "It's not a very good name at all. No one can be a tough guy if he's named Wesley. Can...can I work for you instead of Evil Edward?"

"Of course...Wesley. Just take me to him."

After a long and grueling hike, we found ourselves in the heart of the Great Forest of Death.

We were standing at the base of a great oak tree. Fourteen feet up was a treehouse of moderate size. A head poked out of a window and shouted, "Hey boss, Wesley's here! And...he's with Mister Mike!"

"I know, I know," came a cultured, smooth voice. "Let them in, will you?" Down came a rope ladder and up we climbed.

Inside the tree house, there was but one chair. In that chair sat the Evil Edward. Around him stood his four henchmen--Frank, Joe, Alex, and Hans. Hans was the biggest by far. Evil Edward rose from his chair and walked towards me with a calculated air.

"What is the meaning of this, Edward?" I asked.

"Why," he replied, taking a casual bite off of the Hershey's candy bar in his hand, "should I tell you?"

I could tell this was a case of serious weight, so I went straight to the big guns and whispered the name of one letter: "W."

His face went white with rage. Then, in a moment of glorious superiority, he whispered the name of one letter: "W."

We're both named Wesley. No one who's a half decent villain or hero could be named Wesley. How we know each other's real name is a story for another time. But, for now, we were in a stale mate as old as our enemy-ship. That's why neither of us ever finished off the other.

I knew right then and there I'd have to finish this case up a different way. I left the treehouse with my new sidekick (Wesley) and went back to my office to ponder the situation. And to get ready to go to my T-ball game.

To be continued.

There you have it. And I promise that I'll finish off this mystery in my next post. ;)

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

Mister Mike and the "Inside Job"

2011-02-18T16:51:00.000-08:00

Note from Rose: if you are yet unfamiliar with Mister Mike, I have two things to say: 1) Shame on you. 2) After you recover from your shameful state, you can CLICK HERE. At any rate, here is the newest Mister Mike Mystery.

It was a slow day and I, as usual, was sitting in my office drinking root beer and eating turnip soup. It was a very slow day, actually. Nobody--not even my sidekick, Sam--had bothered stopping in. I made a mental note to reduce Sam's salary. Two cents a day did not merit such laziness.

It was on my fourth cup of root beer that Paul, the local pastor's kid, entered my office with the most troubled expression on his face. His usually clean blue t-shirt was a bit browner than I remembered and his jeans bore the most atrocious grass stains. It only spelled trouble.

"Mister Mike," he gasped. "Would you take a case?"

"Absolutely. As long as it doesn't make me late for my t-ball game. Would you like some turnip soup?"

"Sure," he replied. I handed him a bowl of the stuff. "Where's the turnips?" he asked. "All I see is grass and leaves."

"Whatever. Now, what is this case?"

"Well," he said, sitting down on the chair opposite me, "there's been a mysterious disappearance of people from my father's church. I have a feeling Evil Edward is behind it."

"What kind of people have disappeared?"

"Mostly people between the ages of sixteen and twenty four. And the thing is, they seemed like they really wanted Christ. But it just didn't..." he trailed off.

I sighed. This was one of the oldest cases in the book. The old pastor's kid, Josh, had come to me with a very similar problem. Sadly, he didn't listen to my advice. I always thought that's why we have a new pastor and thus a new pastor's kid in the neighborhood. "Paul," I began, "I can give you what may seem like an 'easy' solution. But it is the only solution I have come up with, and I've investigated a similar case before. If you want, I can treat this like a whole new case, but only after you hear out these thoughts."

"Okay," Paul murmured. He was focusing on his hands, obviously worried.

"There are four main reasons that anybody--and this age group in particular--might be abandoning the church. The first is drama in the worship service that cannot, in any way, be fulfilled in real life and thus set the pastor and everyone involved up for a hypocritical, disappointing life. Think about it. If every service is trying to be so 'meaningful' or 'significant' or 'touching', then when it's not, the listener feels like they aren't a 'real Christian' and thus learn to base their faith purely on mood. And the funny thing is that mood often depends more on whether you hit traffic or not on the way to church than whether the singing was soul-stirring. Plus, this over-drama is totally unnecessary. If something is meaningful to someone, they don't need overly dramatic elements to be told it's meaningful. People have brains. They don't need as much help in this area as you might think. The only thing you buy with over-drama are fake Christians, or people who attend just to be emotionally stirred up. The people giving the service can't even measure up to the drama they present. Thus everyone is set up, in some level or another, for hypocrisy. A young person who has grown up in this area will either be emotionally burned out and disgusted by the hypocrisy or else be sucked in by it. Do you understand?"

Paul nodded slightly. I couldn't see if he agreed or disagreed.

"The second reason," I continued, "sort of comes off of the first reason: people might abandon the church because it tries to make itself more like the culture. If a church tries excessively to make itself 'cooler' or 'more relevant' or something of that like, it can wind up, more or less, just looking like the culture around it. People who are earnestly looking for something different from the disappointing culture around them aren't going to find it in the church, so chances are they won't bother with staying in the church. Do you understand, Paul?"

Another slight nod.

"The third reason is dry, joyless Christianity, though this one is not as popular as the first two. When Christians live as if Christ hasn't taken on all their sins and showered them with Grace...well, it makes faith look like a wimpy, flabby thing. The fourth reason intertwines with all of the other three: it is a lack of going deep into the Word. When Christians don't really understand what the Bible says, or even when they don't understand how the Bible has impacted history before them, church just becomes a social function. They want Truth. The church wants attendants. They give attendance. The church gives shallowness. It doesn't work out. Of course, church should never be attendance-driven...but often times it is. Whatever the case, when there is a lack of depth and no challenges for the head or for the heart, it doesn't work. These are your four main reasons. Of course, some desert the church because they are not real Christians, but that is a whole 'nother problem all together--but one that is perhaps instigated by the issues above. In short, Christians wandering from the church is, more often than not, an inside job. Evil Edward probably has nothing to do with it."

Paul rose, looking slightly agitated. "Thanks, Mister Mike," he muttered, dropping five cents into my lap. "I shall consider what you said." He turned away and ducked out the door. I couldn't help but wonder if he would take my advice or simply dismiss me as a unreasonable and inconsiderate idealist like Josh, the old pastor's kid had. Time would tell.

There you have it. Your second "Mister Mike Mystery." :P

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

as in dreams

2011-02-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

This post is going to sound ~~freaky~~ rather odd, but bear with me. I promise (really) that it will all turn out okay.

The funny thing about dreams is that you nearly never know you're dreaming, unless you're like me and can force yourself to dream about certain things (which is just ~~freaky~~ rather odd). Anyways, I didn't know I was dreaming in this dream. And here's what happened in my dream last night:

I was trapped in this giant box (most easily likened to my square, polka-dotted, zipper-closure portable bath bag that I bought at Target). Somehow, I knew I was in the middle of a very cold nowhere and that I was going to freeze to death. I tried to get out over my icebox prison. I tore at the plastic sides, I clawed at the zipper, I stabbed at the floor. It did no good. (Who knew that my Target bath bag could be so lethal?) I curled up in the corner of the giant box, feeling my limbs slowly growing colder.

It was one of those moments where you're absolutely sure you're going to die and, though I was absolutely terrified, I just laid there, as still as ice. Usually I cry in dreams that are remotely frightening. This one was by far the most frightening, but I didn't cry. I just stared at the opposite corner of the box.

I got so cold that my thoughts came in a drizzling white haze. Somewhere outside my box I heard a scraping noise and, in my clouded way, I grew even more afraid. Half of me said it was a rescue. Half of me said it was some animal coming to tear through that bag to make an even quicker end of me. I lay there as quietly as before. Perhaps I was even more quiet--my limbs were extremely cold by this time, and my breath would only come in shallow pools. I had used up most of the oxygen in the bag and what little was left was incredibly frigid.

The scraping turned to hacking and the hacking to a great hiss. The bag-box's top was open, but just a bit. I heard several voices yell, "We're coming!" and felt more frigid air pour into my prison--but there was oxygen. Someone sent their warm breath through the narrow opening at the top of my box, making it that much warmer. That sudden warmth sent daggers through my legs. I let out a scream. At least, as much of a scream a half-frozen throat could manage.

The top of the bag-box opened even more and a man came in. I don't even remember what he looked like, but he grabbed my arms and helped me sit up. He gave me the best hot chocolate I ever had and told me I was safe. As in most dreams, when you hear something you believe it. I believed it.

Then I woke up.

I've been thinking about that dream a lot today. It's probably just a product of my overactive imagination and my cold feet and my tendency towards having very strange dreams (seriously, who gets trapped in giant bath bags in subzero weather?). But then I thought about that Valentine's Day which just passed. And then I thought, as cliched as it is, that a lot of people put themselves in a box of ice in one of two ways--even this time of year. I know, I know, a Valentine's Day (or the day after) post isn't the time to use a list...but be lenient. Those two ways:

1. People sink into their own shells because of bad memories.

It doesn't even have to be in the memory of a bad romance. But it certainly can be.

2. People put themselves out on a very shaky limb in order to get the love they want.

Again, this might even apply to non-romantic situations.

One more thing: who has pulled you out of a frozen lately? Who has been a hero as in dreams?

Now you have a crazy dream, two little points, and an open-ended question to think about. :) Happy (belated) Valentine's Day?

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

The Eagle.

2011-02-13T19:28:00.000-08:00

Twas a rainy, dreary, rather cold day...and so we went to the theater to see "The Eagle." *enter epic music*

So let's get a few things straight. I really don't like actors who just star in one type of movie all of the time. Be varied! Show me different characters! Be someone totally different from you! And I really, really don't like actors who just play in teeny movies with bad plots and overly dramatic characters. *coughRobertPattinsoncoughTaylorLautnercoughEtccough*

But.

I love stories about strength, honor, dignity...etc. All of that good stuff. Throw in some intense battle scenes, shady characters, blood enemies, intense battle scenes, political complications, amazing British landscape, intense battle scenes, Roman loyalty, showing snooty politicians what fer, historically accurate situations, and intense battle scenes and I'm a pretty happy camper. Especially if there's some intense battle scenes.

Yes, I've grown up in a household of boys.

Let's continue.

When I first heard of Channing Tatum, I thought, "Channing Tatum? He surely isn't an eyesore, but look at what he's starred in. I am never watching anything with him in it. Ever." Then I saw the previews on TV for a (see three paragraphs above) kind of movie, I really wanted to see it. And I did. Now I want to read the book it's adapted from: Rosemary Sutcliff's "The Eagle of the Ninth." [Spoilers may inhabit the following sections :P]

The Good Stuff
It's been previously established that I'm biased towards these more battle-filled movies. That doesn't need to be said again, but it probably will be.

Firstly. This story is big on Roman virtues: loyalty, courage, honor, dignity, respecting the memory of fathers, persisting on quests, and fighting through hardships. One of the lines that just made me want to say, "Yes, yes, yes! You are so right!" was when Marcus Flavius Aquila (the main character, Channing Tatum) said that he didn't want to waste his life away in a villa not knowing whether he could have fulfilled this dream of his or not. Instead, he wanted to know whether he could fulfill this dream or not. I just can't help loving that.

When Marcus Flavius Aquila (yes I'm going to use the whole name) got really badly injured and got a concussion in a battle, I felt for him. When he faced an ancient-style surgery bravely, I was awed.

The slave in the story demonstrates intense loyalty even after he's freed. And he had a cool accent.

Men who were cowards more than make up for what they did.

As far as I could tell, all of it was shot on location--location (as the movie-obsessed me found out later) meaning Hungary, England, and Scotland. Yay for epic locations. Today's movie industry needs more of that.

The acting was pretty solid, though there was nothing spectacular. Esca (Jamie Bell) did a good job, or at least I thought so. Marcus Flavius Aquila is a pretty simple guy (not in a bad way; he just has simple motives), but Channing Tatum seemed torn in a few scenes; sometimes I caught glimpses of an incredibly deep but simple guy, other times there were glimmers of a much more complex character. Anywho. That may be just me.

The plot was pretty good--it had me surprised a number of times, but that's not exactly difficult (I couldn't predict Pride and Prejudice)--but they could have gone a bit deeper. It was still a good story, though.

The Bad Stuff

Though I ~~like~~ love action, there is a lot of violence in this movie. Don't take your five-year-old to this movie.

Because this is set in Roman and non-Roman Britain, there is paganism and worse paganism. We see Marcus Flavius Aquila praying to ancestors and Roman deities. We hear of/see some of the gruesome customs of the tribes of Northern Britain. Not too proud of that part of my bloodlines.

There are a few swear words here and there and one rather crass joke.

There's no romance, but that's okay if you focus on the other awesomeness.

little things that just totally make the movie

1. The Roman names. Like Marcus Flavius Aquila. *melts*

2. It. Is. Shot. On. (very very awesome). Location(s). It's so contrary to what we've seen in a lot of the movies recently. Plus, the landscape is varied and sweeping. Look at the picture to the right--real shafts of light through real trees.

3. The Roman soldier hair cuts. I love in Gladiator and I love it here.

4. The final line in the movie. I burst out laughing. I don't know if anyone else laughed in the whole theater because I was...well...laughing. And paying attention to the movie like a good audience member. You should do likewise.

5. The brotherhood feeling you get from the two main characters at the end of the movie. It reminds me of some of my oldest and bestest guy friends and my brothers. Seeing them together makes me want to laugh for happiness, and seeing the brotherhood thing here made me want to laugh for happiness, too. I did in the end of the movie.

6. They speak ancient Celtic (the tribes do, anyway, not the Romans).

7. The director kept putting this white horse into the movie here and there and I figured out about ten minutes into the movie that he represented something. At the end of the movie, I felt very smart because I was right. Yay for feeling smart.

8. The final battle took place in this river surrounded by beautiful cliffs. *Sigh* Did I mention it was all shot on beautiful location?

In short, I liked it. It certainly didn't crack my top ten movie list (which I should post here some time), but it was pretty good--definitely the kind of movie I enjoy just because I'm that kind of person.

Want to see it?

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose Dickenson

introducing...mister mike.

2011-02-12T19:38:00.000-08:00

The world's greatest logical mind.

(That I can imagine without the help of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Dorothy Sayers, Agatha....)

The world's most desirable bachelor.

(Under the age of 6 years and 245 days.)

The hope of nations.

(Actually, the hope of the neighborhood of Sunset Ridge.)

Who solves everyone's problems.

(At least, he helps everybody who doesn't make him late for his t-ball game.)

Master of Socratic debate. Lover of root beer. Bruce-Lee-esque karate genius. Mozart-esque musical prodigy.

Unsuspecting world, meet Mister Mike. I'll let him do the rest of the talking:

Most people don’t realize the kind of work us children do to keep the adult world running smoothly.

Even more people don’t realize the kind of work some children do to try to sabotage all niceness in the world.

Nobody realizes that, in every neighborhood, every kid under the age of 6 years and 245 days is involved in one of the biggest underworlds the world has ever not seen.

My name is Mikey MacDonald (age four), but in the underworld of the suburban neighborhood of Sunset Ridge (called ‘the S.R.’ by us kids), I’m often called Mister Mike, master detective. You see, even in my neighborhood of relatively small organizations for both crimefighting and crimedefending, the kids need a detective who will look at the world with a cool logical eye and skip the rose-colored lens in order to get to truth. I hold my office in the yellow-walled blue-roofed plastic playhouse in the backyard. I usually charge 5 cents an hour, plus expenses and plus laundry tax (everybody knows how parents raid the laundry for spare change), but I occasionally just take in a case because it is particularly stimulating.

My exploits are many and varied. It was after I had won a considerable reputation that the Lady Lilly came to me with a deep problem.

Lady Lilly is a famous beauty. She’s one of those models from the black-and-white greeting cards—you know, the ones where there’s the boy and the girl in frilly white clothing on a beach or in a Victorian garden, usually holding hands. Anyways, her arrival made waves in the Sunset Ridge kid underworld. Every boy who had ever seen one of his grandma’s black-and-white cutesy greeting cards went to get her autograph.

She had been in the neighborhood for a while and things had slowed down to a very slow pace when she came to see me. It was raining outside my office, and she came in wet and soaking. I gave her some of my signature grass-and-leaves stew. It warmed her up instantly.

After a few moments of the necessary punctilios, she brushed her golden curls out of her face and looked earnestly into my eyes.

“Mister Mike,” says she, “I have a problem.”

“Is it one that requires mere reasoning power or extensive investigation?”

“Mere reasoning power, Mister Mike.”

“No charge, then, unless I’m late for my t-ball game.”

“I’ve been reading Thomas Aquinas’ argument of Gradation of Being and how our standards of perfection ultimately come from God.”

“Of course. Standard reading around these parts, miss.”

“Well, I disagree—with him, not that the argument is standard reading. I believe standards are created by society. Beauty is defined by the beauty of the day. What books to read are decided by the elite of society. Other standards we create ourselves. For example, each of us has different temperaments. You like the cool, logical side of the world. I, on the other hand, prefer frilly white dresses and my modeling. Our standards of happiness are different. Society functions as a body formed of many individuals, and thus each body as a whole has different standards for beauty and truth. It is just like your preference drinking root beer and my preference for smoking licorice. Are the body of society’s standards of beauty so different from a single individual’s standards of enjoyability?”

I at once was taken aback by the lady’s eloquence and composure. But even Lady Lilly’s smooth tongue could not trump cold logic.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions about what you just said, miss?” I took a cold draught of root beer. Root beer always gives one an edge in conversations such as this.

“Of course not.” She gave me her most beautiful smile.

“You say we each have different standards for what happiness is, correct?”

“Yes, Mister Mike.” Another smile. The flirt. The very, very gorgeous flirt.

“But what makes happiness so good, might I ask?”

“Happiness is when we find total satisfaction in what we are doing. Satisfaction is good.”

“Noble attempt, noble attempt. But can we find true satisfaction in just one thing? Do you find your life’s satisfaction in dressing in frilly white dresses? Does it last?”

“No. I’m sometimes even sad when I put on white dresses because of something else.”

“Do you still hold to your original definition of happiness?” I raised my eyebrows with that debonair attitude which my grandma absolutely loves.

“Yes.” Surprisingly, that debonair attitude did not have the desired effect. Must have been an off day.

“Then what causes happiness?”

“Finding that we measure up to a certain standard we have set in a particular area.”

“Give me an example.”

“I find some…” she looked at me with wary brown eyes, “small measure of happiness when I find my frilly white dress is perfectly clean.”

“Where did you get this standard of perfection?” I took another sip of root beer.

“From looking at dirty dresses.”

“No, you did not. If anything, you’ve gotten it from knowing those dresses are dirty. Try again, Lady Lilly.”

“From…from seeing a perfect dress?”

“But what made that dress perfect?”

“It was beautiful,” said Lady Lilly, smiling that beautiful smile.

“And where did you get that idea of beauty?”

“I…I…society, of course.”

“You say society is like a person, right?”

“Yes,” she replied, brightening.

“Where did that larger person get their standards?”

“Society before it, of course….no…oh, I don’t know…wait! Yes! That! That and that society is looking for an absence of ugliness! That’s it!”

“What is ugliness?”

“Err…”

“Ugliness is the absence of beauty. You have probably never seen something in which no trace of beauty can be found. As a matter of fact, some of the most ugly things—some of the most dirty frilling white dresses—are so ugly because they have such potential beauty. And if we say that society gets its standards of beauty from the society before it, we’ll keep running in circles. We’ll keep saying, ‘Oh, from the society before it.’ What we need is an infinite society, the society in which there was always the standard, the society which imparts its standards onto every society to come after it: namely, the Trinity.”

She eventually came round and then we had a few more bowls of grass-and-leaves stew followed by hearty mud pies. Then, after I obtained a promise from her to join me for a three-course dessert on my family’s back porch (a bag of six cookies divided between the two of us, of course), she departed, saying she had more she wanted to ask me over dessert.

So. Should Mister Mike be here to stay?

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose Dickenson

when grief runs deep

2011-02-01T13:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I was talking to someone about my concussion and how it affected me. Someone she knew had a few concussions over the past year and was having a hard time with depression and memory. I told her about how I had a lot of depression and that I barely remember the past summer for whatever reason. Then my mom, who was also there, told the woman about a particular day when I was particularly in the dumps and how we managed. That was a day that I had completely forgotten, but when my mom started describing it, some of that day trickled back into my mind. Later, I gradually I remembered more. I remembered how it was warm. I remembered the bright blue of the sky. I remembered how the grass was freshly cut. I remembered how she planted my rose garden for me because I couldn't do it for myself--I couldn't even sit up for a long time. I remembered lying in the grass on my side and watching her dig the holes for my roses. I remember how the hand-made sign above the rose garden kept reminding me of the friend who made it for me. Last night, though, I remembered how dark I felt. Concussions can do a lot to a person just because they mess up the brain--they can tamper with emotions, with your memory, with your coordination--but the combined effect of doing nothing can hurt just as much. That day, I was definitely feeling that full-blown depression. And last night I remembered how much it hurt, how much grief I was feeling. The memory stung badly. I wondered if my mind forgot much of the summer because it was just better not to remember.

Then I thought frantically, "What if I keep remembering? What if I remember more and more? I don't want to remember. I want to bury the summer and just look forward. I can't handle remembering anymore." The grief ran deep. I didn't want to be able to look back. A void sounded better than pain. Last night I turned to God and just prayed, "Lord, help me cope with this. I definitely couldn't cope with it the summer. Maybe what You're doing is trying to teach me to cope with it now. I don't know. Just help me." For whatever reason, I started reading Lamentations a few days ago, and it was then I picked up my Bible and continued on my reading. Lamentations 3:21-28, 31-33 says this:

"Through the LORD's mercies we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. 'The LORD is my portion,' says my soul, 'Therefore I hope in Him!' The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. It is good that one should hope and wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD. It is good for a man to bear the yoke in his youth. Let him sit alone and keep silent, because God has laid it on him [. . .] For the Lord will not cast off forever. Though He causes grief, yet He will show compassion according the multitude of His mercies." (NKJV)

I have never turned to a passage of Scripture that spoke to me like this ever before (with the possible exception of Psalm 119...more on that later, maybe). I certainly didn't hope in the Lord much over the summer. I failed that test. I wanted out of everything. The part of this verse that strikes me hard is the part that says, "It is good that one should hope and wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD. It is good for a man to bear the yoke in his youth." It's good. It's good. And it's good for me to do this while I'm yet young and stupid. Waiting for God to help me cope with the memory of pain and grief is good. Asking Him to give me strength to face pain is good. One of my very good friends once told me, "I don't like it where I'm living now. I miss you guys; I miss my friends. But I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. It's not where God would have me." If pain is where God wants me...then I don't want to be anywhere else, as much as I hate it.

One thing that pains me most is when people who are obviously at a high point of their faith stoop down and say, "It's okay. You'll be fine. This is just a lesson. Why, the reason for evil in the world is..." and they go off on some theological rant. (Which I am also prone to, I admit.) But when people cry, when people hurt, when the grief runs deep, the emotions are too loud. Sometimes Christians--especially sheltered Christians--forget that it's okay to grieve. They forget that it's okay to be broken hearted over physical pain or over betrayal or over a friend who's wandering away from God. Jesus grieved over all three of these things. And, in those moments of grief, He didn't offer some logical proof on why God is in charge. He said simply, "Thy will be done." And, when grief runs deep, that's all many people can handle. When grief runs deep, it's all that most people (e.g., me) can do to just think, "God's good. This is good. But I'm so sad." And that's enough. It was enough for Jesus.

C.S. Lewis, the author of the book The Problem of Pain, explains how pain and evil are part of God's plan. But he also says in the introduction of his book that he really hardly thinks of anything he wrote in that book when he's in pain. "Pain hurts. God is good. I'm sad."--that's about as deep as it goes, people.

So when you see someone who is grieving, let them grieve. Hold them. Or leave them alone if need be. Pray for them. Remind them that God loves them. But please don't rant.

I think this is a big reason that many people today leave the church. But here's the catch: many Christians are so willing to feel sorry for and to grieve for smaller situations. Your car crashed? Oh, I'm so sorry. You broke your toe? Oh, may God bless you and keep you. Someone died? Here, let me give a list of reasons why God is allowing this--and here's a book; it's really good. Does anybody else think that this is slightly lop-sided?

Why does this happen? Because Christians, I believe, are afraid for their brothers and sisters in Christ. They're afraid that they'll wander from God in this hard time, so they want to inundate them with reasons now. No offense, but if you haven't done that already, it certainly won't be doing them any good now. Read the theological treatises outside of grief. Some of it will probably stick with you while you're in grief, though you probably won't be consciously thinking about it. If you're particularly super human, I suppose you could do read through the treatises in grief. But most people aren't super human, and I'm guessing you aren't, either.

If you're grieving now, I'm praying for you. I hope God heals your heart. Turn to Him, lay it all on Him. But don't be afraid to grieve. Jesus felt pain, too. When grief runs deep, know that His heart hung on broken hinges sometimes, too.

"Jesus wept." John 11:35

God bless you, dear readers.
Love,
Rose Dickenson

on acting

2011-01-28T18:28:00.000-08:00

If you're wondering at the lack of *decent*, uplifting, thoughtful posts, your fears are ungrounded. I am going to start a new series very very soon. Probably tomorrow. Hopefully tomorrow. Actually, I'm probably going to be reviewing a rather obscure C.S. Lewis article tomorrow. But this series is going to be on why I, a teenager, think a lot of teenagers leave the church and what the church and the teenagers could do to prevent it. We'll see how all of that goes. I'm frankly quite excited for it.

But that series is a future good thing, not a present good thing. The present thing (you may decide whether it's good or not) is a review of a book on acting.

the acting book

Before I even tell you its title, you must know I think the whole book is quite silly. I only picked it up because I'm obsessed with acting (though I barely have any experience beyond what I do when nobody else is looking) and I love trying to figure out ways to become a character. Even for my little experience, I thought the book was not circumspect. Though I haven't finished (I'm mostly through, though), I'm already experiencing a bad aftertaste. The book? Acting: The First Six Lessons, by Richard Boleslavsky.

(Isn't that an awesome last name?)

I know the writer is supposed to be very good, and that this book is supposed to be very good, but quite frankly, I don't agree with it. (But I do like his last name.) And here's why:

His advice is to draw on your own experience in order to become your character. He wants you to develop your ability to remember situations that trigger certain emotions or certain reactions or certain thoughts. That, he says, fuels acting.

My problem? When you're acting, you're not supposed to be yourself. You shouldn't be thinking about your experiences. You are not you anymore; you're merely a vessel carrying another person. When you draw on your own experiences, you're also drawing on your own personality. You thus become quite limited in the people and circumstances you can (realistically) portray. The worst part? You're not really acting.

Mr. Boleslavsky would jump in here. "My dear," he would say in a dry tone (which is the main reason I'm still reading this book; I think he's hilarious), "you can exaggerate your circumstances to fit the part. You can get the hatred for a murder from the hatred you feel for mosquitos. [I kid you not, he said that.] You can get the feeling of regret mixed with joy from the time you left your family to go on some summer adventure. You just need to exaggerate those feelings."

That's exactly what I'm talking about. You see, they're still your feelings. You'll still be limited. And, what's even worse, you won't believe your own acting. You'll know it's an exaggeration and that will probably show through in your work.

What do I suggest?

I suggest totally restructuring. I suggest becoming the character. You learn the character's history. You learn their temperament. You learn how they move. According to some psychologists I have read, when you move a certain way, your temperament adjusts to suit your movements. The best part? You'll believe the character.

I know this all isn't as simple as it sounds. But, at least in my humble when-nobody-else-is-watching-but-my-laptop-camera experience, it gives me much better results. When I restructure myself and my movements and my reactions and my emotions, I can become the Lady of the Green Kirtle, Marianne Dashwood, Puddleglum, Rose DeWitt Butaker, Queen Victoria, or the White Witch with some (very very small) level of proficiency. [Key phrase: very very small.] I can't even begin to become them when I'm just flooding my brain with past experiences. I'm a distinct person. I could never have enough experiences to be believeably the White Witch. I need to become the White Witch on the White Witch's terms.

What do you think about all of this? Do you agree with Richard? Or do you agree with Rose?

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

Two Truths and Four Lies

2011-01-23T12:51:00.000-08:00

Greetings, all.

So over at Confessions of a Flibbergibbet Emily is doing a tag. I have never, ever done a tag on my blog before, and this one looked better than most (I am a snob when it comes to these things), so...I'm doing it.

Here's basically how it works: I give you a couple truths and a couple lies about me. There's two truths and four lies here. You have to guess which ones are which. [Warning: I have cleverly mixed a bit of truth into my lies, so if you're looking for the truth, look for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.]

1: I'm a contortionist. I can go back into a wheel and get my hands to my feet. My dad thinks I should join the circus or something (largely so he won't have to see me doing it at random).

2: I have only cried in two movies. One was Spirit and one was The Passion.

3: I wear nailpolish all the time. And I'm pretty obsessive over how my hands look--you might even call it vanity. [Gasp.]

4: I think Kindles are a disgrace to all things book-y. They'll destroy our world. That's why I hoard books like you wouldn't believe.

5: I hate Clint Eastwood. I find him incandescently annoying. I also (sorry people) don't like Paul Newman. He's a good actor but he just annoys me to pieces. In the same way, I love Russell Crowe, Kate Winslet, Leonardo DiCaprio, Meryl Streep, Cate Blanchett, Morgan Freeman, and Christian Bale. They're incredible.

6: When I was six, my mom took me into a butterfly exhibit and I was terrified. These butterflies landed on me and I freaked out. For years after that, I couldn't handle butterflies. Now, butterflies are a symbol of power to me: sort of like bats are to Batman in the new movies. If I were a superhero, I'd be Butterfly Woman. I would say, with the complete Christian Bale-contemplative-expression on my face, "Butterflies frighten me. It's time my enemies share my dread."

My Christian Bale Face (it's not that good, I'll admit it)

Guess away.

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,

Rose

Comfort in a Plummetting Elevator

2011-01-22T13:05:00.000-08:00

An essay I wrote for school and that I (in a very good way, I hope) am quite proud of. :D I also had a blazing good time writing it.

Imagine there is an elevator in an extremely tall building. On top of this extremely tall building, there is an international airport. The only way to get out of this airport is by coming down in this elevator, which is rather small—only five people can fit. Three men board the elevator (one is a tall, broad-shouldered fellow who carries many weapons, so only these three board). The first man is that broad-shouldered fellow. He gruffly introduces himself as Sigurd. The second man is a slight, darker-skinned man named Mohammed. The third is a rather portly, jovial fellow who asks to be called Jack. The moment they begin their descent, a major earthquake strikes and the elevator cord snaps. They begin to plummet. Since the building is extremely tall, they have time for conversation. Mohammed grows nervous. He has questions about what is going to happen to him (and about the possibly present end of the world), but he has never encouraged himself or others to ask those questions. He always thought this attitude gave him peace, but now he recognizes it as an unquestioning uncertainty. Sigurd just shrugs. “I always knew it was coming and I always knew there was no hope,” he grunts, running thick fingers through blonde hair. “It shall all end horribly, but I can only do what I can do.” Mohammed does not take comfort in Sigurd’s words at all. Sigurd takes no comfort in them and does not intend to. They plummet.

Life can seem like a plummeting elevator—there are a mere few moments for conversation and all the time one could wish for to worry. How is a Christian to approach the end of the plummet—the end of the world, Christ’s coming? How do different sources for “end-time comfort” impact choices in life? To answer these questions, one shall look first at the worldviews of non-Christians (ancient and modern), then the traps that Christians can fall into regarding end-times, then, finally, the comfort and hope found in Christ.

First to consider is the angle of non-Christians. In the story above, Sigurd, a Norse warrior, exemplified the common belief of his culture: we are all going to die. The world will end badly. All we can do is live the best life we can (of course, “best life” is not very defined in Norse culture). According to Norse mythology, the world will end with a great war between the good gods (again, “good” is loosely defined) and the bad giants, and the men of the earth will fight on the side of the gods and thus die. The Viking view of the world is a fatalistic one indeed. Perhaps that is why they place so much stock on war and material goods. “Another [bird] said: ‘There lies Regin, who wants to betray [Sigurd].’ Then a third spoke: ‘He should strike Regin’s head off; then he alone would control the huge store of gold.’ [. . .] Then Sigurd said, ‘It will not be my ill fate that Regin shall be my death. Rather, both brothers should go the same way.’ He now drew Gram and cut off Regin’s head.”[1] Sigurd clearly understood that his best chance at happiness in life was living as long as he could and gaining all that he could—even if he had to cut off a few heads in the process. While postmodern unbelievers perhaps do not believe in gods and giants and wise little birds, the Viking worldview is close to that of many people today: they believe that life is what one makes it to be. It is what one puts into life that counts, they say, and each person has a right to believe what they feel is right. Good is not just loosely defined; the individual defines it. And, unlike the Norse, the postmodern idea of what comes next is not always clear—some believe that they are basically a good person and will go to heaven, others believe that there is no heaven, and some think that hell would probably be more fun than heaven anyway. Perhaps their attitude of unquestioning uncertainty is a bit like that of the Muslim worldview: “The true believers are those whose hearts are filled with awe at the mention of God, and whose faith grows stronger as they listen to His revelations. They are those who put their trust in their Lord, pray steadfastly, and give in alms from what We gave them.”[2] This might seem pretty close to the Christian worldview. But there is no continual striving for knowledge about this great God—only a mere listening. There is no seeking for answers, no giving answers—only acceptance. The hunger for wisdom—so important to Christian life—is not on the “true Muslim checklist.” While the Muslims believe that their god is in control and that their god will win, they have no promise like those that reverberate through scripture: “The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit.”[3] The Muslim god is a god of war and of mass rule. “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”[4] Unquestioning uncertainty is not true comfort and results in great masses of people not really knowing what they believe.

Yet even within Christian circles there can be sad error and even sadder confusion. As seen in the books of 1 and 2 Thessalonians, there can be the problem of false prophets doing what they do best: prophesying falsely and twisting truth. Given just the right quirk, an earnest waiting for Christ’s second coming can take a dive into the deep end. 2 Thessalonians 3:10-15 paints this problem in florid color. Some of the Thessalonians had decided that, since Christ was coming soon enough, they did not need to work. They just waited for Christ to return. Not only does this force the Thessalonians to live off of charity (or, in blunter terms, scrounge), but it also harmed those who were in need of help: the Thessalonians did not have money or food to give, and they took the resources the needy could have received. An Old Testament story illustrates another error that Christians could fall into. In Exodus 32, the Israelites get impatient waiting for God—albeit, they are not waiting for Christ’s second coming, but they are still waiting for God to send Moses back down off the mountain to them—and they decide to conform to the patterns of the pagans around them. They make a golden calf, bow down to it, and thoroughly forget their calling. Christians today can fall into the same error. In the process of waiting, they can forget why they are on this earth—and, worse, that Christ will come again. The result is bitterly sad, a life with only a dim hope—a dim hope that the world does not notice. God’s living, vibrant Word becomes a faint dream: the longer one ignores it, the more difficult it is to remember. It is like the signs that Aslan gave Jill in The Silver Chair: “‘It’s my fault,’ she said in despairing tones. ‘I-I’d given up repeating the signs every night. If I’d been thinking about them I could have seen [the city they were sent to search for], even in all that snow.’”[5] For Jill, getting back on the right track was bitterly hard after falling into the trap of Harfang’s pleasures.

But the story need not always be sad. In 2 Thessalonians 2:15-17, Paul gives these words of encouragement and purpose:

“Therefore, brethren, stand fast and hold the traditions which you were taught, whether by word or by our epistle. Now may our Lord Jesus Christ Himself, our God and Father, who has loved us and given us everlasting consolation and good hope by grace, comfort your hearts and establish your in every good word and work.”

Paul has just come off of describing a great apostasy. No matter, he says, hold fast to what you have been taught concerning Christ. Do what He has commanded you to do. Perhaps, alongside Paul’s comfort, the Thessalonians remembered the Great Commission: “‘All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go, therefore, and make disciple of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.’ Amen.”[6] The promise of Christ’s spirit being with us Christians until He comes back for us is the greatest this world will ever know. No wonder Paul declared, “For me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”[7] There is no doubt that Christians can live with comforting purpose—what we need to do is laid before us in the commandments of the Bible. This purpose rivals the warring drive of the Norseman and unquestioning uncertainty of the Muslim.

The extremes of unbelief are shaky. The extremes of mis-belief are bitterly sad. Yet the comforting hope found in Christ, in understanding what He says about end times, and in knowing how one should act until then are great. One can say with Paul, “For me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”[8] Oh, and the third man in the elevator, Jack? He told the others a story—a story of a lion, of children on a lion-sanctioned mission, and of how those children found peace in following that mission even when the world seemed at its end. Jack alone found comfort in a plummeting elevator.

[1] Jesse L. Byock, Saga of the Volsungs: The Norse Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer, (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990) 66.

[2] Koran 8:2-4

[3] Psalms 34:18

[4] Galatians 5:22

[5] C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair, (New York: Harper Colins, 1994) 118-119.

[6] Matthew 26:18-20

[7] Philippians 1:21

[8] Philippians 1:21

desires

2011-01-18T08:40:00.000-08:00

My past year, I think, could be themed, "struggling with desires." During my concussion, I struggled with the desire to get off the couch, to be able to concentrate without headaches, to do something. During this school year, I've been struggling with the desire for less routine, less ho-hum, less same ole, same ole. That desire took many forms: sometimes I just went out into the woods and ran and ran until I couldn't breathe without feeling sick (bad idea). Sometimes I would play the piano (slightly better idea). Now, it's a frustration with occasional memory blips--like, say, suddenly realizing that you barely remember any of the summer or totally forgetting what you're doing in the middle of a presentation in class--and the intense desire just to get over the last effects of a concussion. Not freaking out because I can't remember what I'm doing sounds very appealing. Desires abound.

The other day I was reading through Proverbs 13. I guess all of Proverbs talks about desires and how to go about fulfilling them in some way or another, but Proverbs 13 stood out to me. It seemed to address exactly what I was fighting through.

You can read the whole chapter here, but these are the verse that really stood out to me:

Proverbs 13:4 "The soul of a lazy man desires, and has nothing; but the soul of the diligent shall be made rich." This stood out to me. It's saying, look. You can be lazy and desire something--like, health or a more exciting life--just as fiercely as a diligent person. And you know what? If you don't actually do something to change the way you're living, you're sunk. Of course, there are some things that simply must heal on their own (like an injured brain), and there's some things that must wait for other reasons. Yet there are other things that can be pursued. If I pursued certain areas of my life with more diligence, I probably wouldn't be so antsy. My antsy-ness might even be the effect of not doing what I should be doing.

Proverbs 13:10 "By pride comes nothing but strife, but with the well-advised is wisdom." This verse can be applied to many scenarios. I think it applies to the scenario of trying to chase down dreams. If we're exceedingly proud about what we're doing or about how we're doing it, our dreams are only going to cause heartache. Soon, our goal isn't so much pursuing God-given dreams but rather just winning a contest against people who say we can't do something. That should not be the driving force of your life. I'm going to quote my sage character from my book again. Everyone welcome Soturi. I feel like such the narcissist quoting him, but seriously. I think they're his words and not mine. I don't know where he comes up with this stuff.

"I realized that fighting this war shouldn't really be about my hatred or my pride or my sense of duty. It should be about love for my people, for my country. For life."

In the same way, fulfilling our desires shouldn't be about our hatred of someone's that's-a-bad-idea-ness, about our pride, or even our sense of duty to ourselves. That's all selfish. It should be about our desire to do what God wants us to do. It even means sacrificing what we think are our desires to God's desires. It means making what is plainly God's will for our lives our desires, even when our flippant little heart isn't entirely in it. If you follow God's plan long enough, your heart will gradually conform to His. (Everyone say thank you to Soturi.)

Proverbs 13:12 "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life." If you're proud or lazy or both, your desires aren't going to be fulfilled. Your withering desires, which are so rooted in your heart, will become like poison. Good motivation not to be proud or lazy, right? But when your desires are fulfilled (and fulfilled in God's timing and in God's ways), then those desires bloom and blossom. They become a source of happiness.

Proverbs 13:19 "A desire accomplished is sweet to the soul, but it is an abomination to fools to depart from evil." Again, when our desires are fulfilled, it's like eating the sought-after dark-chocolate-covered-blueberries.

(Reverent silence.)

Sometimes, I think, we don't even know certain desires are there. In the words of Jewel the Unicorn from C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle, "I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now." Other times, we've the desires since age two. But the other part of the verse is pretty poignant. Remember that laziness and pride described in verses above? This verse is saying that fools, though they may say "I would like to do ____" or "I would like to become ____" just as much as a wise person, they hate to stray from their ways. They're set. Thus the cycle of unsatisfied desires continues. The scary thing is, we're all fools in some way or another. We need to turn to God and ask Him for His help and for His strength to pursue what He wants us to pursue.

Beth Felker Jones, a very wise authoress, once said, "Desire is strong stuff. What we want shapes who we are. It shapes our lives, our actions, our time, and our commitments. Because of desire we go down one road and reject another. We're deeply shaped by our desires." How could I disagree? My desires over the past year have shaped decisions I've made about time, about friends, and about priorities. Sometimes that's been a good thing and sometimes it's been a very, very bad thing. Some of my desires are like that withering plant: I've been lazy and proud and thus they rot in my heart. Yet no matter what the desire is, I think I've generally been off-track. Two quotes from Martin Luther explain things brilliantly:

1) "That to which your heart clings and entrusts itself is, I say, really your God."

2) "Whatever good thing you lack, look to [God] for it and seek it from [God], and whenever you suffer misfortune and distress, come and cling to [Him]...the one who will satisfy you and help you out of every need. Only let your heart cling to no one else."

Are desires wrong? No--God's given us desires. Indeed, desire is a part of His character: He desires our love and obedience. In turn, He has wired us to desire Him and His plans. We just go off and pursue the wrong things. Our sin makes our desires twisted and morphed. We go about fulfilling them in the wrong way. Because of this, we need to constantly bring our desires back to the feet of God. We need to look to Him, not to ourselves, for fulfillment. It's His job to fulfill, it's ours to follow. And yet, we need to be actively pursuing the dreams God has given us. We need to be diligent. As my dad says, "If you see something in the Bible or anywhere else and you think, 'Gosh, I should do this,' guess what? You're probably right. Go do it. Now." If you have a desire or dream that can righteously be fulfilled or pursued right now, by golly, what are you waiting for?

One last quote. This is from Douglas Wilson: "God doesn't move parked cars."

But He does provide a very good map for those He's called to follow Him.

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

sunday musings: our world needs more...

2011-01-16T20:05:00.000-08:00

stories. Our world needs more stories.

(This is a very erratic post, by the way. It basically follows my train of thought, so if you don't like my train of thought for some reason, or if you don't like "raw" trains-of-thought in general, you might want to stop reading. Just a suggestion.)

"Are you crazy? Don't you see all the movies out, Rose? Those are stories!"

Yeah, and I love movies. They're one of the things I enjoy most. But that's not what I mean. People need to tell each other more stories.

"My neighbor can do that for you. Why, she once told a story where..."

No. I mean made-up stories--new fairy tales, rags-to-riches stories, sweeping epics, and some good tear-jerkers. Our world needs people who want to sit down, turn the television off (I need to turn the television off...I keep telling myself I'm not going to get hooked into the football game yet I do), and just tell stories.

Why?

A story of my own first (actually not my own, but I'll explain that):

"One day, a ten-year-old girl named Rose was driving out to California with her family. They stopped at a motel, and her parents and her brothers went down to the store to get something. Rose (since she was such a big girl) got to stay in the room. She was a little nervous because she thought the White Witch was chasing her, but she thought she'd be okay. Then, she heard a knock on the door.

'Pizza delivery!' came a voice.

Rose was a smart girl. She knew that the White Witch was very clever, so she dragged the chair over and looked through the peep hole. Sure enough, it was the White Witch. But she had pizza with her, and Rose was very hungry..."

This was a story my dad told me before bed when I was five years old. I don't remember what happened, but the image of the White Witch standing on a second-story motel balcony/hallway thing with a few pizzas balanced on her right hand seared into my memory. And, at age five, being ten and being able to reach the motel room peep hole sounded like traveling around the world does to me now.

I pestered my dad to tell me stories every night. He already read books to us, but that wasn't enough. "I want you to make up a story out of the air," I told him, swinging my arms around. "Please." Here I would grab his sleeve.

He would say, "I'll make it up while I'm at work tomorrow, and I'll tell it to you tomorrow night." And he did. He made up enchanting stories. There were a few where I turned into a mermaid (awesome), a few where I rode my scooter through a prairie dog town (we lived in Colorado with a prairie dog town in the little community park thing), and (my favorite) a few which involved Narnia characters. When I'd pester him for a second story, he'd always reply, "I'll make it up tomorrow while I'm at work, and I'll tell it to you tomorrow night." And he'd kiss my forehead, make some hilariously sarcastic remark about all of the stuffed animals on my bed (that soon became the main reason I kept them there), and head out.

What's the point of all of this rambling? Well, those stories did something for me. Just the memory of my dad holding me and telling me something he made up just for me tells me he loves me. Stories do that for people: when one person tells a story to another, it tells that person, "Hey. I care about you. Enough to devise this story. Let's spend some time together." Stories are part of what makes humans, humans. Humans are made in the image of God. God wrote the story of us, of our world, of our time. And when we tell stories to each other, we're reveling in speaking a story after the pattern God has made for the world: the pattern of a story.

A couple times my dad would demand stories of me. They all inevitably were Narnia con jobs, usually involving a girl named Rose with long hair (I had short hair at the time and hated it with every ounce of five-year-old princess-wanna-be passion I could muster) and a tiger (I can't be too much of a ripoff, can I?) named Aslan. But telling those stories taught me organization. I learned, as much as a five-year-old could, sequence. I learned how to describe people and places. It taught me order. And, however much originality my stories lacked, it taught me creativity.

This may surprise some of you, but I'm not an overtly talkative person. Sure, I like to talk in certain situations (like omnibus class or with some really awesome friends or on my blog), but in my every day life I often go for several hours on just a handful of replies. It took me until I was about nine to really be able to start a conversation with somebody. Until then, I was uber-cautious about conversation. I'm not shy anymore, but I certainly like my silence and I don't do small talk well at all. Telling stories as a little kid, I think, pushed me outside of my world of school and Playmobil and listening to Narnia audiotapes and taught me how to talk to people (even if it was about Narnia). It taught me to listen carefully to stories others tell. And that's a huge blessing.

I also think that stories give you a better way of looking on the world. C.S. Lewis once said that studying literature helps you study life, and reading fairy tales helps you to see the fairy tale in everything. I agree heartily. When I hear a good story, I line my world up with that story and try to bind the two together. And that is a huge blessing.

What do you all think? Does the world need more stories?

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

why a beast would want a beauty (thoughts, reflections, and even a bit of apologetics)

2011-01-13T19:17:00.000-08:00

My favorite fairy tale ever has to be Beauty and the Beast. (It would be the movie 'Gladiator' but for some reason I don't think that counts.) Along with Batman, I think it is one of the most retold stories of all times. Everyone wishes they had thought of it. (You see, with 'Gladiator,' everyone is too scared to try and retell it--it's just that incredible.)

Why? Why would this be such a luring fairy tale? Why do I still obsess over it? I don't obsess over 'The Little Mermaid,' 'Cinderella,' 'Sleeping Beauty,' or 'Snow White' anymore. But hardly a day goes by with my mind turning to look at Belle and the Beast. Really, why?

Here's what I think: 'Beauty and the Beast' shows something about us--about humans--that we don't see in many other stories. It portrays each character as imperfect. The beast is suffering, and rightly so, for what he's done wrong. He is about as gentle as a screaming two-year-old (in other words, not). Underneath all of this, though, he wants redemption. He longs for a better life. Belle is willing to save her father by living forever with the beast, but she's flawed, too. She disobeys a clear order from her new master. She flees from the Beast even after she's promised to stay. The Beast, in a profound act of self-sacrifice, nearly dies from fighting off the wolves. He pays the price that Belle would have had to pay for her disobedience. Their lives grow happier, and Belle brings the Beast an unexpected happiness. But, even after all of this, the Beast decides to release her from her promise and let her return to her father--another act of selflessness. Belle could have been done with the hideous monster, but instead she gives him something he never really thought he would receive: love. She loves him. When everyone else is fighting and hating him, Belle comes back and stands by his side. Before I talk about what I think this means for us, for me, let me tell you why this shouldn't mean anything, given a certain perspective.

Yes. You all probably know that I'm a big fan of finding compelling evidence for God inside the mind and hearts of people. I haven't changed since the last time I told you that.

You see, if we really did evolve, there's a great deal of questions we need to ask about love. Firstly, why do we ladies envision a perfect hero, a hero that matches so perfect a standard that nobody (but a God Who, according to evolution, doesn't really exist) can hope to attain it? Why do girls sit and day-dream about heroes? Why do we have romance stories in which the guy is so perfect, so heroic? Why am I even obsessed with stories of heroes like 'Gladiator,' 'Batman,' or 'Beauty and the Beast?' Why do we have stories of perfect women, who have no flaw in body or mind or spirit? Why have men, past and present, dreamt up stories of women of unsurpassable beauty? I just can't see how these ideals would help our race survive: nobody can reach them. We're setting each other up for failure and, ultimately, for dissatisfaction with life (which, we're told, is the only end we have, so what sense would it make for us to be dissatisfied with the only thing that we're made for?). Why would a beast want a beauty?

The wolves that tried to devour Belle didn't, as far as I know, have any ideals as far as hubbies and wives were concerned. It was pretty simple: have kids. Bite back if you need to. Don't hold a grudge that will prevent you from having more kids or from eating more food. But obviously humans don't work like that. We hold grudges. We would starve for perfection. Some even shut themselves off from a world that has disappointed their high standards.

And let's pretend that this pursuit of perfection in other people actually made sense. Not that is does, but do let's have fun. Let us suppose that this pursuit of perfection suddenly came into being in humans so that they would be driven to find the best 'mate.' This pursuit of perfection would be amazing, to be sure: it would drive each to find the best mate and to be the best mate so as to avoid criticism. Grace wouldn't exist. Why should it, anyway? The only thing it would do is hinder the pursuit of perfection. It would hinder the survival of the fittest. It would make people soft, forgiving and--heaven (if it existed) forbid--charitable. Oh, that word. Charitable. Imagine what would happen if people did that--they would ultimately forfeit their survival, which just doesn't do. A beauty would want a beast. That's the most unlikely route of love possible.

But that's what happened in 'Beauty and the Beast,' and that's what's happened in many relationships across time. People choose to love others, not because they are flawed, but because they are people. They, though they have standards of perfection so high and so lofty, forgive. They choose to speak softly. And--oh, heaven forbid--they choose to be charitable. And charitable love is the most beautiful of all. I never particularly liked quoting myself, but I'm going to quote something one of my characters said in a book I'm writing (I believe he was totally the one who said it, because I honestly don't know where this thought came from):

'Love is not a mere feeling. Feelings can be a very pleasant piece of it, to be sure, but that's not the core of love. Love is a commitment—a commitment to constant action, despite what the other person may do. Love cannot be doused by trials or troubles. It doesn't die. It grows—like a tree. Trees have droughts when their growth is painful and slow and sometimes the unneeded branches must fall off, but the growth never stops.'

Everyone say thank you to Soturi. He's a smart man and a very good character, even though he can be a bit difficult and even a bit mean at times. Everyone say shape up to Soturi. Yet regardless of his unique personality, I think he explains what happens when people love each other for reasons not entirely comprehensible.

So this obviously doesn't make sense in the evolutionist mindset. But given a God--given the God of the Bible--it makes sense. If there was a God who was and is willing to write a story in which He needs to sacrifice Himself, it makes sense. If there was a God who loves us no matter how ugly and dirty and selfish and hypocritical and utterly depraved we are, then it makes sense. If this God made us in His own image, then it makes sense. Pursuit of perfection makes sense. Forgiveness of imperfection makes sense. 'Beauty and the Beast' does not seem so far fetched after all. A beast would want a beauty, and a beauty would want a beast.

And this tale is, quite literally, as old as time and as true as it could be.

Let not ye think that I am throwing out total depravity. I'm not. I'm just saying that, while our image of God is totally disfigured, if you look hard enough you can still see its origin.

God bless you, dear reader.
Live on 'Beauty and the Beast.'
Love,
Rose

God of Time

2011-01-13T07:04:00.000-08:00

Lover of All, I hold me fast by Thee,
Ruler of time, King of Eternity
There is not great with Thee, there is no small,
For Thou art all, and fillest all in all.

The newborn world swings forth at Thy command,
The falling dewdrop falls into Thy hand.
God of the firmament's mysterious powers
I see Thee thread the minutes of my hours.

--Amy Carmichael

I read this poem in Elisabeth Elliot's book, "Discipline: The Glad Surrender" today and loved it.

You should all read that book, by the way.

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

Children of...W h a t?!

2011-01-11T16:03:00.000-08:00

The other day, I was reading through one of the Pauline Epistles (I can't remember which one; shoot me now) and I was struck by how he kept saying, "Now we are children of the living God..." "As sons and daughters of God..." etc. Basically, he kept referring to our state as children of God. For some reason, this tugged at some loose bolt in my mind (there's a lot of them, trust me) and I couldn't figure out why. Aye, I knew God is our Father and all. I'd heard that a thousand times. Then, all of the years of classical education and myth obsession washed over me like (insert favorite poetic phrase here). And I understood why this whole idea was tugging at some obscure corner of my mind.

Paul was talking to Greeks.

Greeks had some pretty nasty myths about children of gods.

Like Hercules. You know how much trouble he had to go through because he was the child of Zeus? He had to kill a nine (or seven, I always get it messed up)-headed monster, bring someone back from the dead, fight tons of regenerating zombies, duck goddess Hera's ever-coming wrath, tear a lion limb from limb with his bare hands, alter the course of a river...sure, he was buff and handsome, but who'd want to be him? Somehow fighting zombies just doesn't appeal to me. At all.

Paul was a smart man. He knew he was talking to Greeks who knew their myths. I can only imagine that they gasped when they read the phrase, "Children of God." Surely, Paul has made a mistake. He must have written this after being on the road for a bit too long. He probably was high on figs and dates? And so on.

I can only imagine their shock when they realized that, yes, Paul really meant what he said. We are children of God.

Think of what that meant to the Greeks. It meant that they were supposed to go conquer the lions, the monsters, the zombies, and the evil of the day. It meant that they would be pulled into a war between spiritual forces far bigger and far grander than they could have ever imagined. It meant that they were a picture--a reflection--of the gods to their fellow men.

Then, (wherever I was reading), Paul went on to describe that we are children of a God who conquers all of His enemies, has risen from the dead, and who walked amongst man in the flesh of man.

Think of what that meant to the Greeks. It meant that their God was not subject to the Greek fates who dictated the lives and deaths of mortals--after all, He had risen from the dead. It meant that their God won all wars--there would be no compromises with a cruel Hera, no bowing to rebellious titans. It meant that all of those tasks ahead of them were tasks that their God knew. It meant that they could look at how their God lived and follow in the footsteps of a loving Father.

All of this seemed--and still seems--really striking to me. That cliched phrase, "children of God" suddenly takes on a whole new depth.

Hercules would be jealous.

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

Literary Ladies Giveaway

2011-01-06T12:46:00.000-08:00

Literary Ladies (see button below) is an amazing site. Seriously. It is an online book club (for ladies of course) that reads one book a month and has a discussion forum for that book at the end of the month. We've read all sorts of books...but my absolute favorite was "The Goose Girl." That introduced me to the fantastic world created by Shannon Hale, a best-selling author and a mother of four (how awesome can she get, really?). She's the sorceress of similes, the mage of metaphors, the pythoness of plot twists (she made me scream once or twice...or maybe a bit more).

So. I love Literary Ladies for introducing me to Shannon Hale. And Literary Ladies is is currently increasing their lovableness: they're having a giveaway. If you're a member who for some reason doesn't know about this or become a member before the deadline, you can enter to. Or you can just go over and revel in the awesomeness of the booklists.

What is Literary Ladies giving away? One of these prizes: a) a beautiful copy of Alice and Wonderland & Through the Looking Glass b) an equally beautiful copy of Pride and Prejudice c) an even more beautiful copy of Jane Eyre.

Check it out.

A-Little-Bird-Told-Me Apologetics and My Fair Lady

2011-01-01T10:51:00.000-08:00

Most times when I come up with a strange title I know how I'm going to tie everything together.

I don't this time. Not a single clue. But I do know this might be one of my more ~~sarcastic~~ serrated-edge-esque posts.

If you've ever had a good (what I consider to be good, at least) conversation with me or have read my blog a good deal, you might have picked up on the fact that I believe that compelling evidence for God can be found in the structure of human nature. The way we are seems to point to something bigger than us, and considering that we are made in the image of God, that makes the most perfect sense. In my mind, arguments that come from this point of view are among the strongest out there.

I was thinking about that whole thing a great deal during the holiday season. As in every year, I saw people running here and there, obsessed, stressed, and not having a good time of it. I saw people who were compelled, but not content with, celebrating Christmas and Thanksgiving and New Years. Then I happened to look out at the birds at the bird feeder and I laughed. The little birds went on with their lives, with little celebration or accented (or, for that matter, lessened) stress or any strange obsession. They didn't get fancy for any special occasion outside of courtships and a new birdseed in the back yard as far I could see. And, as far as I can see, that's the way all animals live their lives. No celebrations, no mad hunts for the "perfect" Christmas tree, no birthday parties, no random holidays, no traditions that have the strangest roots imaginable.

(Just fights over birdhouses. The ones with a good view of the boulder-contained garden have to be a hit.)

And my question is, what compels humans to have celebrations? If we are indeed a product of nature, I suppose every habit we have must be forged by nature--with no exception. This desire of celebration certainly seems outside of nature.

Now you enter the decidedly site-note-ish part of the post.

Someone might say, "Well, people are going to do what enables their race to survive, and celebration unites the race and thus helps it survive." That, my friends, is my favorite argument in the book of....arguments, I guess. It's basically saying, "Well, nature can do whatever it wants, so long as it promotes the survival of the respective species." I can't help but be reminded of the fights I've had with my brothers:

Me: *stabs brother with lightsaber*

Brother: I have lightsaber proof armor.

Me: I have an armor-proof...I mean, I have a lightsaber-proof-armor-cutting lightsaber. You're dead.

Brother: I have lighsaber-proof-armor-cutting-lighsaber-proof armor. I'm not dead.

And so on. What's going on here is this:

Good Guy: Nature can't do this. Therefore, something outside of nature must have done it.

Bad Guy: Well, my nature can block that. It can do anything. It's Supernature...like Superman, only it doesn't look like Christopher Reeve.

Good Guy: But you see, THIS thing is something that Supernature can't do. It's like Kryptonite. Only you don't have Lex Luther's pretty little blonde assistant to help you get it away. It's Supernature proof.

You see the striking similarity (aside from the Superman thing)? The Bad Guy (or whoever puts forth this argument) is giving nature a blank check and neatly side-stepping the argument. I don't like blank checks. As Captain Hook would say, "Bad form."

So. Back to my argument. (Side note part of the post is now--as far as I can tell--over.) Celebration is a decidedly human characteristic. You don't see it in nature. And, what's more, when we celebrate, we do two things in order to do one thing: we look back to the past and we look into the future so that our present may be filled with hope and happiness. If we were indeed a product of mere nature, would we really mark certain days (in the dead of winter, mind you) as "special"? Wouldn't mundane life be just that...mundane? Wouldn't it just be filled with what we need to be as strong as we can so that we can survive as long as we can? There would be no special things outside of the special things nature creates. And births and deaths and the last day of October all seem pretty routine to me.

That's basically what I thought when I looked out the window at those birds.

Penny for your thoughts? Agree, disagree, think I'm stupid? (It'd be more loving to correct me than to let me go on in error, after all.)

Oh, and just for fun, here's one of the most amazing songs ever written by the second most amazing male voice I have ever heard. So far. Just because I think you all need a dose of "My Fair Lady."

Have a Happy New Year. And hey, it's my first post of the year. How exciting.

God bless you, dear reader.

Love,

Rose

Goodbye Twenty-Ten

2010-12-31T19:52:00.000-08:00

Yes. I call it twenty-ten. Because for a thousand years that's how its been: 19-12, 18-14, 17-76, and 10-66. Etc. Anyways.

My twenty ten was definitely eventful.

For one, I saw at least one new Russell Crowe movie (I think I saw Gladiator for the first time this year, and I'm sure I saw A Beautiful Mind for the first time this year). Russell Crowe is my absolute favorite actor. He's whoever he needs to be: in Gladiator he's a courageous, loyal, heroic, and betrayed ex-general. He's every inch the Roman soldier. In A Beautiful Mind, he's a nerdy, from-the-backwoods-of-West-Virginia, rather-too-forward, slightly disturbed but brilliant mathematician. In one, he strides with the pride of a son of Rome, in the other he walks with the scholar's hunch. But anyway, these movies are brilliant. Amazing acting, amazing stories. The only characteristic of Russell Crowe that stays the same throughout both movies is his laugh. But I suppose it'd be really hard to change that. So, these movies have definitely been a good thing in twenty ten.

I got a concussion. Ouch. Emergency room trips, five-month recovery, the works. It brought a lot of good--it's incredible how God can use trials to burn away flimsy faith--but I'm so glad it's mostly behind me. Now I just have to get over some neck injuries a doctor found the blow to the head caused.

I started blogging. That's a big one. I love it. If only I were more consistent.

I started Omnibus 5--an amazing theology/history/literature program. Amazing stuff. Amazing teachers. Amazing classes.

I got a horse. :D World, meet Saphira. (Not Sapphira like in the story of Ananias and Sapphira, but Saphira as in Eragon's Saphira.) She's the most popular senior lady in the barn where she boards over the winter.

My family got some kitties. I love kitties. Observe the infinite cuteness:

You only get to see such infinite cuteness a few times in your life.

The Pittsburgh Penguins won 12 games straight this season. Booyah.

I discovered the bewitching books by Shannon Hale. "The Goose Girl", "Enna Burning", "River Secrets", "Forest Born", "Princess Academy"---all are amazing (River Secrets is particularly amazing). She is the Sorceress of Simile, the Master of Metaphors. She is incredible. And her stories aren't too terrible either.

Our house was remodeled. Long story. Not too keen about going there, either.

Got a free upright piano. It's an old beast--around a hundred years old--and has a metal soundboard. We have it in a fairly open room with wooden floors, so the sound is pretty awesome. I forgive its sticky keys. Everyone has their faults.

My brothers totally blow me away with their ice skating skills. I can go fast when I really want to (like REALLY want to), but I'm totally out of control. My one brother makes it look like he's born to skate. Maybe he's the nordic god of ice reincarnated? He has the look, too.

My brothers are also impress me with their music skills. (Yes, I'm going to brag about them. I like to brag about my brothers.) Some play guitar and the other one plays drums. The drummer doesn't like publicity, though. My dad calls him the Shy Drummer. Am I alone in thinking that's hilarious? But anyways...yes. My guitarists are pretty blasted good, too. Like "Purple Haze" or "Crazy Train" good. Total proud sister moment.

I took up a tutoring and babysitting job. I love it.

I read (for the first time) a Norse saga--"The Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer". Talk about entrancement. I want to go into Anglo Saxon, Celtic, and Norse studies now (with English Lit thrown in, of course). Forget my lawyer dreams. Dudes in dragon boats rock my world. I still remember the first time a Norse myth reached my ears: I was in Idaho with some dear friends and we were walking around this lake. My one friend told me the story of Loki and how he killed the one good god. Anyways.

I fell in love with "My Fair Lady" (particularly the song, "On the Street Where You Live") and continue to be in love with "The Phantom of the Opera." I even got to see the Phantom on stage--and, to my surprise, Raoul stole the show. His voice was strong, rich, and perfect--the best voice I have ever heard. I could have listened to him sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" all day and I would have been in my bliss.

My book I'm trying to write has taken over my life. I've had dreams with characters, I hear my characters speaking through songs, I taste food and think, "This character would gag." How do you banish a world from your mind?

Above all, God has been good. My year has been eventful, to be sure--even scary--but I'm leaving twenty ten with a much stronger faith than I brought in. God is wholly responsible for how I've grown, for I certainly kicked and screamed and put up a fuss. Also, life rocked me with some questions that I'm still trying to answer--about God, about the little details of everyday life, about future. In that, God's teaching me to just trust and to start with Him and answer my questions from there. He's even torn down some of my "reasons" for faith in Him, which surprised me. I always thought any reason that I believe in God has to be a good reason, but that's been proved to lead to some awfully selfish business. In return, God's given me some new reasons to believe in Him.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

Catch Me If You Can

2010-12-30T14:04:00.000-08:00

Recently, I watched the Leonardo DiCaprio/Tom Hanks (Amy Adams also plays a smaller role) movie "Catch Me If You Can." Twice. Once in my basement, once at a friend's house because I told her about and she wanted to see it and I had absolutely no problem with seeing it again. Each time, I laughed, grinned, gasped, was awed by brilliance, and felt very very sad. Each time I left the movie thinking: "That. Was. Incredible."

But I really haven't told you anything except for my response, have I?

The Set-Up
The story opens on a happy family. Leonardo DiCaprio is their happy 16 Frank Abagnale Jr. (awesome name, if you don't count the Jr. part) who loves to rip labels off of his father's wine bottles (which was the first thing that made me laugh, because I love to rip labels off of water bottles and yogurt containers...anyways...). Catastrophe (in the form of the IRS pouncing on this kid's father for some shifty money matters) strikes. The family loses their big house and moves to an apartment. As soon as salt is white, the mother files for divorce. The kid finds out about it when he comes home from school and he has to, right there and then, choose which parent he's going to live with. He sneaks out of the house and runs away. From that moment on, he forges awesome fake identities (he's a pilot, a doctor, and a lawyer) and becomes the world's most daring con man--all for the purpose of getting back some money for his dad so his family can come back together. While his family just doesn't get its act together, Frank does steal around 4.3 million dollars in false checks (this is in the sixties, so adjust for inflation). The movie is basically the story of his exploits and, (SPOILER WARNING) eventually, his capture. Weaving this all together is his relationship with the FBI agent Carl Handratty (played by Tom Hanks)---the man who eventually nabs him. In an ironic twist, this man steps into this kid's life and becomes a father figure. In the same way, Frank becomes the child and son Carl never had. (Carl's divorced).

The Bad Stuff
Frank's mother doesn't want divorce just because her husband "ain't got no respect". While nothing (thankfully) is seen, it's pretty heavily implied that she's having an affair. Yuck. I hated her, and Frank was disgusted by her. I was so happy he agreed with me.

There's about three iffy scenes with Frank and various female characters. Skip those, or fast-forward through those, or get better acquainted with the insides of your eyelids.

Let's face it. This is a story about a con man, so there's going to be some conning: lying, cheating, stealing, manipulating, and a bit of bad language (which, surprisingly, comes more from the FBI agents than from Frank).

The Good Stuff
Frank really does want his family back together. He loved his mom and his dad and, even during all of his exploits, he kept in touch with his father and let him know he was doing it all for him. You can believe Frank when he says this: after he figures out (SPOILER WARNING) that his mom is remarried and his dad's basically given up, he tries to turn himself in. The FBI just doesn't believe he's actually doing it and misses their chance.

Even though Frank DOES forge fake identities and write fraudulent checks, he doesn't fake his professions entirely. He studied (for a smashing two weeks) in order to pass the Bar. He read up on Harvard texts to become a doctor (and watched doctor television shows). He, through alternatively sneaky and honest means, garnered all the information needed to become an adequate pilot. He wanted to do what he wanted to do, but he didn't put extra lives at stake.

When Frank becomes engaged, he's totally committed to his future bride.

I really like one part where Handratty says, "Look, Frank, I know what you're thinking. Sometimes it's easier pretending to be someone else than actually facing your problems. Sometimes it's just easier to slip into someone else's skin. You're a lost kid, after all. But you don't need to run anymore. You can be someone, Frank."

In the end, Frank is captured and he serves out his sentence by working for the FBI. We see him becoming the good guy--he uses those impressive brains to help, not to harm. And, also in the end, the audience is informed that Frank is still alive--and he's been married for 28 years and has 3 sons. It's nice to know that he learned from his parents' mistake.

The Random Stuff that Makes the Movie (SPOILER WARNING)
Frank's first act of fake-ness was when he impersonated a French substitute teacher (at his new school--remember how his family had to move?). I just had to laugh at this part. He walks in after being jostled around by these big beefy guys and writes his name on the board. "That's MR. A-BAG-NAIL. Not AH-BAHG-NAHLEE, not AH-BAG-NAIL-EE, but A-BAG-NAIL. In your seats, people, and tell me where you left off, or I'll write up the whole class! Are you listening people?" The school doesn't figure out for a whole week--that is, until he plans a field trip to a French bread factory.

He had a really bad hair cut in the beginning. During the middle he got his act together.

It's amazing how calm Frank is under pressure.

I kept trying to imitate his New York accent and his (fake) Texas accent for days.

Tom Hanks reminds me of my dad and of my uncle. He even laughs a bit like my uncle.

Frank can really wear pilot suits well.

You should see how he gets out of the Atlanta airport in this one scene...totally shows people up.

And you should also see how he FAKES being a Secret Service agent right in front of Carl Handratty, talks to him, and gets away.

He made fake airline checks by soaking toy planes in the bath tub and then taking off the air line stickers on them. Pretty awesome stuff.

Amy Adams is pretty awesome, too...she never fails to make me laugh.

So. You want to watch it?

God bless you, dear reader.
Rose

Edomites, Israelites, and Mosquito Bites

2010-12-16T15:37:00.000-08:00

Not really mosquito bites. But it rhymed. Rhyming is cool. Anyways.

Rose is highly concerned with how a name sounds and with what it brings to mind. Obadiah isn't a cool sounding Bible name like Joshua or Genesis or Jude or Revelation. And Obadiah was the name of the bad dude in Iron Man. Not that I'm using Iron Man as a hermeneutic for the Bible. But the name just didn't have the right ring to it. So, when I couldn't sleep one night, I turned to the book that I knew I wouldn't have the interest level to read at any other point in time. And it was Obadiah.

So that's why I was reading Obadiah. I quickly got caught up into this whole story about how the Edomites were rejoicing when the Israelites faced hardship--even though the Edomites were related to the Israelites. And I thought, "What would drive the Edomites to do...this? From what Obadiah's saying, the Edomites signed up for a lot more than a church picnic." I reread the book (it's the shortest book in the Old Testament so it really wasn't that hard) and I began to get the picture. Take a peek at Obadiah 1:1-9 here.

The Edomites seriously have it coming--that much is plain. But take a peek at verse 3: "The pride of your heart deceived you, you who dwell in the clefts of the rock, whose habitation is high; you who say in your heart, 'Who will bring me to the ground?'"

Their problem wasn't that some demon came and possessed them and forced them to boil live puppies. Their problem, their sin, was pride: the excessive "love" of self. Where did this pride come from? Where did the temptation start? In the heart. "The pride of your heart deceived you..." I find that powerful. James 1: 14-15 talks about this, too: "But each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own evil desires and enticed. Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death."

According to Obadiah, even the wise can fall into this trap. See verse 8: "'Will not I in that day,' says the Lord, 'Even destroy the wise men from Edom, and understanding from the mountains of Esau?'" We know that God doesn't destroy the righteous--therefore, even the wise among Edom fell into the trap of their own desires.

And I asked myself, if even wise people fall into this trap, how do I, a young, absent-minded bookie, avoid this? Then I asked myself, what's key for falling into this trap? The answer slipped into my mind: to fall into temptation, you must first believe a lie.

You can be tempted and not believe a lie. You can have desires that may be hard to tame and not believe a lie. But to fall to desires and to temptations, you must believe a lie of some sort. For if you didn't, you would be believing everything true--including the truth, I should obey God's law at all times.

A book I'm reading now, "Lies Young Women Believe", puts the steps to accepting a lie like this (my thoughts are in the parenthetical remarks):

1) Listen to a lie (i.e., you've put yourself in a position where you can hear falsehood. While we hear falsehood from virtually everywhere, there are some situations--say, a particular tree in the middle of a particular garden inhabited by a particular crafty talking snake--that can and should be avoided).

2) Dwell on a lie (meaning, you don't throw it out the window and say, "Bah, humbug," immediately).

3) Accept a lie.

This is where my post gets awfully anti-climatic and a little obvious. Sorry. But the best way to combat lies, and thus temptation, is simply surrounding yourself with truth--the Bible, the great books that teach more about the Bible, etc. I've found that my own desires--which start out as perfectly good desires--often get out of hand and lead to temptation when I'm not surrounding myself with truth. (Really, Rose?) The lie I've often believed in those times are, "Well, God gave me these desires. He wants me to fulfill them, right?" I totally skip over the fact that fulfilling desires is God's job. And, if I had been surrounding myself with that truth, I probably would have remembered what God promises to do for me.

I told you it would be anti-climatic. But sometimes anti-climax can be a good thing. This anti-climatic realization I had a while ago about the Edomites and temptation was good for me, let me tell you.

More thoughts on Obadiah on the way.

God bless you, dear reader.

Rose

My Story, Your Ending

2010-12-14T13:08:00.000-08:00

"Rose has the holiday disease of ignoringtheblogitis!"

You're right. Absolutely right.

"Rose NEVER posts consistently!"

Right again.

"Rose...*sigh* never finishes stories."

Amen. But I've finished the Snow White story, believe it or not. But here's the catch: I want you all to write an ending of your own. You can go back and read part 1, part 2, and part 3 to help you out a bit. There'll be a contest. Here's how it will work:

1) Read (or accurately remember) the Snow White retelling up to this point.

2) Write your own ending--no more than 1500 words or you'll get axed points (more on the point system later). Since the story took a strange turn in the last part, you'll have to work to get all the ends tied up. I know you'll have to work because I had to work.

3) Submit your work via email to rosedickenson@gmail.com by the 28th of December in a .jpeg, .doc or a .docx format--or, better yet, simply just in the text of the email. If you have questions, though, ask them in the comments. That way, I won't get a million emails asking the same questions.

4) The winner will be announced on January 1st, 2011. At that time, I'll post my version and the winner's version (or, if their version is particularly awesome, I'll just post their version to save myself the intense humiliation).

Point system:

Consistency with the rest of the story: Make sure you have all of your facts right. Don't make Tess a redhead, don't change Mirror Lake into Hair Brush Lake, don't make Tess's now-dead father a dwarf instead of an elf (unless, of course, it's part of the story and it's all explained--but you probably shouldn't take that risk anyway). The number of points docked depends on the heinousness of the crime. Maximum points: 10

Content: This is the most important part of the whole thing. Is the story exciting? Is it interesting? Is it engaging? Does it take surprising twists? Does it move me emotionally? (The answers should all be yes.) Maximum points: 40

Style: Make your story pretty. Beautify it. Let the voice that comes through the story be your own. Vary the sentence length. Etc. Maximum points: 25

Grammar: pretty self explanatory. No comma, splices. remember capitalization remember punctuation. Don't do run-on sentences because I will be very mad if you do and you don't want to see me mad do you? For each mistake, I will dock a point. Maximum points: 25.

Following directions: 10 points max--you will be docked two points here if you turn it in via comment form, two points if you ask questions via email, five points if you go over the word limit (1500 words, remember), and 1 point if you turn it in late (obviously, if you turn it in too late, it won't be in the contest).

Start pounding on the keys. And have fun, remember. Fun is important in a thing like this.

You have two weeks.

God bless you, dear reader.
Love,
Rose

Random Post Day: Blissful Photo Contest

2010-12-01T19:16:00.000-08:00

This Random Post Day is an entry into Bliss's photo contest. The contest theme? Catching the moment. Now, I know this photo doesn't really seem like I'm catching a moment. What's there to catch?

That's the whole point. Let me explain: if you average the year-round temperatures, this the coldest lake in North America. It's Lake Cameron. It's so cold that, if you fell in, it would be only a matter of seconds (about five of them) before you grew too cold to try and save yourself. I've been to this lake twice. After my first visit, I was captivated. The stillness of the lake (I could see no water life either time I was there), the stillness surrounding the lake, the stillness of the mountain, the barely shimmering reflection in the water, the clouds that seemed to always shroud the mountain--it haunted me. The only sign of life was the boats at dock, which were scarcely used because the lake is so cold and still. When I came back the second time, I had to take a picture of it. I wanted to capture this seemingly endless moment of stillness. I'm not sure if I did a spectacular job or not, but I like the picture enough to submit it in Bliss's photo contest. :) I do wish I could get rid of that date, though...oh well...

Here it is:

Check out Bliss's blog, too! It's definitely a fun read. Love you, Bliss!

God bless you, my dear reader.

Love,
Rose Dickenson