Weapons

I was angry.

Not just a little. A lot. In fact . . .

I WAS ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS!!!!!!!

 If you know me, I may seem phlegmatic on the outside, but you'll know that I feel very strongly about some things on the inside. However, anger is rarely one of those feelings.

But this time it was.

Tears pricked my eyes. I shoveled in my breakfast mindlessly; I barely noticed the sweet pineapple Greek yogurt mixed with my Mom's homemade granola. I fumbled a text on my phone and sent it to several people before grabbing my stuff and heading out the door to work. I was going to need some reinforcements.

Knowing that I was running late, I shoved my stuff into our red Subaru Forester and clambered in. But not before donning my "tops'l." I had some heavy winds to sail through and I wanted to show that I was under authority. Besides, there's nothing like putting on a pure white prayer shield to make you feel like you're girding your loins for battle.

I need not tell you exactly what went on in the next ten minutes. In fact, it would be too personal if I did. A fellow warrior was down, and I was angry. Not angry at her, but angry at the Enemy. How DARE he attack a child of God like that? How DARE he try to bring down my sister in Christ? How DARE he touch a person I love so deeply? I channeled my rage into my faith. I knew that I couldn't do anything on my own to help her, but I knew Who could. Yelling, crying, singing, I wielded the two weapons I knew best: the Name of Jesus and the Blood of Jesus. I didn't go to three years of Bible school for nothing. I KNEW that before these mighty instruments of power the Enemy had no choice but to flee.

Suddenly, I was not just a silly girl driving a muffler-less car with a doily on her head.

I was Eowyn, daughter of kings, standing between the Nazgul lord and my comrade. Cold and terrible, I knew my power was pathetic in comparison to my foe's. I knew I was but a weak young woman. That I could wither beneath the dark lord's gaze. But I also knew that the weapons in my hands were more powerful than any I could have imagined. I knew that the Enemy would cower before them. I knew that the One inside of me was just itching for me to use the tools He'd given me so He could finish the job.

 And with that knowledge I struck. Again. And again.

I fought as a woman fights when she is defending all she holds dear.

When I knew that I couldn't sustain the anger any longer, I left my fellow soldier in God's hands. While sitting with my elderly lady at work, I read in Philippians these well-known verses:

"The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:5-7)

 

After a little more battling, I felt like the rest was really God's job. So, having brought my friend to the Lord at the altar, I left her there.

 

And you know something else? After I got home from work that evening, I found out that Jesus had suddenly broken through a brick wall for my friend. In one of her darkest hours, He broke through a brick wall wielding flaming ninja swords against her Enemy, just like He did in a dream she told me she once had.

 

When?

 

 Right about the time I was driving to work.

 

This is not a story about how great I am. This is a story about how great God is. About how He answers prayer. Not just my prayers either; I know there were other people praying and battling right by my side--why else do you think I texted in reinforcements? Christians aren't meant to fight alone.

 

I am here to testify that the weapons we have been given WORK. I know a lot of Christians today get nervous about spiritual warfare, but like it or not spiritual warfare is going on whether we choose to engage in it or not. It might be scary at first, but we don't need to be afraid because greater is He who is in us than he who is in the world. The Name of Jesus is Power itself. The Blood He shed for us is just as effective today.

 

And we know the End of the Story.

 

Jesus wins.

 

My friend still needs prayer. It will be awhile before she leaves the woods for good, but I believe the blackest part of the forest is behind her. Jesus brought her through it.

 

Praise the Lord!!!



Dumping the Tragedy Queen

I dragged myself out of bed. Every fiber in my body screamed for sleep. Every organ screamed for wakefulness.

The organs won the screaming match. Besides, I had to throw up. Again.

Going back to bed was out of the question. We had a schedule to follow, and about fifteen other people were waiting for me. I followed my parents and a solemn Craig out to the bus. The morning on the shores of the Sea of Galilee was glorious. Too glorious. I braced myself for the thirty-some eyeballs swivelling in my direction as I boarded. The night I had just undergone was too miserable to mention. I debated in my mind whether I would rather look very pale and old, like one who had undergone great suffering, or whether I would rather look brave and noble like one who had just battled through a frightful ordeal.

I did my best to look both. This entrance onto the bus was an important one for a just-turned-twelve-year-old. Especially since I was the youngest in my group, the only one enduring food poison in a foreign land. I felt satisfied with my weak yet stately entrance. Never mind that on everyone's exit they had to file past me as I vomited into a grocery bag.

I must have won their respect, I told myself. I was pathetically heroic. It wasn't until I heard that Craig referred to me as a "poor kid" in his written report that I started realizing that the impression I had made might have been different than I had supposed. There is nothing inspiring in being referred to as a "poor kid." It plunges one's ego to an all-time low.

I hope you find this as ludicrous as I do now. But the fact is, I realize that this love for the dramatic impression didn't die when I was twelve.

I was jerked awake as I watched a lecture on the works of my hero, C.S. Lewis. As I listened to an explanation of Perelandra, our professor announced that C.S. Lewis hated the "tragedy queen." This was a new term for me. I sat up straighter.

"The expression on her face, revealed in the sudden light, was one that he had not seen there before. Her eyes were not fixed on the narrator: as far as that went, her thoughts might have been a thousand miles away. Her lips were shut and a little pursed. Her eyebrows were slightly raised. He had not yet seen her look so like a woman of our own race; and yet her expression was one he had not very often met on earth - except, as he realised with a shock, on the stage. 'Like a tragedy queen' was the disgusting comparison that arose in his mind. Of course it was a gross exaggeration. It was an insult for which he could not forgive himself. And yet ... and yet

... the tableau revealed by the lightning had photographed itself on his brain. Do what he would, he found it impossible not to think of that new look in her face. A very good tragedy queen, no doubt. The heroine of a very great tragedy, very nobly played by an actress who was a good woman in real life. By earthly standards, an expression to be praised, even to be revered: but remembering all that he had read in her countenance before, the unselfconscious radiance, the frolic sanctity, the depth of stillness that reminded him sometimes of infancy and sometimes of extreme old age while the hard youth and valiancy of face and body denied both, he found this new expression horrifying. The fatal touch of invited grandeur, of enjoyed pathos - the assumption, however slight, of a roles - eemed a hateful vulgarity. Perhaps she was doing no more - he had good hope that she was doing no more than responding in a purely imaginative fashion to this new art of Story or Poetry. But by God she'd better not! And for the first time the thought 'This can't go on' formulated itself in his mind." ~C.S. Lewis, Perelandra

Oh dear. You see, I love to act. I love drama. I love books, music, art, movies, and plays. If something bad happens to me, it's easy to magnify the suffering and write about it as a noble struggle. Who knows? Maybe it is. And yet, it is no way to live.

The fact is, Jesus didn't die so that we could live a tragedy.

He died so that we could live a fairytale.

Yes, yes, you don't need to roll your eyes that vigorously. I almost did when this thought just came to me a minute ago. I'm sure many people think of fairy tales as unrealistic myths of princes, princesses, and predictable happily ever afters. But think about it. How many of those fluffy endings had fluffy beginnings? Cinderella had to face the dirt and grime of the daily grind. Snow White had to flee for her life. Belle endured ridicule and loneliness.

As for a predictable ending, think again! Don't we already know the end of our Story?

"Jesus wins."

Of course, I would much rather say that Jesus died so that we could live a tale with an epic battle in it. That might be partially true, but it wouldn't be the whole story. It's true that we all are part of a Great Battle, and we have reason for our souls to stir within us at the thought of having a role in it. However, Jesus didn't come so that we could fight. Jesus came so that we could have life, and have it abundantly. We may have to fight for others to have that life, but the fight isn't what we're to dwell on. The tragedies that we encounter aren't what we are to obsess over. The drama of each moment isn't what we're to revel in. It's the happy ending. Predictable, but sweet.

Jesus wins.

I want to dump the tragedy queen. Yes, things aren't always easy, and it's okay to be honest about it, but that doesn't mean we should go around living a tragedy. Let's live a fairytale, full of hardships, but also full of adventure, life, and joy. And, of course, a satisfactory ending.

Jesus wins.

The Suction Telephone

Have I mentioned that I hate making phone calls?

Because I do.

I'm convinced that there is a built-in suction device in the ear of every telephone. Its purpose? To suck out every word from my brain that I had been planning on saying. With no flesh and blood person nodding or huffing sympathetically before me, I'm sure this thing with a human voice on the other end will slay me with a single thought regarding my stupidity. And I have no defense but to memorize my entire speech before making the phone call so that the words aren't noiselessly siphoned into the phone box and the person listening is left with my stammering silence.

If I get a voicemail, my speech is ruined and I generally have to hang up and try again with a new speech prepared for the unexpected scenario.

True story.

This, at least, is how I've behaved most of my life. But I am wrong to think this way. You see, God hasn't given me a spirit of timidity. He's given me a Spirit of love, power, and self-control. And I've learned that as the ringer beeps ominously in my ear, I can breathe a prayer to this Holy Spirit to give me words to say.

He usually says things better anyway.

The Sweet Duet

The bright, cold zippers rumbled to the side in pip squeak fashion. The brass lock clicked softly. The jaws of the navy case opened wide. Inside was my precious friend, blanketed in velvet. I blinked. I couldn't believe it had been so long since I'd last laid my eyes on her. What had it been, six months? Considering all we'd been through together, it was more than woeful neglect. It was like abusing one of your best pals. Only I had forgotten that she was my pal.

Still scarred yet lovely, I lifted out the centenarian instrument and dusted her off. Then, after tightening the sleepy bow hair and hunting around for a tuneful A, we began our duet. I stroked her, giving her everything I could manage in my rusty condition, and she sang her heart out. Her voice was pure and sweet despite my pathetic skills. I'd forgotten how much we enjoy each other's company. It made me wonder why I had abandoned my friend for so long.

It probably started with the extra dose of busyness. Running in circles trying to make graduation dresses, get presents ready, sign year books, invent skits, and write speeches isn't exactly conducive to quality time with your violin. Then I started the most hectic four weeks of my life when I took CELTA, which were immediately followed by my brother's wedding, running drama for the Family Convention, and a camp vacation in Maine.  By that time, nearly four months had slipped by.

You would have thought I'd have taken my next chance to reunite with my music buddy, but I didn't. The inertia was too great. I had "too many other things" to do. It looked like a chore. It had already been so long, why should I break the absence now?

Then fear started nudging. And guilt. I tried to ignore it, but it persisted. What if someone were to ask me to play my violin for a church service during the upcoming convention? What would I say? "Uh, I can't. I haven't touched my violin for six months"? Since starting to take lessons thirteen years ago, I have never ignored my partner for so long; I wasn't sure if I could still play. And yet I hated the idea of having to turn somebody down. Wasn't that really the reason why I played vioin to begin with, so I could bless people? So that I could further the Kingdom of God by bringing Him glory through my music? And yet I had let this small talent gather dust. I had let it--and myself--get out of tune.

No more.

As my right handed glided and my left hand flew, my friend sang. And I remembered why I love my vioin so much.

I couldn't help but wonder, "Why did I wait so long?"

I think spending quality time with God is kind of like playing a violin. First, if we're not careful, we become too busy for it. Then we start to look at it as a chore. Suddenly we start prioritizing everything but the thing that really matters. And if we've gone so long ignoring our best Friend, why stop? It takes too much energy to keep up the relationship.

Yet the whole time He waits. He waits in that corner that we've relegated Him to. He's not powerless of course, but He's patient. He wants us to choose Him. He wants us to want to spend time with Him. Perhaps it takes a little conviction or a little fear to bring us to our senses. What if we get to Heaven and we can't remember when we last spent time in His presence? What a terrifying thought!

But when we do finally pull Him out of that corner, the terror is gone. The joy is infinite. The melody that our hearts make together is sweet. It's a song that nobody but the two of us can understand. It's personal. Real.

And we wonder, "Why did we wait so long?"

Let's not wait.

The Dance

Rich shadows prance on the walls. Laughter murmurs in your ears. Sumptuous scents trigger your salivary glands.

In the midst of the feast, the King's eyes are on you. Suddenly he extends his hand in your direction. His eyes are on no one else. He is inviting you to the dance floor. Surprised, you follow him, trying to ignore the mixed reactions of everyone else in the room. You have been preparing your heart for this moment. You sense that you are beautiful, and yet . . .

"We wouldn't want to end up in a heap," you say. There. Your fear is out in the open. You wait to see what his answer will be.

"I am King. I will lead."

Whew! What a relief! The rest is history.

That same invitation is being extended to each one of us. To dance with our King. To let Him lead. Every day.

Who knows what kind of dance He has in store for us?

I want to respond to that invitation.

"My beloved speaks and says to me:

'Arise, my love, my beautiful one,

and come away.'"

Song of Solomon 2:10

Inspired by the book Captivating and Anna and the King of Siam.

Look up!

It's so easy to get swallowed by yourself.

I picture myself, mouth transfigured into a bottomless maw, lips stretching like elastic over the rest of my body until it's completely covered. All it takes is one swallow. Maybe a few hearty chomps to shred me into digestible bits first. Then gulp. Life is snuffed. I am invisible. Gone.

Sound funny?

It should.

Because it is!!!

I'm afraid it's gotten so easy to get wrapped up in myself, but guess what? Life isn't all about me. Or you. We all need to stop taking ourselves so seriously.

What do we do instead?

Easy.

Look up.

Only when we fix our eyes on Jesus does the race before us start looking bearable. Then and only then. Consider a couple of examples from the Bible, like Stephen. He kept his gaze fixed on his Savior so that even his murder seemed like a glorious experience to him.

No matter what kind of suffering experiences we have to go through, turning our eyes on Jesus reminds us who is in control.

Take Peter walking on water. What happened to him when he let his eyes waver for an instant off his Lord? He started sinking! He was looking at the waves instead of the Master of the waves. He was looking at the problem instead of the Answer. Which one do you think looked bigger?

I feel convicted about this. I keep forgetting to keep my eyes fastened on Jesus during these times of uncertainty. But I'm tired of forgetting. It's too exhausting. It makes the impossible look like it's actually impossible.

But when we turn our eyes on Jesus, He enables us to do the impossible.

We can walk on water.

We can lift up our heads because our redemption is drawing nigh.

It's even okay to go shopping with friends or sit around strumming guitars, laughing and being silly. It's all a way of not taking yourself too seriously. Not swallowing yourself. Enjoying life.

Because He's got it all under control.

This post was inspired by a sermon by my dad and today's Blimey Cow video.

A Cheerful Greeting

Why do I like him so much?

I lay in bed thinking of an elderly man far away. I decided quite some time ago that I'm a little more fond of him than the average elderly man I know. Good old Mr. Morgan. But why? I don't even know him very well.

Then it hit me. It's not just his testimony for the Lord or his personality or even just his gutsy cheerfulness through pain. It's the way he greets me. He says hello to me as if he actually liked me. Like we were best friends.

You see, I've realized that the way someone greets me can often make or break my day.

I think of Mr. Adams, dad to some of my friends. He has a knack for saying hello as if you were the most important person in the world. I noticed this one time when he came to a convention in my mid-teens. The way he beamed at me, shook my hand, and exclaimed, "Kayla! Good to see you!" as if he really meant it warmed my heart like you wouldn't believe.

I think of Mr. Brown. All three that I know. In their own way, they have a tendency to say hello as if I really meant something. Not every time, but often enough. Mr. P. Brown has a way of smiling gently at everybody as if they were special. You can see it in his eyes.

Mr. Maxwell makes a point of asking how you are like he really cared. I've seen him go out of his way to encourage somebody who could use it. Mr. Peterson twinkles his merry salutations. Uncle Tim can channel all of his forceful energy into the sunniest of welcomes. And I'll never forget how Uncle Dave came running up the hill behind me, arms open wide to give me a big hug eight years or so ago.

Wow, this is turning into a hymn about older men. Let's change that.

My mom is one of my favorite people with whom to exchange a greeting. Her name means "bright one" and boy does she show it. I still remember her waking me up to my first day of school, full of smiles and good cheer. But she's like this day after day. Only when something is bothering her does she relinquish her warm "good morning" to me. Then I know that something is wrong. Maybe that's why I'm so easily affected when I say "good morning" to somebody and they only mumble a reply. It's like somebody poked a hole in my entire day and my joy is about to deflate into nothing.

My brother Craig is another good example of this. Whenever he walks into a room, my day gets a little brighter. I know that if I say "hi" to him with a smile he will invariably reflect the same warmth back. Unless he's teasing me and pretending I'm weird if I've overdone it.

Jane, great friend and now sister-in-law, is one of the best examples of all. Not only does she give rib crunching hugs and sunny smiles when I see her, she can voice it too. I enjoyed being in Bible school with her because she was the only one who really knew how to give a hearty good morning. My enthusiasm paled in comparison to hers, but we took extra pleasure in exaggerating our ebullience to the point of irritation. Only it didn't irritate us, just those around us. I missed her after she was gone. No longer did I have a partner who enjoyed the same level of morbid cheerfulness. It wasn't that we always felt that cheerful, but if we pretended we were then it usually set the tone for the day and we would follow it.

After feeling deflated a few times when she was gone I started to unconsciously tone myself down, stuffing away the bubbliness for the sake of myself and others. Being deflated was too depressing. If they didn't reflect my warmth right back then I felt hurt and wasted. I went to all the trouble to express, not my cheerfulness, but my desire to be cheerful, and after all my effort I just got a limp reply? One may as well try to rouse a dead soldier than encourage a live one. I'd just as soon ignore the person than feel the snub of a dim answer.

But I know this is wrong. I started understanding after I'd expressed to the girls in my class last year that I appreciate a lively greeting. "It's not that I don't like you," one of them told me (actually, that's an extremely rough quote since I don't quite remember all she said), "it's just that I can't do it."

What?!? You mean everyone doesn't have the ability to be insanely cheerful even when you don't want to be? Oh. That makes sense. Maybe I have a gift. My problem is that for the sake of being normal I've started not using it. I like being real with people so I don't even bother putting on the chipper front, even though usually when I do the rest of me genuinely follows.

However, I started understanding the world a little bit better. I realized that we're not all the same. Once we had that little communication about not being able to duplicate morning cheerfulness, I could almost smile on the glares and mumbled replies. People can't help it if they're not geared the same way, and I shouldn't be bothered by it. Although I may still pull myself back in order to be sensitive to others, it's also important to not hold back our gifts just because they're different. We shouldn't hold them back even when we're afraid of being hurt.

And of course, we all have unique gifts. You might give good hugs or massages. Maybe you can make people laugh. Perhaps you can feel pain for other people, or notice if they're having a bad day. Maybe you can say and do what needs to be done in the fewest possible words. Or you have a knack for coming up with tiny, spontaneous gifts. Possibly you can give a thoughtful compliment. Or you can inspire people. Perhaps you can rhyme and make up songs on the spot like nobody's business. Or draw a unique picture that builds someone up. Whatever it is, we need to treasure these gifts, not look on them as oddities, because God gave them to us for a purpose. Stuffing them away isn't going to do anybody any good.

I need to remember that.

Perhaps the stranger with the dead soldier demeanor is the one who needs to see my smile.

Perspective





I've always wanted to go to Niagara Falls. Technically, I've already been there (more than once even), but I probably wasn't more than ten years old and I barely remembered my brief encounter with the falls. My mom was trying to think of one more vacation option before the Bible school year starts and in a stroke of genius she hit upon the idea of revisiting this world famous landmark. And not just a "hi and bye" meeting. This time we'd visit it for real, taking almost every tour we could.

 

So one week we weren't planning on going. The next week we were. We hopped in the car and were off, stopping at antique shops and thrift stores as it struck our fancy. I did a lot of the driving, at least until we were a hundred miles from Buffalo. The rest of the time I spent lying down in the back seat being swallowed by The Hunger Games.
 

I was enthralled when we first stopped to see Niagara at night.
 

The stark beauty of the number six rapids made you think a lot when you read about the stunt people who had drowned in them.

We strolled along the peaceful walkway by the rapids below the Falls.

I was mesmerized by the huge waves. The camera's attempts to capture them are pitiful.



One can't quite compare the excitement you feel when you see a rainbow like this. Or get to feel the blast of mist and hear the roar of the falls when you ride a boat right up near its base. (Too wet to get a good picture, hence I'm showing none)

 

 





I felt like I would never grow tired of gazing at the water booming over the edge. To some, it looks like a lot of water. I see the raw majesty and breathtaking power of a Creator. It makes me want to cry when I think that so many others choose not to see it too. Not only is it awe-inspiring, it seems to make problems shrink in comparison. Who can worry about nuclear threats, presidential elections, petty emotions, or questions of the future when you know that a huger power is in control of it all?

 

It helps put things into perspective.

Real or Not Real?

It was time. Time to see what all the fuss was about. They say that The Hunger Games is the most talked about book/trilogy right now, and that it has exceeded the number of Harry Potter book sales on Amazon. I had to find out why. As a writer and lover of fiction, I've started feeling the necessity of reading great or popular books to find out what their secret is, or at least find out why people can't stop talking about it.

I soon discovered why.

The gripping writing style. Short, choppy sentences. The creativity. The action. The morbid fascination. The rebellion against the bigger powers, the Evil in the world. That deep struggle between good and evil. The feeling that you can have an impact, even if you seem alone at first. The strong yet human heroine, Katniss. Her confusion over how she feels about the two young men in her life, the firebrand that knows her better than anyone and the gentle sunshine that won't stop laying his life down for her even when there are times she almost hates him.

In three words, an emotion shredder.

Or that's how it affected me.

The books sucked me in and swallowed me whole, digesting me by squeezing me through its high packed action and squirting me with emotional gastric juices. I laughed. I cried. I discovered myself trembling almost uncontrollably as I read, until after many hours of doing this I commanded myself to relax. I came on the brink of feverishness. My dreams were but a continuation of the story (even though my version tended toward the heroine finally seeking God for help). It caused me to gasp. To grope in confusion. To hurt.

I'm not sure if being so affected is a credit to the writer or a danger to me.

***If you haven't read The Hunger Games trilogy, I suggest you don't continue reading unless you want me to spoil it for you.***

The books were violent, very violent. I wouldn't let my kids read them until they're practically old. However, the story wasn't glorifying violence, it was pointing out how sickening it was. The plot was solid and engaging, even though I admit that it starts to digress a little bit after the first book. Still, it beckoned you to keep reading, either in dreamy hopes that it would end well or in desperation to end the nightmare because the version you start imagining might be worse than reality.

If the violence and death weren't trampling hard enough on your emotions, the romance finished the job. (Here's where I start sounding grotesquely girly.) To me her choice became obvious. Although it takes awhile to warm up to the truth of his good motives, Peeta, the gentle sunshine, won me over completely. But not Katniss. Not completely. Fear, stubbornness, and confusion hold her back. And, unlike many book characters, she's complicated. Just like me. Too late, she starts to realize all that Peeta is to her when he's captured. Eventually when she starts going nuts thinking of the torture he must be suffering, they rescue him. But he's not the same. When she goes to hug the boy who has loved her most of his life and who would die for her in an instant (he almost has repeatedly), he tries to strangle her. The torture he'd undergone had twisted his love for her into hate.

I felt like a spear had just stabbed me in the gut. I realize that "gut" is not a refined term, but the emotions I was feeling weren't very refined. They were raw. And as the story continued, it felt like the spear was being twisted deeper.

You see, I finally realized that I had unconsciously considered Peeta to be a sort of Christ figure. Not in an idol sort of way, but a reflection of His character sort of way. Of all the things that dip and change in the story, one thing stayed constant: his love for her. Unselfish love. The kind that will die for her in a heartbeat. Or lack thereof. That's why choosing him seemed obvious even when it wasn't to Katniss. But I don't blame her. She was only acting the way I do when I forget that the Love of my life is Jesus.

But then the one constant changes. Peeta's love. Christ's love. And my world starts reeling. Reeling because there's some truth to Peeta's accusations against Katniss. Against me. Reeling because there's nothing she or I can do about it. My one constant is removed. A life without Christ's love is like peering into an empty chasm of death. It's more than unbearable.

It absolutely terrifies me.

NEVERTHELESS!!! Jesus is not Peeta. And Peeta recovers. Yes, it takes time and convincing ("games" of "Real or Not Real?"), and with flashbacks of horror he's never the same, but his love for Katniss gradually breaks through. It's not portrayed as fiercely, but it returns. And Katniss loves him back.

"Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know that this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hate. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life an go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.

"So after, when he whispers, 'You love me. Real or not real?'

I tell him, 'Real.'"

~Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

I took a break from reading for hours in the back of the car to drive the rest of the way home from Niagara Falls with my parents. It provided some time for reflection over what I was experiencing.

Gut-wrenching pain as I realize what my worst fear is, the fear of losing Christ's love. Despair. Despair over the lack of noble excitement in my own story, and despair at ever being able to write one someday. The words of the music I'm listening to wash over me, and some of them lick gently at my wounds:

And when I think

That God His Son not sparing

Sent Him to die

I scarce can take it in

That on a cross, my burden gladly bearing

He bled and died

To take away my sin.

 

And I realize in an instant, foggy yet clear, that I am a part of the most breathtaking Story imaginable. And that I might be able to dimly portray it in a story.

 

 

Then sings my soul . . .

How great Thou art!

 

Yes, I need to get my gaze upward.

 

When peace like a river attendeth my way

When sorrows like sea billows roll

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say

It is well

It is well with my soul.

 

Tho Satan should buffet

Tho trials should come

Let this blest assurance control

That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

 

 

Sometimes the way is lonely

And steeped and filled with pain

And if your sky is dark and pours the rain

Cry to Jesus

Cry to Jesus

Cry to Jesus

And live.

 

 

You are my Hiding Place

You fill my broken heart with song.

 

 

Oh Love that wilt not let me go

I rest my weary soul in Thee.

 

 

Oh what blest assurance! Peeta Mellark is only human. Made up in fact. His love may falter in spite of himself, but Jesus Christ's love never will!!!!! He's not about to let go of me now. I gratefully grip the cool stone on which I wrote the words from that last stanza: "Oh Love that wilt not let me go . . ." Jesus is my Anchor.

 

 

On top of all this, I've still been struggling with questions about what I should be doing. They say that God steers a moving ship, but I don't feel like a moving ship. I feel like a lost ship. However, as I shared some of this with my mother, she reminded me of the words to yet another song:

 

The Guest within told me He is

In all of life's experiences

To make them work for good to me.

 

I know this is true, just as I know now that my worst fear will never come to pass. The love of God is changeless. And then of course what do you think God had me read in my Bible reading next?

 

Oh give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,

for his steadfast love endures forever!

...Some wandered in desert wastes,

finding no way to a city to dwell in;

hungry and thirsty,

their soul fainted within them.

Then they cried to the LORD in their trouble,

and he delivered them from their distress.

He led them by a straight way

till they reached a city to dwell in.

Let them thank the LORD for his steadfast love,

for his wondrous works to the children of man!

For he satisfies the longing soul,

and the hungry soul he fills with good things.

(Psalm 107:1,4-9 ESV)

 

I may feel like I'm in a desert. But despite my cooling love, God's love burns brightly forever. He's prepared to lead me by a straight way, if I'll let Him.

 

And that is much cause for rejoicing.

 

When Satan appears to stop up our path

And fills us with fears

We triumph by faith;

He cannot take from us,

Tho' oft he has tried

The heart-cheering promise,

"The Lord will provide."

 

He tells me to trust, and never be afraid,

He tells me to trust, and never be afraid,

He tells me to trust, and never be afraid,

But joy in the God of my salvation.

 

Yes, I will rejoice,

Rejoice in the Lord;

Yes, I will rejoice,

Rejoice in the Lord;

Yes, I will rejoice,

Rejoice in the Lord;

And joy in the God of my salvation.

 

I don't feel jubilant, but I choose to rejoice in Christ's enduring love today.

 

"For he will not much remember the days of his life because God keeps him occupied with joy in his heart." (Ecclesiastes 5:20)

 

"What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. Infinitely good. And only Jesus can give me that.

 

"So after, when I whisper, 'You'll love me always. Real or not real?'

 

He tells me, 'Real.'"