Eternity in our hearts

Wow.

Sometimes there are feelings one can't capture. But maybe I'll be stupid enough to try.

However, in order to make any sense at all, I must make an enormous confession. It could shock, maim, or stupefy.

Are you ready?

Okay.

I've now read the whole Harry Potter series.

Yes, yes! I know! At this point you are staggering under the blow, offended or stumbled. Or you're rolling your eyes and muttering that it's about time I caught up with my generation.

Enough drama.

After observing one or two of my siblings trying the series for the first time, I discussed it with my parents and warily commenced reading, on guard for anything that might try hoodwinking me into thinking something abominable. I am not here to debate all of the positive and negative aspects of the series. Suffice it to say that Harry Potter has morals akin to Jack Bauer, and as I would rather my ten-year-old didn't immerse himself in Jack Bauer's ends-justify-the-means mentality, neither would I let him read Harry Potter and get duped into thinking he's always a great guy.

However, as I devoured the last book, my breathing short, I felt something stir within me. Something I couldn't name. And then I was done, closing the back cover with a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. I laid the book down in the wee hours of the morning, my mind racing. And soon after that, something like despair set in. Despair that the series that I've long enjoyed over the summer is over (now what do I look forward to?:). Despair that the story came so close to hitting the mark, and yet barely fell short. And despair that if I ever wanted to write a story like that which actually did hit the mark, I could never make it that good.

What made the book fall short? Simply this: it didn't express a love for the truth. It expressed a great deal of other powerful things, but that one important thing was lacking. Oh yes, there was truth sprinkled in all right, but why does Harry Potter have to be such a liar? Why did he have to resort (however rarely) to using one or two of the Dark side's tools/curses?

And yet there is so much truth that the story displays: an epic battle of good versus evil, the power of faithful friends who are willing to die for you even when they don't know what's going on, and the power of love--more importantly, the power of sacrificial love. The final movie (which I just saw in Imax 3D = awesome) doesn't even emphasize this last part, but the book does. Something stirs within me when I think about all of it.

And then I remember the power that art has over the spirit. And I remember that God has put eternity in our hearts. Whatever it is, God has placed a yearning within us that knows deep inside that in the end there is going to be a Battle. The Enemy has yet to succeed in making cowardice a positive attribute, and so stories of courage thrill our hearts still. We long to see good triumph over evil, and we easily experience fear, tragedy, or exhilaration in the description of a battle because we know we are meant to be a part of the Battle.

Love has been twisted and idolized in our society, but in stories like this we know what real love is. As Someone so eloquently put it, "Greater love hath no man than this, than he who lays down his life for his friends." I don't want to spoil the story of Harry Potter for someone who hasn't read it yet, but this happens. In a climax so poignant, a life is willingly given up, making no defense, and people are magically shielded as a result. Sound familiar? If I hadn't heard that the author has questions about God, I would have thought it was quite purposeful, except the point isn't emphasized strongly. It almost hits the bull's eye right on, but the (dishonest) hero finishes the villain off and the Gospel connotations are left hanging and unnoticed.

Despite this discouraging fact, I am still amazed. Amazed that this redemptive analogy, in the midst of the gripping heat of a battle, is actually present. I guess it shouldn't surprise me in our Western Judeo-Christian society, but one has to admit that over the past thirty years our Western world has largely become pagan. And here, in the midst of what some Christians would deem a pagan, wicked story . . . is the Gospel staring you right in the face. Jesus Christ gave His life, making no effort to defend Himself. He not only laid His life down for His friends, but also for His enemies. And because of that precious blood that He spilled for others, we who believe are magically shielded from the Enemy's worst curses.

Mind you, the analogy between Harry Potter and Jesus Christ very quickly breaks down. Very quickly. I've already alluded to Harry's tendency to lie and not behave ethically. However, the story as a whole still resonates a chord within me, and it astounds me that just as God can take a pagan ritual in the jungles of New Guinea and insert truth about Himself that prepares the hearers for the Real Truth (see Don Richardson and the Perspectives on the World Christian Movement course on "redemptive analogies"), so can He insert truth about Himself in the pagan story of Harry Potter, even if the author had absolutely no intention of doing so. We long for Truth, and although not as palate-cleansing as Narnia or Lord of the Rings, we find an imperfect yet intact measure of it in a fanatically popular story like Harry Potter.

The story resonates with us for a reason. God has put eternity into our hearts.

What an amazing God we serve!

Again, wow.

A Noble Profession

In the course of my life I have formed a glorious opinion: the artist is one of the most noble occupations one can have. Unfortunately, in the course of my life I have also come to a tragic conclusion: the artist's job is one of the hardest of all. Probably every outer instinct you possess is reacting to my theories. I say "outer instinct" because you haven't stopped fully to think. Let me explain myself.

There are many noble occupations in the world that I value. The construction worker is just as important as the farmer because while without one we would starve, without the other we wouldn't be able to travel to the store and keep ourselves from starving. The janitor is just as key as the doctor because while without one we'd have no way to be cured, without the other we'd have so much filth that there would be too much sickness to even try to cure it. Such jobs and countless others are vital in proper care of the body, but we all know that the body is temporary.

Teachers! Ah, yes! Where would we be without them? I would not be writing this and you would not be reading if we hadn't had teachers to pass on knowledge and to mold our young minds into sharp, thinking instruments. And yet--there is so much more to life than just head knowledge.

Artists, on the other hand, don't seem to have direct impact on the mind and they seem to have even less on the body. Or so it seems. We admire a spectacular painting, breathe in the soft strains of a sweet melody, or delve into another world inside a book, and when we leave the art we've been exposing ourselves to, any onlooker might say we were no different. In fact, what have we gained? We cannot silence a rumbling stomach with a painting nor staunch the flowing blood of the wounded with a tonic chord. A story doesn't usually teach us that C6H12O6 is glucose; our minds seem to have barely expanded. And yet we've already agreed that the body is temporary, and there's more to life than what you know.

So what does last?

The fact is, there's something deeper than the body and deeper than the mind. The spirit (or heart) and soul are the essence of a person. Now, I'm no theologian or psychologist. I'm not going to explain and dissect where one begins and the other ends. But I'm just as confident that they exist as I am that there's a North Pole, even though I have never seen it and don't fully understand how it works. The soul is the deepest part of you, where it surrenders itself is where you will spend eternity. But personally, I believe that there's something that's almost as deep but not quite as deep, and that's your spirit. It is loosely linked with your personality and even more loosely connected with your emotions. It is the outermost shell of your soul. This is getting way more abstract than I wanted to go, but bear with me.

How do you respond to a fine work of art? Does it make your heart beat faster, your breathing slow down? Does it fill you with excitement or awe? Why? You may have a difficult time explaining this. There is no outward reason your body should respond or your emotions fluctuate as you bask in the art. The only reason I can think of is that something within you is responding. As the beauty of what you are seeing, or listening to, or reading calls out to you, something inside of you is answering. That something is your spirit. As the art is reflecting the wonder of a Creator, we, as created beings, are responding naturally, drawn to the creation that so clearly cries, "Look! I am beautiful! Somebody made me! And I'm reflecting my ultimate Maker!" And if our spirits are tuned in to this voice, our automatic result is worship. We leave the room exactly the same on the outside, but forever changed on the inside.

Needless to say, the Enemy doesn't like this.

Anything that ministers to our spirits is going to face resistance from the powers of darkness. Why? Firstly, our spirits are just a small step away from our souls, and the Enemy wants these under his prickly belt. If he wants to get his sticky fingers on our souls then he will undoubtedly set out to crush our spirits. Once this shell is punctured his opportunities widen. Secondly, anything that even remotely inspires worship of the true Creator is to be discouraged.

And so the battle rages. I am not here to debate what constitutes good or bad art, but I think many Christians can agree that much art is crudely twisted. Paintings swirl into pornography, melodies of heaven crunch into sounds of hell, tales of valor morph into subtle promotions of deceit.

You would think with so much bad art more Christians would be inspired to counterbalance it. However, here's where Satan has stepped in again. He has taken one of the most noble professions (ministering to the spirit) and has projected it as an elevated hobby. He convinces people that you have to have a rare talent to ever make a go at being an artist. He discourages adults who were prolific artists as children by embarrassing them with their crude style. He depicts artists as feeble wanderers who can barely scratch out a living until the picture has almost turned into a reality. He impresses the importance of "real jobs" like banking and cooking while minimizing your art so much that you feel obliged to put it at the bottom of your priority list. "It's really a waste of time, after all," you tell yourself sadly, then you go for a run, go to work, feed the dog, and fritter away the rest of your time on the Internet.

But is art really a waste of time?

No.

And again I say, "No."

What's more important than ministering to one's spirit? I can think of only a few professions off the top of my head that go deeper than helping just the body and mind: those involved in ministry, and parents. If you're a missionary or pastor your priority is the soul, the core of man. It is possible to be a missionary and a teacher, or police man, or secretary, or anything else, I know, so many of us may already be missionaries even if we don't realize it. These people are vital, caring for souls as well as bodies, minds, and spirits as long as they remain focused. Parents too are essential because they appeal to the bodies, spirits, and souls of their children in a "controlled" mission field. The artist, however, need not distract himself with caring for the body. No sirree, they can target the spirit right away and by the blessing of God stir the spirit into worship. And if the Holy Spirit is in it, that spirit may be softened into unfolding its delicate petals and surrendering the soul within to its Maker.

This idea may indeed be fantasized, I'll not pretend otherwise. But like every story of true art, I believe such fantasies contains gems of truth truer than any spoken. So if you're an artist of any sort, take courage. Your work is more important than you know. And as warped as the world's appetites have become, they are hungry for the true art you have to give them. I say this to myself more than anybody else: don't let them go hungry. Don't be afraid to put forth your art as a testimony to the Creator. Naturally speaking I'm scared sick to do this because I know I don't have what it takes to be a great artist. But greatness doesn't matter. It's the real Artist that does.

Think of Him and the impact you can have together.

When you get a lemon . . .

. . . make lemonade!


But what I want to know is this: Why, oh WHY do we only have to get the answer from the optimist? (Don't answer that; it's a rhetorical question.) I mean, there are plenty of other kinds of people out there that could give us answers just as interesting and maybe even more pertinent to our lives. I will show you. Here is what I imagine other people would say for the punchline of this famous proverb (wince away!):

When you get a lemon . . .

(The actor) . . . be thankful it wasn't a rotten tomato.

(The optimistic pessimist--yes, I believe these do exist because sometimes I'm one!) . . . ferment it and see how much fun you can have making it disgusting.

(The masochist) . . . give yourself a paper cut and squeeze the lemon on it. (Of course!)

(The blonde) . . . see if the pawn broker will believe you when you tell him you've discovered limes made of real gold.

(The lawyer) . . . see if it has any money inside, then charge the person who sent it.

(The dentist) . . . put it in toothpaste so your patients will return often.

(The country singer) . . . write a song about it. You could call it "My Achy Breaky Lemon."

(The government) . . . collect enough to string around the earth and then pretend they're not there.

(Jack from the beanstalk fairytale) . . . watch out for tall people and scout about for the golden goose.

(The Israeli) . . . call the IDF--it could be a bomb.

(The Chinese) . . . slap a "Made in China" label on it and sell it cheap at Wal Mart.

(The mother-in-law) . . . swallow it when no one is looking.

(Jack Bauer) . . . try to look busy for 24 hours then shoot it.

(Taylor the Latte Boy) . . . transfer to a different Starbucks--fast.

(Thomas Edison) . . . plug it into the wall and people will say you're either mad or brilliant.

(Romeo) . . . make sure it's really a dead lemon before killing yourself.

(The whale) . . . swallow it--and keep it down.

(The shoplifter) . . . return it and ask for a refund.

(The relativist) . . . decide it's a peach so everything is all right.

(The Democrat) . . . blame it on the rich people.

(The practical) . . . save it for when someone has a stomach bug.

(The politically correct) . . . don't call it a lemon, you racist! You might hurt its feelings.

(The realist) . . . realize it's a lemon and don't pretend it's anything else.

(The evolutionist) . . . don't get too stressed wondering what kind of simple cell this creature came from.

(The socialist) . . . make sure everyone else gets one too.

(The Mercy) . . . tell it you're sorry for it.

(The Prophet) . . . tell it that it's yellow and sour.

(The Exhorter) . . . tell it that it could become lemonade.

(The Giver) . . . offer it sugar.

(The Teacher) . . . invent the perfect Minute Maid recipe.

(The Server) . . . I'll just go ahead and make the stupid lemonade!


The list could go on and on . . . I keep thinking of more. Anyone have any more ideas?

If I don't have love, I am nothing

1 Corinthians 13

This is such a famous, oft-quoted chapter that it's easy for me to glaze over its import. But no. I'm going to be volunteering at a teen camp next week, and unlike last year when I faced the total unknown, this year I enter the ring with faces, faces packaged with their own sets of beliefs, habits, attitudes, and (worst of all in my mind) coolness. Lovable faces. And unlovable faces. Am I going to look down, be aloof, act shy and distant? Or let go of my inhibitions and freely love, converse with, and embrace people with whom I have almost nothing in common? Am I going to minister with my superior Bible knowledge I got from Bible school? Or am I going to fully trust the Holy Spirit to guide while simply showing Christ's love? As 1 Corinthians 13 points out, I could have or do amazing things, but if I don't have love, "I am nothing."

Zero.

Zilch.

Nada.

And I know now this is true, especially for a counselor or camp worker.

And I shudder.

I shudder, because naturally speaking, I don't have what it takes. I'm horrified at how hard it is for my cold self to love certain kinds of people. And yet--and yet, we are never dealing in "naturally speaking" terms when Christ is in the picture. If Christ is in me, that means His love is in me too, and I'm praying and believing that His love will flood through me to people I come in contact with. It doesn't matter how I feel. It doesn't matter if I'm an oddball. What matters is Christ. What matters is my choice to love Him. What matters is our choice to love others.

I need Thee every hour, and I need Your love. But since You are Love, I'll be satisfied with just having You.

Intertwined

1 Corinthians 6:13,17 "The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body . . . But he who is joined to the Lord becomes one spirit with Him."

Wow, this is interesting. Our bodies were born with temptations, but that's not what they were designed for. Our bodies are meant for the Lord, and the Lord is meant for the body. Maybe this is why God originally seemed to have no intention for David or anybody to build Him a house. God was aspiring to something greater. Not greater as in bigger or more important, but greater as in something infinitely sweeter.

God, the Creator of the universe, wanted to dwell in the halls of our hearts.

He wanted to not just see what's in our hearts, but to be close to it.

He wanted to be a vital part of what's dearest to us.

And He wanted His Spirit flowing freely through us, not as helpless puppets but as servants gladly doing His will without having to really worry what His will is. God wants to be so closely intertwined with us that our spirits are one. I don't mean this heretically. I'm not trying to promote equality with God or flatter "the god within us." But I do believe that God wants to live within us, that He wants to be unfathomably close. And some of us are too scared to let Him in. Some of us (including me) are sometimes afraid to let Him have absolutely full sway.

I don't want to be one of those people

You hold my right hand

It's amazing how every once in awhile I'm going along and suddenly I see myself in a very unfavorable mirror. Faults start bristling every which way out of my head and I'm shocked to see how unlovable I really can be. Although this sensation may leave one's emotions feeling fragile, it accomplishes one important thing: driving one back to God. And so, to God I went, and I stumbled upon this passage:

"When my soul was embittered, when I was pricked in heart, I was brutish and ignorant; I was like a beast toward You. Nevertheless, I am continually with You; You hold my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will receive me to glory. Whom have I in heaven but You? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides You. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." ~Psalms 73:21-26

It clicked.

I may be an expert at opening my mouth and putting my foot in it, but God is still holding my hand. I may be irritable and weighted with pride, but that doesn't mean God is running to stay away from me. Grace would not be grace if it were deserved. And I'm reminded by a quote by Max Lucado (I think) in which he says, "God loves you just the way you are, but He refuses to leave you that way. He wants you to be just like Jesus."

He is everything.

And to salt it away, I pulled out my guitar. I'm really just a novice at this instrument since I've only been playing around with it since my daddy gave me one for my birthday in April, but I have fallen in love with it. I've dedicated my guitar to God and have named it "Reese," which means "zealous." As I played, I sang of God's amazing grace, I sang of my soul panting for God, I sang of the Holy Spirit, I sang of a walk with my Shepherd, I sang of the choice to not make God small because He is brighter than the sun and closer than the tiny thoughts I have of Him. And I sang of just one look into His face.

Listening to Truth-filled music is like listening to a refreshing love letter from God. Your heart responds, and you sense a sort of communion. But I believe that playing Truth-filled music is like having a purifying conversation with the only One who can make you pure. This communion is sweet indeed and is near the zenith of what one can experience on earth.

Mustang Gospel

I got to ride in a convertible the other day. It was a warm sunny day, and a chipper church friend and neighbor spontaneously called up to ask if anybody in our household wanted to go to Kimball Farms for ice cream. When I found out that we'd get to ride in her convertible, I didn't have to think very hard. I probably would have said yes even if there had been no ice cream on the other end! But having ice cream was definitely extra gravy. (Ha ha! The power of words--you're probably inwardly cringing right now at the ice cream and gravy juxtaposition? Hmm, well, I did it on purpose:)

I've decided that the Gospel is like a convertible Mustang.

No, we weren't riding in a Mustang. In fact, I'm blithely terrible with car names and I don't remember or really care what kind of car we actually were riding in . . . the only point in caring is so I can tell people what it was, but since most girls don't care a lot and most guys aren't shocked that you don't know (unless their names are Stephen or Daniel), then I don't mind being blissfully ignorant.

Anyway, as I thought back over the sweet savor of the wind on my skin as we glided around curves and basked in the sunshine, I decided that the Gospel is like a convertible Mustang. It is a free gift and virtually a free ride to heaven. It is perfect just as it is, no matter whether you're driving to get ice cream in heaven or not, and to add to or take away from the simplicity of it would mar its beauty. You still have free will, but since the deal comes with making God your Driver then you know there's only one glorious destination (ice cream!) as long as you let Him stay there.

Yes, it might not always be easy once you've accepted this free ride (please don't think I'm speaking of prosperity gospel here!). Bugs may hit the windshield, or cold wind might whip you about, but you're still in the Mustang. The Gospel isn't any less desirable even after an apparent "beating." It's still complete and whole and wonderful, and it's still classy as long as you choose to see it that way. Passengers may vary, but the Gospel never does.

Neither does the Driver.

My Strength

Psalms 59:9a "O my Strength, I will watch for You."

I was just stopping to think about what it means to call God my strength. It means He's inside of me, or even ingrained into the grit of my being. He's the blood in my veins, the breath in my lungs, the marrow in my bones, the fiber of my muscle. He is the force that makes it so that I can even function. It means that I can't move or even live without Him. We usually don't think about our health or our strength until we realize we don't have enough. Do we realize this? Do we watch for our Strength? I want to live my life with a continual awareness that "I need Thee every hour." Only then do we truly have Him. Yes, we may have had Him before, but God doesn't like to force Himself on people, or He would have made us into virtual robots. But when God becomes a necessity rather than a vague desire, then He will manifest Himself to us.

"When you want God as much as you want air, you'll find Him." --my dad

A psalm of imprecation

A Psalm of Kayla
4

Oh God,
Snatch the helpless from the jaws of the enemy!
Apathy is a cunning spider,
She spins a web of carelessness,
A large-encompassing snare,
She numbs her prey with pleasure,
She stealthily binds
With sinewy strands of doubt.
Her victims are lulled
And are slaves to her hunger
Before they know she exists.
Deliver them, oh God!
Rouse them to their danger!
Slice their bonds!
Cause Apathy and her prey to see
Your glory.
The rescued will worship,
Apathy will cower,
She will shrink to
Nothing
In Your presence.
Stamp her out
So that all that remains
Is a mangled corpse
And a loathsome pool of purple.
Then let Your hand of grace
Raise those who are now
Free
To Yourself
Ignite
Your passion,
Let it be a beacon to a murky world,
And all peoples will stand
In awe
At Your salvation.

A psalm of praise

A Psalm of Kayla
3

Praise the Lord!
When defenseless,
God was my champion,
When feeble,
He was my strength.
Praise the Lord!
When my blood ran thin,
His blood flooded my veins,
When my bones cracked,
The Almighty became my marrow.
Praise the Lord!
I wrestled with my enemies upon my bed,
They gnawed,
They sneered,
Your whisper enveloped me
Like an embracing fleece,
Your Name fortified me
Like an unshaken citadel.
Praise the Lord!
His compassion is a fountain,
Joyfully abiding;
His power is a tsunami,
Sweeping and unstoppable;
His faithfulness is a quiet stream,
Steady and ever present.
Praise the Lord!
For He has bequeathed His victory to me,
He has never suffered defeat
And never will.

Call Me Ishmael

This is a story I wrote while studying Genesis:

“Ouch!” I grunted. My hand sliced the air for a kill. A plump deerfly fell off my arm, dead. “Too bad that wasn’t a real animal,” I observed. “Oh what I would give for a bow and arrow right now!” But then, a bow and arrow wouldn’t shoot me a drink from the sky, and a beast with hide softer than jerky would be hard to find without a stream nearby. Too bad such things are rare commodities in a desert.

My scalp itched, and I dug at it with my fingernails, scraping out the sand that had recently made its home there. I still didn’t quite understand how I had gotten where I was, sitting in the shade of a big scraggly bush in the middle of the wilderness, my tongue almost as dry as a block of sandalwood. My mind darted back through the past several days and beyond to when I was a little boy. What had gone wrong?

I had loved my father. I guess some would call him old, but I think that old men have young hearts. When I dug up the dirt on the floor of my father’s tent to build imagined houses, he would sit down with me and show me how to construct ziggurats like the best of them. When I had nightmares and ran into his tent, he would take me outside and show me the stars. When I got frustrated with throwing stones to “hunt” game, he got me a bow and arrows and showed me how to shoot them even though he had to learn first himself. Sometimes he told stories. Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he just listened.

And he always prayed.

That pretty much sums up my first blissful thirteen years. Few ripples broke the stillness of the sweet pond of fellowship I shared with my father and everyone else in the camp. I was extremely fond of my mother Hagar, even if she was a little overbearing at times. Slender, strong, and beautiful, she spoke with an accent a little different from anyone else I knew. Her hair was jet black and her eyes dark and piercing, shooting lighting bolts to those she hated and sunbeams to those she loved. I suppose some would say she was haughty for a servant, but she always told me that if she seemed that way it was only because she was so proud of her boy and wanted to see that he got everything he deserved. For a long time I never understood what she meant.

One day when I was thirteen my father took me into his special tent to have a “man to man” talk. He sat me in front of him and gazed thoughtfully at me for awhile. When I think about it, he had been giving me a similar look for years now, only this time it seemed especially drawn out and almost . . . sad.

“I have some news to share with you, Ishmael,” he told me gravely, “joyous news.” Somehow I doubted him. “You are going to have a baby brother! As you may know, Sarah has wanted to have a child for a long time but has been unable to bear one. But nothing is too difficult for the LORD, and He is finally giving us what He promised us long ago. You will still always be my boy, but I thought you should know that some adjustments may need to be made.”

If my ears hadn’t been attached to my head I daresay they would have fallen off from the shock. Mother’s mistress was going to have a baby? Why, her hair was almost all white! I nearly laughed at the picture of her holding a newborn. I couldn’t understand the gravity in my father’s voice. This was excellent news! I was going to have a baby brother! I tried to picture what it would be like. I would show him how to make ziggurats, how to find Orion in the night sky, and how to shoot a bow and arrow. We would be best friends and do everything together.

An unnamed doubt wormed its way across my mind, but I shook it off. What thirteen-year-old needs to be worried about the arrival of a baby? I left my father’s tent with a light heart.

Three years later I left my father’s tent again, this time with my heart sinking into my sandals. My mother and I were being sent away. My father had a tear in is eye as he handed us some bread and a bulging water skin. His tear was cold and lusterless in the predawn light.

What had happened? During the past three years a shadow had repeatedly slipped its icy fingers around my heart. It groped for me when father first called me to visit Sarah and the baby. I saw the red gleam flash in Sarah’s eye as she caught sight of me. She greedily clutched closer to her the wrinkly bundle that was baby Isaac. After that day, the shadow probed and prodded me every time she turned me away from seeing Isaac until I finally gave up trying. It burrowed as I watched servants ignore my broken wrist for a child’s stubbed toe, and as my pet donkey disappeared for “the promised son’s use.” It stung every time my mother cried herself to sleep when she didn’t think I knew. What inflicted the most pain however was that my father seemed to have forgotten me.

I remember one night when I hadn’t been able to sleep I decided to go have a talk with my father. Maybe we would get a chance to gaze at the stars together. As I approached his tent, I spotted him with Isaac in his arms. I ducked behind a bush.

“You see all those stars?” he was saying to the gurgling little boy. “You’re going to have as many descendants as there are stars up there.”

I couldn’t remember him saying anything like that to me. I returned to my tent, purposing never to trouble my father again. The shadow was at home inside of me now, and my heart was heavy under a crushing weight.

Then the celebration day arrived. My little brother was now three, and my father decided to hold a big feast for him. Much fuss was made over Isaac, and I was awed by the magnitude of the festivities–my father had never done anything so elaborate for me. I guess I was a little jealous. All right, very jealous. The pent up frustrations of three years were loaded under a mountain of stones on my heart. And that night the stones split to reveal a volcano.

I don’t remember exactly what I said or did, only that it was stupid. But then the whole situation seemed stupid, so I guess it’s no wonder that I laughed. Yes, I laughed. I laughed at all the servants who were going milky eyed and fawning over Isaac. I laughed at the big commotion made over a toddler who didn’t even know what was going on. And I laughed at Isaac, “the chosen one.”

We left the next morning.

And now I sat under a bush, the final glimpse of my father’s sagging shoulders as we left burning in my memory. My mother had tried to bear it well. She had grasped the water skin tightly as we set out, her back straight and her head held high. Only I saw the tremble in her lip and the glistening of her eyes.

We started off toward Egypt, my mother’s homeland, but we took a wrong shortcut and ended up wandering in the wilderness for five days. The bread and water gone, my mother told me to sit in the shade of a bush as she went off somewhere. She claimed she was going to look for water, but I’m pretty sure she left me just so she could go cry without my seeing her.

I sighed and gingerly tried lying down on the rocky ground in what little shade the scraggly bush could offer. The sun was scorching and my temples throbbed. It seemed as though every throb served as a reminder of something I had lost. Throb: I had no food or water. Throb: I had no home. Throb: I had no inheritance. Throb: I had no mother here with me. Throb: I seemed to no longer have a father.

I knew now that I was wrong to mock my brother the way I did—he couldn’t help it if everyone saw him as a gift from God. Maybe I hadn’t been fairly dealt with, but it wasn’t really my brother or my father’s fault. Life isn’t always fair. My father of all people had discovered that, and yet he had never complained. He had set out from his home having no idea exactly where he was going. God hadn’t given him a map, only a compass. And that compass was God Himself.

And here I was, having left my home and having no idea where I was going, or if I’d even live out the day. Did I have a compass? My mind tossed about fruitlessly for some natural ability that I might have to help me out, but I came up with nothing. The only thing I had was the unconditional love of my father (somehow I knew he still loved me despite everything). Was that enough?

“God,” I prayed. “I know I haven’t really prayed much to you before this. I’m sorry about that. I know after everything that’s happened I don’t deserve to have you listen to me, but I thought I’d try anyway. I’m thirsty, God. I’m thirsty for water but even more than that I’m thirsty for the same kind of purpose and direction that my father had. He’s gone through tough times too but all along he’s had you to hold his hand.” I paused, afraid to continue. “Would you hold my hand, God? I realize that’s a lot to ask and I can’t think of any good reason why you would, but you love my father—maybe, just maybe, you could love me too if only for that reason.” Oh, what am I thinking? I grabbed a rock and hurled it, trying fiercely not to cry. God is too busy to hear my voice of all people! I’m just a youth, the son of a servant, and a worthless maggot. Why even bother to pray at all?

With that, I slumped into timeless existence, drifting off into feverish unconsciousness.

“Ishmael,” a voice echoed. “Ishmael!” A hand shook me until my mother’s face came into focus. For the first time in months, she was smiling. Next thing I knew, cool water trickled through my cracked lips. It could have been the ambrosia of angels.

Gradually I realized I was lying in my mother’s lap, beams of joy shooting from her face. “God has heard your voice, my son,” she said. “It is with good reason that you are called Ishmael. Come, let’s go from here. I found a well, and we now have plenty of water to travel.” She eased me to a sitting position before springing to her feet. She held out her hand. I suppose young men my age usually don’t take hold of their mothers’ hands, but I didn’t care. It was more than a hand I saw stretching out to me. It was a promise of hope. I grasped it firmly as I rose to my feet. The hand felt bigger and stronger than my mother’s, and I checked to be sure that it was really hers. More life pulsated in my grasp than any my mother could possibly possess. Then I remembered my prayer. And I remembered that I’m called Ishmael. God hears.

Breathing

A Psalm of Kayla
2

There is emptiness before and behind,
Nothing above or below,
A vacuum inside.
You, my God, are what I yearn for
Intensely,
I crave Your presence
Increasingly,
You breathed life into me,
Your breath is my life,
I will climb the mountain
To where You are
So I can breathe again.

Selah

You were here yesterday,
Where are You now?
Weariness smothers,
Walls close in,
Feelings fail,
Self-confidence crumbles,
And yet I stretch every feeble fiber toward You.
I had God yesterday,
He didn't change,
I did.
I fix my sightless eyes on Him,
I know He is faithful,
My reach can span this chasm
But His can.
I will breathe again.

Psalms revealed

This past year in Bible school we were taught how to write psalms. Of course, almost all of us were too bashful to read our psalms aloud in class (except Daniel; he boldly read his to us, including his glorious yet extremely comical "Psalm of Imprecation"). I read one of my psalms aloud, and I posted one on our student web site, but it felt too personal and too forward to share any more.

New blog title, new blog rules! :) No point in hiding stuff under bushels, and besides, since it is my blog it doesn't really matter (blogs by their very nature are personal and forward!:). And, just like any testimony, a little extra dose of proclaimed faith never hurt anybody.

A Psalm of Kayla
1

Oh God,
My God,
Can you see?
I wallow in despair,
My bones creak beneath crushing weight,
My friends accuse like enemies,
Their sword plumbs the depths of my soul,
A hidden fount springs to my eyes,
Is this Your voice?
I recoil,
I drive back in vain,
I squirm in self-pity,
Then cease.
Eyes not my own behold me:
My sin leers at a sightless face,
Scales tear and plummet,
I am desperate for You, O God!
You alone can extract my sin,
Ashamed, I hide my face,
Sin's visage is ugly,
I cringe,
I mourn,
Then I release my sin,
Hurl it far from me, oh God!
Let me never see it again.
You, and You only, do I seek,
For You my spirit gropes,
You are not far off.
The weight dissolves,
Soaring upward, I latch onto You,
I need nothing else
For You are my all,
I'll pursue You recklessly
Because You are truly
My God.

The hidden Sunday school lesson

I started teaching summer Sunday school today. Remembering fond days of yore when I was kid in the summer listening to The Railroad Children, I thought it would be fun to offer to read another book to the kids who are old enough to sit still and listen. So, pulling out new markers and coloring posters, I endeavored to get my wonderful little ruffians (seven children ages 7-11) under control so I could begin reading. My choice of book is a fat children's fantasy, The Tower of Geburah, by John White. I read it once to Klara and her siblings seven years ago, and I still like to pull out choice sections to read on Sabbaths when I want to think about my walk with Jesus. Yep, you guessed it--like the Chronicles of Narnia, it's an allegory! Maybe too similar to C.S. Lewis's masterpiece to be a coincidence, but that doesn't bother me. It's long been one of my favorite books since Craig read part of it to me when I was in Sunday school, and now I want the next generation to experience the same unknown joy.

So, after ignoring a certain impudent little boy's suggestion that he use my dress as his coloring poster, I began reading. And I found that I didn't have to work hard to make them pay attention. Weaving in what voices and dramatic inflections that I could, I read for nearly an hour with very little interruption. If the kids weren't coloring or getting a new poster, they were staring at me, spellbound. And when I showed them the picture of the giant yellow snake filling the dungeon and wrapped around the king, I got some very appreciative reactions.

But half the fun besides reading aloud is knowing that the Sunday school lesson is hidden right in the story, and my little listeners don't know it yet.

I wonder if God feels the same way with us as He brings lessons to light through our story.

Wound and never bored

Lately I've been reading some of Madeleine L'Engle's book Walking on Water, and I was rather struck by the following passage:

"There's a story of a small village (about the size of the village near Crosswicks) where lived an old clockmaker and repairer. When anything was wrong with any of the clocks or watches in the village, he was able to fix them, to get them working properly again. When he died, leaving no children and no apprentice, there was no one left in the village who could fix clocks. Soon various clocks and watches began to break down. Those which continued to run often lost or gained time, so they were of little use. A clock might strike midnight at three in the afternoon. So many of the villagers abandoned their time-pieces.

"One day a renowned clock-maker and repairer came through the village, and the people crowded around him and begged him to fix their broken clocks and watches. He spent many hours looking at all the faulty time pieces, and at last he announced that he could repair only those whose owners had kept them wound, because they were the only ones which would be able to remember how to keep time.

"So we must daily keep things wound: that is, we must pray when prayer seems dry as dust; we must write when we are physically tired, when our hearts are heavy, when our bodies are in pain.

"We may not always be able to make our 'clock' run correctly, but at least we can keep it wound, so that it will not forget."

And that, dear reader, is another reason why I am writing again. I may not have much to say that is worth reading, but I can share in order to encourage you and myself. Because right now for me prayer is almost as dry as dust, and maybe it's the same way for you. But that is exactly why we must keep doing it. We must keep our clocks wound, our spirits in fighting trim, our hearts inclined to the One who sees all and knows all. Sooner or later the dust will moisten into malleable clay, or settle into fertile garden soil, or turn into vigorous seedlings. Our only job is to trust and keep on keeping on.

In conjunction to that, the previous passage by Madeleine L'Engle was soon followed by another:

"Perhaps one of the saddest things we can do is waste time, as Shakespeare knew when he had Richard the Second cry out, 'I have wasted time, and now doth time waste me.'

"But being time is never wasted time . . . Canon Tallis says that his secretary does not understand that when he is thinking, he is working: she thinks he is wasting time. But thinking time is not wasted time. There are some obvious time-wasters, such as licentious living, drunkenness, adultery, all the things Paul warns us about. A more subtle time waster is being bored. Jesus was never bored. If we allow our "high creativity" to remain alive, we will never be bored. We can pray, standing in line at the super market. Or we can be lost in awe at all the people around us, their lives full of glory and tragedy, and suddenly we will have the beginnings of a painting, a story, a song."

What do I get from this? Not only was our Savior never bored, but we shouldn't be either! When all else fails, we can pray. This sounds very high and mighty of me. I am by no means a good example of this. In fact, I rarely struggle with boredom at all and it is far more challenging for me to turn my busy thoughts to the Savior who is "Closer than the tiny thoughts I have of You" (line from the song "Small" sung by J.J. Heller) than it might be for some people. I am, however, learning to think of prayer differently, and maybe you can learn with me.

"If we think of prayer as the breath in our lungs and the blood from our hearts, we think rightly . . . Prayer is not an exercise, it is the life." -Oswald Chambers

If you look closely at my profile picture/drawing, you'll see two figures at the top of a hill holding hands while looking off into a sunset. This is not intended to be a common romantic pose. It's God and me, walking and talking and enjoying life together. I have so much to learn!

But I guess that's the joy of learning.

A loosed tongue

If you have been to my blog before, you might be wondering if you still have the right address. Not only is the template different, but my blog title is different. Instead of the amazing Flapping Lingua, you are now staring at "Tongue of the Mute." Well, surprise! The casual reader may suppose that I don't post very often, hence the title. That is partially true, but there is so much more than that.

I guess I could come up with a way to say it smoothly, but I'll just say it plain and straight:

I've been thinking. (Oh boy, watch out!)

I've been thinking about how Jesus commanded us to make disciples. I've been thinking about how I believe God wants me to be a writer and help proclaim Truth in a deceived world. I've been thinking about my poor, rusty writing skills. I've been thinking about how I haven't written on my blog because of a busy life and because I'm just flat out tired of writing flippant things. I've been thinking about my desperate need to cultivate my own walk with God during the summer months away from Bible school, and the need to encourage one another. I've been thinking about how I often don't like to post testimonies about my Jesus because they're personal and it almost devalues them in my mind. But I've also been thinking about how Revelation 12:11 says that they overcame the Enemy by the Blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony. And I've been thinking about my tongue, so often mute. Oh yes, I certainly can talk about precious nothings--this lingua has no problem flapping when it wants to.

But God didn't loose me or my tongue so that I could flap. He loosed me so that I could fly. And He loosed my tongue so that I could sing for joy of Him. Kingdom living isn't about waiting for Christ to return in order to free our stammering tongues, it's about singing His praises here and now, living like He is already back so that when He really is then it will be an easy transition.

If Jesus were back, I would probably be posting every day.

So why not now?

That being said, I'm not planning on writing every day. In fact, maybe I won't end up posting any more at all. But I want to mark this as the day when the purpose of my blog is changing. I may yet tell my mundane stories or write on the hilarity of life, but I want to be ready to offer up my faith in writing as a burnt offering into cyberspace. This blog is not going to be the tongue of my mind so much as it will be the tongue of my heart. I would change my address except for nostalgia reasons and because I want people I know to still be able to find me. I have no intention of advertising this change to anyone, except maybe mentioning it to my family. If nobody reads this, that's okay. Faith doesn't need to be read in order to make an impact. If one person reads something here and is edified by it, then as Emily Dickinson said, "I shall not live in vain."

And if you are ever reading a testimony and finding yourself thinking more about me than the Savior I'm attempting to point toward, then please find another blog.

Now you know partially why this blog is so altered. It's turning into an altar.

Consider yourselves forewarned . . . .

Longing

How many of us long for the very thing we have already? I am not talking about the baser things, though I suppose it may still be true in some cases. That is, if a child or even an adult is longing for some "toy" that they obviously do not own, we must realize that it is not the toy itself that they desire but the pleasure that can be derived from it, and this could be equally received if they appreciated the toys they already own.

But truly, how many of us yearn for what we already have? Some long for travel and adventure, forgetting that all of life is a journey of unknown excitement. Some long to know their purpose in life when perhaps their purpose is to live in Christ and let God do the rest. Some long for a mission field, when maybe their mission field is within their own home or right on their doorstep. Some long for an opportunity to disciple, to write and proclaim Truth, when a blog is already at their disposal.

A teenager may long for freedom, but he forgets that because he can breathe and move without confinement, worship freely and reject sin freely, he is free indeed. A Christian man may long for victory, but he needs to remember that Jesus Christ has already won it and has given it to him on a bloodstained platter (1 Cor. 15:57, Rom. 8:37). A Christian lady may long for someone to be close, steady, and head-over-heels in love with her, but she needs to remember that Someone already is, and He went so far as to prove it by dying for her on the cross (Eph. 2:4-6). We already have all these things, but we don't fully receive them until we realize it and accept them. And then the God who is able to do exceedingly abundantly beyond all that we ask or think (Eph. 3:20) will do more than fulfill our dreams . . . because He truly satisfies the longing soul (Ps. 107:9). I am realizing this now maybe more than ever, not because I feel full, but because I feel empty yet KNOW I'm not.

When I was a child, I used to make wishes by blowing on eyelashes, and because I was afraid of dying, I always wished for eternal life. I did this because I thought this meant I would never die, but what I didn't realize was that eternal life meant abundant vitality in heaven after this shell has passed away. And because I was already saved, I in a sense "wasted" my wishes on something I already had. Don't make my mistake. It is pointless to long for something that is already at your fingertips.

Beware

Brace yourselves.

I don't know how to tell you this, but if you're like me, you could be in grave danger. You may think that you are a safe sort of chap or chappess, but you may be oblivious to the fact that you are setting yourself up for the perfect catastrophe. I consider it my personal responsibility to enlighten you.

My source? A twelve-year-old girl who happened to be in my cabin group the first week of camp.

She may have made a news breaking discovery.

I'll call her Betsy.

The news? You won't want to miss this.

Singing may seem like a harmless activity, and taking a shower may seem like a common (and rather necessary) practice, but I have to warn you.

Combining the two may be lethal.

Here's what I heard from my un--er, reliable source. I will quote exactly my paraphrase of her speech.

"There should be like a law against singing in the shower. I mean seriously! It's, like, really dangerous! When I sing in the shower, I can't help but dance, and once when I did that I fell and hurt myself! People could like break their necks that way if they're not super careful."

Oh boy. I mean, alas!!! What could this mean? Do I have to give up my beloved occupation of singing in the shower? I'm proceeding with extreme caution from now on. As soon as the foot starts tapping I'll turn my larynx to stone. It doesn't hurt to be wary.

I just thought you should know too so you can guard yourself from a deadly accident. You can never be too careful.

Just don't tell Betsy that I still sing in the shower.

A crash landing on the nose

I just posted a relatively lengthy report on my jam-packed two weeks of counseling at a camp. If you have any desire to hear about it, you should definitely at least skim it even though I'm immediately posting something else. However, in case my camp experience as a whole doesn't interest you and you'd rather hear about one single adventure (that you may have already gotten whiff of) that I had, this is probably what you'd better read.

I still can't quite believe I did it. I have always been a safe sort of girl. Skiing and snowboarding have never held much appeal for me so I haven't had the privilege of breaking a bone in that manner (did you know that while skiing every bone in the human body has been broken by somebody except a bone in the inner ear? So I've heard), I never played a regular sport, and even though I believe some aggressiveness is good in sports I've always been pretty careful to stay out of the way when there's a Shawn-Bobby-Dave-Ben collision inevitable in ultimate Frisbee. I've never had a bloody nose, and I've never been to the doctor for anything except ear infections and a physical. So if you're a cautious person who has never tasted an injury of any kind and is longing for the experience, let me instruct you in one easy lesson.

Have a thirteen year old kid who weighs more than you do make a crash landing on your nose with his elbow. Things should start to get interesting after that.

We were short handed that day. We had a lot of kids to get through the popular high ropes course and only so many leaders to supervise them. We divided our outdoor adventure group in half and told one half they could wait to go on the high ropes course. The other group could practice and kill time on the low ropes course. Oh wait. We don't have anybody to supervise the low ropes course. I volunteered--I didn't know how to be an "anchor" on the other course anyway, and I did know enough about the low course to instruct people. Besides, I've been pretty successful at catching people too. I suspect that I shouldn't have been the only "adult" present, but as circumstances would have it, we didn't have much choice. So I proceeded to make sure kids played safe at the edge of the woods about seventy-five yards or so away from everyone else. I should have exerted my authority more and had somebody else help me catch people, but it wouldn't have made much of a difference anyway.

So yes. I already told you what happened. One second I'm encouraging a boy through a tricky bit of rope about four feet off the ground, ready to steady him and snatch him if he should make good use of the law of gravity. He tottered, and I saw a flash of elbow or something hard (one boy watching told me he thought it was a foot but I doubt it) and then I heard a crunch. Oooh, what a musical crunch! Next thing I knew, blood started streaming out my nose. I couldn't remember what you were supposed to do with a bloody nose. Were you supposed to put your head forward or back? One guy (I think it was the KJB guy, for those of you who read my other post) told me to pinch my nose and keep my head straight. I obeyed and made a bee line for the main campus where the nurse was. I don't do well with blood, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I started to faint. I had to get to the nurse before then. Unfortunately, the nurse wasn't exactly in calling distance, and there weren't any other adults nearby to inform I was leaving. There wasn't time for that.

Down, down, down the long steep hill I went. Blood missed my cupped hands and splattered onto my beloved Fairwood Bible Institute shirt, but that was kind of low on my priority list of worries right then. By the time I reached the bottom of the hill (this is almost like a Catskill mountain we're talking about here) my hands were full to overflowing with bright red liquid, and I absently emptied one of them onto the grass and kept going, trying to remain calm. Through a clearing, past the whiffle ball field, past the volleyball court and soccer field, across the street, across the lawn to "the Ark" (this distance might have been comparable to walking from Fairview to the Main House). Thankfully one of the girl counselors, Jen (not the Belle one), was sitting on the porch visiting with her mother who had stopped by.

Speaking as casually as possible, I asked, "Um, what's the best way to get a hold of the nurse?" Considering that by now my hands and wrists were dripping, my shirt and shorts were pretty much smeared, and my legs and sneakers were considerably speckled, I must have been quite a sight. Jen practically leaped out of her rocking chair and said she'd get the nurse (who was in the middle of the building in the basement--not very accessible for a person in my condition) while her mother encouraged me to sit down.

I don't know how long I sat there. Gauze, wash cloths, and ice were brought as we waited for the blood to slow down. Soon after I sat down I recognized my fainting symptoms and gradually I watched the world get grayish black. People walked by or stood around but I couldn't see their faces. Some girl going by gasped and said, "OMG! Kayla, are you okay?" I didn't even know who it was. I held something to my nose and kept breathing, "Lord help me," while the words from Psalm 56:3 raced through my mind again and again, "When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God." I didn't think anything was seriously wrong with me, but it took willpower--no, trust to remain calm and maintain my sanity and poise. Somebody got me a cup of water and a large can so I could spit out all the blood that was in my mouth and that I had been swallowing. I waited. Things cleared up pretty soon, and at this point I think I was able to crack a feeble joke about my condition. Somebody told me that I'd make a great a Halloween character right then. No small wonder. I probably had blood coming from my nose and my mouth, not to mention that it was kind of all over the rest of me, even in my hair (it was fun to pick out the clots at the ends of my braids later). I was able to distinguish faces, including the nurse, Jen, her mom, a politely concerned life guard I had never officially met (but he kindly hosed down the porch after I left, so I'm told), and Will, a friend of the Reeds who has been to Fairwood and who also works there as a life guard.

The women helped me inside and downstairs to the infirmary where my bleeding resumed and I lay for awhile waiting for it to stop. After seeing that I was settled, Jen and her mother prepared to leave, and it was then that I remembered and felt some remorse for leaving kids unsupervised at the low ropes course. So I communicated that to Jen with my apologies, and it was at this point that I started to cry. Blast it! Oh well, I'm not so silly as to think crying is really stupid. A person's got to let loose some how, I guess, and God invented crying as the perfect avenue to vent. I told Jen I was fine though and didn't know why I was crying (I WAS fine; the worst was over, so why do tears have to kick in so late?) and she assured me that she would look into it.

So I waited. I waited for my bleeding to stop. I waited until I didn't cough up quite so much blood. I waited as the nurse gently cleaned me up like a baby who'd been caught playing the mud. This mud was even redder than Georgia's though, I'll tell ya. Fingers, hands, wrists, face, legs. Honestly, I've never seen so much blood in my life, but I realize that's not saying a whole lot. I lay alone for awhile and decided that singing was my best medicine. So I sang, or literally squeaked, out a number of songs: "He's Always Been Faithful," "Great is Thy Faithfulness," "Be Still and Know that I am God," "God is so Good," and the chorus to "Redemption," being a few of the pieces I tried. Faith and truth expressed in song is often the most beneficial. I had felt to resist the devil in our leaders meeting that morning and then this had happened. But I was not so easily defeated.

Eventually, I prepared to leave for the ER with my dad. The nurse had asked Sam, my co-counselor, to bring me some clothes to change into, and the dear girl had willingly done so. The only thing was that the shirt she brought me was actually my night shirt and I didn't have the heart to tell her. Besides, when it came right down to it, there was a certain appeal to going to the ER in my bloody clothes. I mean, come on! What's the point of going to the ER if you don't look like you have a reason for being there? My clothes certainly made me look legit, so I decided to keep them on. I was going to wear my stained FBI shirt with honor. I will admit though that when my dad wanted to stop at the grocery store to pick up medications I refused to go in. It's one thing to arrive at the hospital looking like a battle-scarred warrior, but at a grocery store I would look just plain unappetizing.

To sum it all up, I found out that my nose is broken. I had x-rays taken, and when the doctor came in to ask me if I wanted to see them he didn't even tell me that my nose was broken. All he said was, "Do you want to see a picture of your broken nose?" He didn't try to "break" it to me. Ahh, great. Sure! At least with it broken I have a reason for bleeding so much and seeming wimpy.

As I headed back to camp (there was no way I was going home to give up and recover!), I prayed that God would use the accident, hopefully to affect my ministry at the camp. I can say that it certainly helped me to trust God (now I know that I know how to look to Him in the midst of my first mini medical crisis!), and though I'm not actually aware it affected my ministry, it certainly was a good conversation starter. Either people saw me with ice on my nose or word had spread that I had had a bloody nose that morning, and I was able to cheerfully tell them that I had broken my nose! Once the worst was over I found ways to be happy about it. Of course, there were unpleasant aspects of it besides the obvious pain: I felt like I had a headache only it was on my face (I'll be honest--I don't remember the initial break actually being very painful--the blood was way more distracting), I had to do things like chew, smile, and scratch itches very gingerly, and then there was the fact that I had kind of had to walk all the way to the nurse's building all by myself feeling like nobody really noticed or cared. Most people had no idea what had happened; not that it really mattered. I reminded myself over and over again that God was good. I believed it, but it did take some faith. And then that night I got about nine or ten texts from friends who all encouraged me and told me they were praying for me! I don't even have a phone; I had my mom's, so it was especially neat that they were all texting me (Craig was behind telling people, as I suspected and later found out). Believing that God was good got a whole lot easier then.

That being said, I got a lot of support from people at camp as well as away from camp. One lady counselor (from the Bible Church), prayed for me right as we were heading to chapel. Another girl counselor right afterwards walked up and gave me a hug even though she had no idea what had happened that day. People, campers and counselors alike, asked me how I was and sometimes told me they had prayed for me. Many asked me how it had happened. One of my campers told me that she had heard that I'd run into a tree. Haha. Wow . . . talk about rumors. I asked her who had told her that and she insisted that one of the other girls in our cabin had told her, and they in turn insisted that she had made it up. Anyway, I don't really know if my broken nose affected my ministry or not, but at least I was able to talk a little more with some people and communicate some of my joy and faith in God's goodness in spite of it all.

Oh, and the boy who fell on me is just fine, and I'm very glad for it. I would have felt a lot worse if HE had broken his nose when I was the one responsible for him.

Some of you may be wondering if you can tell if I broke my nose. Well, actually, you probably can't. For a few days I was a little swollen; my glasses didn't fit me right, and I was pretty sore (though the constant pain was gone after the first day). After a day or two I bruised under both my eyes and some on my eye lids. Other than that, most people when they look at me are surprised when I tell them that my nose is broken, and I have to tell them that the x-rays proved it. The doctor told me that perhaps the only sign will be that a part of my nose might get a tiny bit more prominent, and probably only people who know me well MIGHT be able to tell.

I also had a follow up appointment yesterday with the nose, ears, and mouth specialist. And I gotta tell ya, I felt blessedly out of place as I sat in that waiting room! One man had a huge bandage on his neck while one guy had a huge bandage on his face over his nose (he got taken in almost right away, accompanied by two people who presumably were both his parents), and my mom even thought she saw somebody missing an ear but she wasn't sure. After peering at my face, kneading my nose for a bit (some of which was quite painful, even though overall I'm not quite so tender as I was), and finally looking UP my nose with a special tool, the doctor told me I was "very lucky." Apparently it's not always common for one's nose to straighten itself out without being set, and my nose had done just that. He said all we had to do was let "Mother Nature" do her thing. I should have told him that a lot of people had been praying for me. Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.

So yes, that's my pretty much my adventure of the month! And adventure indeed it was. It was my first bloody nose, first broken bone, and first trip to the ER! A little traumatic, but relatively unscathing. And God was faithful through it all. I am very thankful.

Adventures on the waves

Oh what I would do to have
The kind of faith it takes to climb out of this boat I'm in
Onto the crashing waves
To step out of my comfort zone
Into the realm of the unknown
Where Jesus is
And He's holding out His hand.

I stood at the side of the boat, trembling. What am I getting myself into? I've never done this sort of thing before, I've never left my boat for this destination before, and I know absolutely nobody else at the place where I am going. Except Jesus. He'd be with me wherever I went, and He always seems closest when I'm out of the boat. And besides, adventure awaits outside the edges of my own little vessel. And with that, I swung my legs over the edge, took one long look, and took the plunge. I was a camp counselor.

"And how did it go?" you may ask. Hmmm. Wondrously well. Superifically well. Not that I always did a great job and everything was smooth sailing, but the experience was both expanding and fun, and I'm very glad I did it. Some of it was hard. It was hard the first week because some of my girls were young and seemed to have no interest in talking about spiritual things in our group discussion and I had to constantly steer the conversation in the right direction. After the first night or two I went out in the dark and literally cried out to God because I felt like a failure and I was afraid I would go insane if I couldn't have a meaningful conversation with my girls.

I learned something: I'm not God. It's not my job to convict or work in somebody's heart. That's God's job. And He does His job better than anyone else can. Even better than I. Once I realized that, my work was much easier the rest of the week. I focused just on being a friend to my girls and planting seeds where I could. I was ready to listen when they needed someone, and I was ready to give my advice. During discussion time I shared what God had done in my life and encouraged them to realize God's incredible love for them and to strive to know Him better. And I let God do the rest.

I was still challenged though. One girl in particular seemed to delight in asking me the most random, difficult questions she could imagine. Things like, "Do Muslims go to heaven?" And "What would happen if a Christian and a devil worshiper wanted to get married?" God, give me wisdom! I had to plead silently when situations like these as well as others arose during both weeks. Somehow I survived.

My favorite time with my girls the first week was our final extended discussion time. We got a pizza to ourselves and I took them to a little bridge that stretched over a peaceful little stream. We lounged on the bridge's bench and I asked them questions. And they asked me questions. The discussion went differently than I would have expected. One girl asked me to tell her what the Lord's Prayer meant since she said that they prayed it in church and she had no idea what she was saying. So, with a quick prayer and an extreme thankfulness for my ATI and Bible school training, I launched into a line by line explanation. I wished I could remember more, but all the girls seemed very attentive to what I said as I attempted to dig into rich truths that could be found in simple words like "hallowed by Thy name." At the end of the time I told them that I was going to pray and any of them could if they wanted. And for the first time, they all did! I may not have done a perfect job as a counselor, but that time seemed special and I trust that God was working. I finally let the girls go, late for the next event. I am my father's daughter after all. :)

The second week was easier in some ways and harder in other ways. It was easier because I was co-counseling and my girls were older, and it was harder because I was co-counseling and my girls were older (and therefore more independent). That being said, my co-counselor, Sam, is a dear and I couldn't have asked for a more fun or capable co-leader; it only was tricky knowing what my role was at times, and I learned how to play second fiddle even though I was older. However, this was excellent for me as well because that week God taught me that it's not all about me, it's about pointing others to Jesus. And even if I didn't get to say all I would have liked to say, or be noticed as much as I would have liked to be noticed, as long as my girls noticed Jesus it was fine with me.

I just gave you a brief overview of how counseling in my "cabin" went for me both weeks, but that doesn't give you an inkling of how interesting or how fun everything was. Every morning we had leaders meeting at 7:30. In some ways, the leaders meetings were my favorite part of the day. This was a time to come together with other mature Christians, go over the schedule, share what had been going on with our campers, and pray together. Sometimes the meeting was very lighthearted, with plenty of bantering and laughter going on. Most of the time I was a quiet onlooker (Craig pointed out that I probably felt the same way some people must feel when they first come to Fairwood), but I enjoyed the jokes and people observation anyway. Sometimes I'd sit next to somebody that I could chat with beforehand, and I got to get a glimpse into the lives of other believers, whether it was discussing colleges (Moody, Gordon, Ohio, etc.), or finding out how somebody from TN heard about Monadnock, or getting excited about the Perspectives course with another girl. In our first meeting I introduced myself as coming from "the better side of the mountain," and that remark haunted me in jest a few times ("Better be careful everyone comes down the right trail on the mountain. We wouldn't want them going down the D Trail. I hear there are some strange people who live down there," said our leader, Kevin with a mischievous glance at me). But even though parts of the meeting were lighthearted, some of it was far from it. Serious issues were brought up and serious prayers were uttered, but in some ways it was kind of refreshing because we all were serious about God. I hadn't even known these people, but it didn't matter. We were seeking God together. And that was fun.

Moving on. Our morning meetings generally didn't go more than half an hour, so I would go back to my room and make sure that my girls were awake. At eight thirty the breakfast bell was rung, and somehow we'd get through a sleepy first meal followed by a half hour of "time with God" (aka personal devotions where you can fill out a sheet of questions). At nine-thirty was the morning gathering which included worship, a slide show or brief video clip, announcements, a "cheesy camp song" (complete with hand motions), and a message from our main speaker for the week. Depending on the speaker, we might even hear him rap a gospel message for us!

After the morning meeting, we dispersed to our tracks. These were divided mainly into sports, creative arts (including hip hop, photography, and more), and outdoor adventure. And what track did I help with? Surely they would have assigned me to something I had experience with, wouldn't they? Um, lo. That is, no. I was blessed with the role of supervising outdoor adventure, including rock climbing, tubing, and high ropes which I know nothing about! Oh joy. I felt pretty useless, but I busied myself with trying to hang out with the kids who didn't want to do the activity of the day, and I trust that wasn't wasted. At times I was able to lend a hand though, whether it was in taking pictures of people tubing for the slide show, leading groups back to the camp when they were done early, talking people through the low ropes course (which I had to learn myself), or spotting people in the tube or catching them on the ropes.

Usually I didn't bother to do any of the activities myself to make sure all the campers got their fill, but I did once try the zip line. What is a zip line? Well, first of all, you put on a helmet and harness and get hooked up to a rope. Then you climb spokes sticking out of a huge pine tree. Up, up, up, you go until you arrive at a small platform. Here Wally, the hardy handyman of MBC, gets you ready for the next step: hooking you up to a line so you can literally step off the platform and go for a ride on an electric line--or something that looks like one.

As I waited for my turn on the swaying platform, a boy ahead of me was sweating before his leap. Wally, seemingly gruff but kind to the core, offered to pray for him and he did. When my turn came, Wally asked me if I was okay, gave me my instructions, and then he said, "You're homeschooled, aren't you?"

I was surprised. Nobody had asked me that question before (I didn't do the zip line until the first week was over half over), so I figured that it wasn't that obvious. Not many people seemed to have been homeschooled, so I decided not to advertise it. Somehow I don't feel like public schoolers have quite the same appreciation for homeschoolers as I do.

In reply, I said, "Yeah, how can you tell?"

Wally didn't say much. "It's a beautiful thing," he said, and told me to jump.

Huh. Whatever that means . . .

I jumped. Sure, I had some minor qualms about stepping out into air from a sickening height, but I trusted God and the people who were taking care of me so I really wasn't very worried. I whizzed through the air and before I knew it I was climbing down. I had conquered the zip line.

After lunch at twelve thirty we usually commenced with a group field game for everyone. We were divided by cabin groups into the blue and green teams, and a fearsome rivalry raged between them all week. Team spirit was encouraged and provoked especially by other counselors, and there was plenty of yelling, huddles, and chants to keep everybody pumped on both sides. One of the most brutal games we played was tube tug-of-war. Basically the two teams spread out on two adjacent sides with guys and girls on each side, facing those of the same gender on the other team. We lined up by height and every two people were given a number, and when your number was called you ran to the middle and grabbed one of the three tubes and dragged it back over your line. Girls against girls, guys against guys (thankfully). It sounds easy, only the fact is that several numbers were usually called at once, and sixteen or so people fighting for three tubes is not always a pretty sight. Frequently people fell down on top of each other in the midst of the brawl, and cuts and bruises as well as other demonstrations of violence were not uncommon. As for me, I usually just grabbed a tube and held on, feeling almost too caught up in the chaos to apply my brain and pull effectively. And although I don't remember ever pulling a tube back over our line, I don't remember ever losing either. In my case the girls on our tube ended up in a deadlock. Mindless brutality, I'll tell ya! Mindless fun.

Another game we played involved getting signature cards from counselors who were spaced out around the field without getting hit by another counselor with a flour sock. The first week I got to play, the second week I got to be a signer. There's another catch though: the counselor signing cards can require each player to perform any little task that the signer conjures up. I had a lot of fun doing this. Some of the athletic guys I had do push-ups (some of the guys thought I was pretty harsh when I had a six foot seven guy do ten, but I figured he looked like the kind of guy who could handle it--I can do 10 push ups without any problem, for Pete's sake!), others did jumping jacks. Some did somersaults, others told jokes. Some sang songs, others just spontaneously offered me their talent. For example, one kid just came up to me and started doing break dance moves. I was duly impressed.

"Okay, should I do a front flip or a back flip?" one guy asked me right away. Whoah.

"Um, a front flip. Wait, you're not going to hurt yourself, are you?" I asked. Other guys in line assured me that this kid knew what he was doing.

One kid wasn't sure he knew how to do a somersault. I felt bad for him and reduced his sentence to one try instead of three. Another girl (from my cabin) sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for me as if she were on Broadway (I already knew she'd been to Europe on national tour choir and that she possessed an amazing voice). Another guy tried to tell me a knock knock joke.

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"KJB."

"KJB who?"

Long pause. "Um, I forgot," he smiled sheepishly. He may have remembered shortly thereafter, but he got a card anyway for making me laugh.

"Okay, why didn't the skeleton cross the road?" one boy asked me. "Cause he didn't have the guts!"

Ha ha ha. That was probably my favorite.

Then, "Do you have anything against blond jokes? Okay, good. Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy, a smart blond, and a dumb blond are walking down the street when they see a five dollar bill. Who picks it up? The dumb blond because all the others don't exist!"

The funny thing is that a few minutes later another kid came up to me with the same joke or some variation thereof. For a second I was afraid he had just heard the guy in front of him tell it (lame!), but when I told him I had just heard it and he seemed genuinely disappointed I gave him a card even though he hadn't finished. His joke may have been a little different, but I wasn't really up to hearing it again. And besides, I was helping him out by letting him leave with his card anyway.

As for the songs, I was in such a rush that the only universal ones that came to my head to request were Twinkle, The Star-Spangled Banner, and I'm a Little Teapot (I should have used Old MacDonald Had a Farm). So when I got tired of hearing those, I told them they could sing me any song they wanted. Ironically enough, pretty much everybody that I gave that option floundered about and then settled on I'm A Little Teapot. I guess it must really be a favorite.

Another task I tried was having them say the Pledge of Allegiance, or at least part of it. One girl started with the Pledge of Allegiance and ended with the Lord's Prayer (hey, it wouldn't hurt if we combined them like that, I suppose), but I gave it to her anyway.

The afternoon was usually filled with plenty of free time options. Tubing, sailing, snorkeling, rock climbing, swimming, laser tagging, high ropes, dodge ball, ultimate frisbee, ga ga (a variation of dodge ball where you play in a hexagon court and try to get people out below their knees), bookstore, ice cream, and pick-up board games were some of the options available on some though not all of the afternoons. Usually I just chilled and tried to keep my campers company. The first week this included going swimming with them a number of times, but sometimes they were all off doing their own thing so I just participated in whatever was going on, whether it was watching ga ga, playing dodge ball, playing Mad Gab or Apples to Apples, or just trying to befriend people. I didn't always do a good job at this. I'm often happy to just sit and watch people and not bother to go right up to people and introduce myself, but if there was a girl sitting by herself I often took it upon myself to get to know her a little bit.

In the late afternoon we had another counselors meeting.

The evenings after dinner included the evening gathering (more worship, and more good stuff from our main speaker), followed by a group discussion time as a cabin group and then something special like a Theme Night. Monday was 70's night, Tuesday Celebrity Impersonation night, Wednesday coffee shop (aka talent show), and Thursday Sports night. Basically the theme nights were a fun time to dress up and play some games as blue and green teams again. I didn't know about the theme nights enough ahead of time to really plan for them so I didn't do much except spontaneously decide to go to Impersonation night as Pippi Longstocking. I didn't have time to braid my hair around a hanger, Kim, but at least I had freckles, striped knee socks, braids, and makeshift suspenders. I was afraid that the younger generation of teenagers wouldn't know who Pippi was, but I was impressed at how many people knew who I was supposed to be!

Some of my favorite costumes throughout both weeks included Sam and one of the guy counselors going as the Dugger family (the family with like 19 kids) with nineteen campers up there as each of the kids. It was hilarious, especially since I knew who the Duggers are and I've seen them live playing their violins and everything. Also I saw Taylor Swift (alias: Kevin, the head guy), four girls as the Green Monster wall, Beauty and the Beast (my counselor friend Jen and another guy), Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Darth Vader and Obi Wan, Waldo, and on sports night a guy wearing a dress and pig tails with the label "Manning" on his back (FUNNIEST thing ever!That's right, Peyton!). Oh yes, and also I saw a Saleena Gomez lookalike in one of my campers, only she didn't have to do anything to make herself look like her. Seriously. She said she gets comments almost every day.

Finally, the day usually ended with people going to their rooms at eleven (welcome to teen camp!). Sometimes I was on zone defense which basically meant I walked around part of the campus with a flash light and another counselor as we made sure that nobody was hiding out in the dark doing bad stuff. I actually enjoyed this job because it meant taking in the night air and getting better acquainted one on one with another counselor. In this way I got to know Jackie, calm and cool with blond dreadlocks, and fun to be around. She reminded me a leetle bit of Kimberly, actually (maybe you should try a new style with those long locks of yours, KJ:). I found out that she plays the euphonium and used to major in music therapy. We didn't just exchange information about ourselves, sometimes we had good conversations about our campers and how things were going. Jackie also would suggest we turn out our flash lights when we were in the field and look up at the mouthwatering stars. She didn't call them mouthwatering. I just felt like calling them that at this moment.

I also got to know another guy named Chris. Interestingly enough, he's an English major interested in creative writing just like I am, so we had fun talking about writing and later music. He kind of reminded me of my cousin Aaron in more ways than one. I should say (I think Kendra or somebody asked), we did NOT turn out our flash lights and look up at the stars together. That would have been just too weird.

And I'll say right here that I met many other amazing and fascinating people who would possibly be very intriguing to describe, but it would only make this frightfully long post aproximately twice as long so I don't think it's worth it right now. Besides, I'm probably already boring you.

Lights out was usually between 11:30 and 12. And then I got up at 6:35 a.m. and did many of the same things all over again.

I don't suppose I've mentioned that I dressed a little differently from anybody else at camp. They did have a dress code in place (not Fairwood's, haha), but I will admit that there were times when I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb. That is, all the girls around never seemed to catch on to the idea that knee-length shorts are remarkably becoming and fashionable. *sigh* Some people don't know how to move with the times. But the sore thumb feeling existed mostly just at the beginning, and nobody ever said anything (Sam only commented that she loved how I wore so much "flowy clothing") or made me feel in the slightest bit weird, and by the end of the time I almost had to remind myself of the time when I didn't feel like I fit in wearing my culottes. Fitting in is definitely over-rated, as I can imagine my friend Erinn saying. In my mind though, a little extra modesty isn't. So I wore my culottes with joy and a small measure of pride. Not pride as in "I'm better than you," but pride as in, "I don't mind being different." And thankfully, most of the time I don't.

Some of the music was different than I'm accustomed to as well. Notice I don't say it was bad, just different. Though I will admit that I was a little grieved to walk into my first chapel service and feel like I was walking into a high school basketball gym that's warming up before a game. Same style of music. Same volume. Can't hear the words to tell the difference that I'm sure was there. The band (DIFFERENT from the hip hop style played on the speakers ahead of time) was talented and sincere though, and I liked many of the songs I learned and appreciated the expressive lyrics. I think we can worship God with many kinds of music, and I was able to do so while at camp with their music. Some music just takes a little more concentration to focus on the One you're worshiping.

One thing I can't neglect to mention: Mountain Climbing Day! On both Wednesdays of each week, hiking is a mandatory activity after the morning gathering. If you're lazy you can go in the Leisurely group and not go up the mountain, but everyone is hiking whether they like it or not. Unless they're medically unfit. Or dead.

So we divided ourselves up into four groups: Extreme (where experienced hikers take a longer trail and half run up the mountain), Adventurous (steady/quick, few breaks), Diligent (steadier, more numerous and longer breaks), and Leisurely. I went with the Diligent group the first week and helped encourage people up the mountain, and the second week I went with the Adventurous group and mostly concentrated on getting up the mountain (1 hour 25 minutes, I believe, but that may have included walking to the park from the camp). Getting to know people a little along the way was entertaining too, and the camaraderie we built as fellow sufferers--er, hikers, was great. I even found out that the boy hiking alongside me was from my town! That was very exciting, especially since he was the only one I ever met, AND he lives only a couple miles down the road from where I live.

I also had a lot of fun showing people my house from the top. The second week was especially cool because I texted my family that I was looking at our house and my dad started flashing a mirror. Suddenly a bunch of kids were all commenting on the blinking house and I was able to tell them excitedly that it was my house and that my daddy loves me. Everyone acknowledged the wicked coolness of it all.

Coming down the mountain, in an effort as a counselor not to leave campers alone, I managed to end up with some of the stragglers of our smaller group. The first week it was two boys, one who talked almost the whole way largely of cartoons he'd seen, and another boy who whined more than any fourteen or fifteen year old I've heard in my life. The second week it was a girl who fell and thought she had sprained her toe. I didn't have anything with me to help her, but I offered to pray for her and when I asked her the next day how she was she told me her toe was fine! Perhaps her toe wasn't really injured, but I'd rather give God more credit rather than less.

Oh right, can't neglect a brief mention of the Bible Church! The second week a group came up from CT in a huge Peter Pan bus, bringing about fifty kids! Ay ay ay, we don't have a lot more than that in our entire church! Anyway, the group as a whole was loud yet lovable (some of them were African Americans), and I really enjoyed getting to know the leaders/counselors who came up with them, all of whom practically opened up their arms to me and everybody else. If the whole group had a quirk, it was their fanaticism for their church. They had a whole yelling rally cry that they frequently employed that went something like this:

Leader (rhythmic, singsong): I say "Bible," you say "Church!" "Bible!"

Everyone: "Church!"

"Bible!"

"Church!"

I came home and told Craig about it and we tried saying it with our church name.

Craig: I say "Fairwood" you say "Bible Chapel." "Fairwood!"

Me: "Bible Chapel."

"Fairwood!"

"Bible Chapel!"

It really doesn't have the same ring. :)


As I wind down my lengthy report (you may have stopped reading this long ago), I'll share a few special moments I had throughout my two long adventurous weeks. Two or three of them were one-on-one times with God where I had to cry to Him for help and strength. One of them was when I saw one of the "cool guys" outside on the porch reading his Bible an hour before breakfast. How exciting is that? Another time was when I sat on my bed on a Sabbath eve listening to 100 + young people singing Amazing Grace into the 11:30 darkness outside my window. We had been sent singing from our final meeting shortly after eleven. I went inside because I was cold, but most of the young people didn't want to leave the cross that stood outside the doorway, and they just stood and sang common worship songs on into the night for another thirty or forty minutes. It was awe-inspiring to hear.

So finally, last Saturday I climbed back into my boat. In other words, I came home. While out of my little ship I learned a lot about trusting God, about letting God be God, and about letting Him be the one who gets the attention. I was blessed by messages I heard and by hearts I saw touched. My prayer list has lengthened as I've seen many needy young people and have heard their stories. I met many Christians who are passionate about God like I am if not more so, and I think I gained some friends while I was at it.

It's never a waste to walk on water.

Sugar Explosion

I left the world of dragons and gnomes behind. Having just finished my book, Magic Kingdom For Sale, I meandered into the kitchen and peaked into the fridge and freezer. Sitting in the freezer was Craig's Nalgene, partially filled with iced coffee. A light flicked on in my cranium, and I decided that of course I wanted iced coffee as well! (This wasn't just because I wanted to copy my brother; I happen to like iced coffee exceedingly, provided it has enough cream and sugar and isn't liable to keep me awake all night)

I set to it.

Only, in the process I got a little carried away. You see, the last time I made iced coffee was when I made a pitcher for my family. At the time I made the mistake of forgetting to add the sugar while the water was hot so it was difficult to make it dissolve. Well, Kayla rarely makes the same mistake twice . . . so I poured the sugar into my VERY potent four ounces of boiling water. (Imagine drinking two servings of coffee and a lot of sugar black in that condensed mixture. Shudder . . . )

There was a problem.

I soon realized that in my zest for sweetness and pride in my cleverness (I wasn't making the same mistake twice, remember?) I had forgotten one crucial point.

I was no longer making a pitcherful of coffee. I only had enough decaf coffee for two servings, and I had unthinkingly poured in about as much sugar to satisfy an army with sweet tooths. Well, probably not an army, but maybe a family.

Gulp.

There's no way I'm wasting that coffee.

So I'm drinking it anyway, even if my face is inclined to a benign grimace as I do so.

Maybe I'll drink it quick so I can enjoy one of Craig's peach smoothies.

Creeks, speed limit signs, and freedom

I am having an amazing vacation. Seriously! I'm staying in an air conditioned, modern town house in the mid South (thanks to some extremely generous and awesome relatives), and sleeping in until ten or eleven every morning (shocking, I know). I've almost made a point to do little productive reading. War and Peace (I've started the second volume now) has been gathering dust while I've eagerly been devouring the second and third books of the Mysterious Benedict Society, and now I'm feasting on some Terry Brooks. If I have time I hope to dig into some P.G. Wodehouse before I'm completely done. Besides that, I've done very little. Oh yes, we've gone into town a few times to do some exploring or brief shopping. I've played games with my mom, watched TV with my dad, and gone swimming in a nearby creek with Craig.

The creek was the perfect thing to do in the blistering heat. Even though it only went up to our knees it felt deliciously cool to lie down and douse ourselves. Craig showed me that it was even possible to float in the super shallow water if you held your breath the right way, and I let the current carry me a little ways downstream. I only stopped because there were some creepy guys (who happened to be Hispanic) sitting on the bank a little ways down and I didn't really want to go by them, though I'm sure they saw me and probably took no notice. Between floating, Craig and I sat in the water and found lots of perfect rocks to skip. I had had little success in the recent past in skipping stones, but this time I discovered that when I'm sitting on level with the water I can skip stones proficiently enough. Not very well, mind you, but just well enough to excite me. My talents in that area have been considerably dry.

One day, I decided to brave the heat and humidity (which was quite decent even at quarter to eight in the evening) and go running. I settled on a golfing community across the street, and the whole thing was pretty uneventful, except for one tiny observation. I saw a speed limit sign that said 19 1/2 miles per hour! Wow, wonders never cease. Actually, I thought it was kind of funny when only a few days earlier I had seen a sign that said 19 mph. I was musing about this sight out loud (why would anyone do something like that?) when my dad pointed out that it was good for making people THINK about it. He got me there. I was thinking a LOT more about the speed limit than I would have if the sign had read a blase 20 mph. And I DEFINITELY looked twice or thrice when I saw a sign that said 19 1/2 mph. Mission accomplished, I guess. Who knows how fast I might have run if the sign hadn't been there?

After several days of doing pretty much nothing (sounds wonderful, doesn't it?), we finally ventured forth to do something different. Not only did we stop at Good Will and later Dairy Queen (pretty much a vacation tradition in our family), but we went to see the Battlefield of Antietam. I suppose it's not that much more exciting than most battle fields, but it was quite thought provoking for me. You see, not only was Antietam labeled "the bloodiest battle of the Civil War" (with 23,000 + casualties in the 12 hours of fighting, 4 times as many American casualties as there were on D-day), but the whole place was so serene and peaceful. Cornfields rippled lazily in the late afternoon breeze, round hay bales dotted the green landscape, and blue mountains rose gently to majestically fringe the horizon. We crossed Burnside's Bridge (Ambrose Burnside, as you may or may not be aware, is the general whose name has brought us the term that we use to refer to sideburns) where about 500 Georgia Confederates held out against Union attack for three hours or more. I walked across the bridge in awe, surveying the calm water and thinking about the scenes that this bridge had witnessed. It's amazing how such an idyllic place could host such carnage.

It makes me think, and it makes me feel grateful. Grateful for the beauty of God's creation that can remain unmarred by man's sanguinary conflicts. And grateful for those who so willingly spill their blood so that others may feel the pulse of freedom coursing through their veins.

They died so that that freedom wouldn't spill out.