Unembarrassed

John Updike had issues, but he did not "mock God with metaphor," which is more than can be said for many squeaky-clean writers. The world needs more men who are not "embarrassed by the miracle."

"For now we see in a mirror darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know fully even as also I was fully known."

HT: World

Reading 2008

Book blogs are the enemy of reading. I discovered several fascinating blogs this year and spent hours enamored of reading, listing the books I wanted to read, and reading others' lists.Imagine my surprise when I realized that I had frittered away precious reading time staring at a computer screen. Apparently I was getting all the warm, fuzzy, readerly feelings without the commitment of turning pages. Sad. Goal for next year: Read less about reading and simply read.

Books read this year:

1. Your Home a Lighthouse, Bob and Betty Jacks
2. The Compleat Violinist, Yehudi Menuhin
3. Wives and Daughters, Elizabeth Gaskell
4. Epic, John Eldredge
5. Recapture the Wonder, Ravi Zacharias
6. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
7. The Mysterious Mr. Quinn, Agatha Christie
8. Why Didn't They Ask Evans, Agatha Christie
9. Hind's Feet on High Places, Hannah Hurnard
10. The Mayor of Casterbridge, Thomas Hardy
11. The Careful Use of Compliments, Alexander McCall Smith
12. Normal Kingdom Business, Andree Seu
13. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
14. The Portrait of a Lady, Henry James
15. Surprised by Joy, C. S. Lewis
16. While Still We Live, Helen MacInnes
17. Gaudy Night, Dorothy Sayers
18. A Chance to Die, Elisabeth Elliot
19. Do Hard Things, Alex and Brett Harris
20. Five for Sorrow, Ten for Joy, Rumer Godden
21. Peace Like a River, Leif Enger
22. Epic of Gilgamesh
23. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh
24. Beowulf, trans. Sean Heaney
25. *Adam, Ted Dekker
26. Freedom of a Christian, Martin Luther
27. The Prince, Machiavelli
28. So Brave, Young, and Handsome, Leif Enger
29. The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, Alexander McCall Smith
30. Without Fail, Lee Child
31. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
32. Walking on Water, Madeleine L'Engle

*Edit--I forgot to add The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett and the Socratic Dialogues by Plato.

And, of course, the Bible. Mostly ESV this year.

Next year, dv: More Malcolm Gladwell and Madeleine L'Engle. Wendell Berry, Willa Cather, and Walker Percy. Lots of children's lit. Milton. C. S. Lewis. Watchman Nee, John Piper, and Neil T. Anderson. Maybe some college text books, if I feel like it...

Thanks to my fellow readers who have inspired and intrigued me with their reading and who have listened to me rant about books and ideas by the hour. Happy New Year.

Breadth

*I wrote this awhile back and am posting this now while in the midst of finals to remind myself why I like my school and my major.

Some of you have probably heard me rave my Schaeffer inspired ravings about Christianity and culture. You've heard me rant that "Christian music" and "Christian fiction" are not confined to Janette Oke's novels or to WOW Worship music, although they have their place. You have probably accidentally started me going on this topic and have been unable to stop me....

This subject is one I am passionate about, and yet, I have had a little bit of a problem. I haven't attained a level of excellence myself in any of the fields I want to see changed. I can write, but not better than those I critique. I can play the violin, but not exceptionally well. I don't know how to draw, though I am trying to learn. I do want to excel in each of these areas, though, and that is the problem. I am hungry, so hungry, to learn more about each of these and other fields, that I hate the idea of specialization, because I want to learn EVERYTHING!!! (yes, I have a problem.)

This inconsistency--craving excellence and yet hating the focus and specialization required to attain it in any given area--- has bothered me. Or at least it did bother me until I read the following excerpt from G.K.Chesterton's book What's Wrong with the World.

Note: I was going to put a whole lot of disclaimers here, in case I make someone mad with my anti-feminism, but I'm not going to bother with any, except for this one stating that I thought of it. Oh, and this isn't a cop-out either. I still believe in working hard.


In other words, there must be in every center
of humanity one human being upon a larger plan; one who does not "give
her best," but gives her all.Our old analogy of the fire remains the most workable one.
The fire need not blaze like electricity nor boil like boiling water;
its point is that it blazes more than water and warms more than light.
The wife is like the fire, or to put things in their proper proportion,
the fire is like the wife. Like the fire, the woman is expected
to cook: not to excel in cooking, but to cook; to cook better
than her husband who is earning the coke by lecturing on botany
or breaking stones. Like the fire, the woman is expected to tell
tales to the children, not original and artistic tales, but tales--
better tales than would probably be told by a first-class cook.
Like the fire, the woman is expected to illuminate and ventilate,
not by the most startling revelations or the wildest winds of thought,
but better than a man can do it after breaking stones or lecturing.
But she cannot be expected to endure anything like this universal
duty if she is also to endure the direct cruelty of competitive or
bureaucratic toil. Woman must be a cook, but not a competitive cook;
a school mistress, but not a competitive schoolmistress;
a house-decorator but not a competitive house-decorator; a dressmaker,
but not a competitive dressmaker. She should have not one trade but
twenty hobbies; she, unlike the man, may develop all her second bests.
This is what has been really aimed at from the first in what
is called the seclusion, or even the oppression, of women.
Women were not kept at home in order to keep them narrow;
on the contrary, they were kept at home in order to keep them broad.
The world outside the home was one mass of narrowness,
a maze of cramped paths, a madhouse of monomaniacs.
It was only by partly limiting and protecting the woman that she
was enabled to play at five or six professions and so come almost
as near to God as the child when he plays at a hundred trades.
But the woman's professions, unlike the child's, were all truly
and almost terribly fruitful; so tragically real that nothing but
her universality and balance prevented them being merely morbid.

This is why I am majoring in "classical liberal arts," PHC's education major designed to train students to write curricula, teach at classical schools, or homeschool. This is why I am going to college--to learn to be a better mother. I believe my craving for a breadth of knowledge is God-given and a gift from God to help me be what He has designed me to be. Oh, and if I never have a chance to teach my own children? I can still be a librarian, a vocation that would suit me to a t...

I Will Lift My Eyes

Nevada Rockies

About three weeks ago, I was feeling highly stressed from trying to balance school, work, and people. A life consisting of school, work, sleep, and a little guilt for never quite doing enough seemed to stretch out interminably. Browsing through pictures of the western states (yet another form of procrastination when I should have been working on a paper), I wished out loud that I could spend some time traveling across our country but knew there was no way I could make anything like that happen.

Within two days of this wish, my aunt called me and invited me to help her and my uncle move out to California. I would split the driving, and all of my travel costs were to be paid by them. Work was slow, and school was portable, so no obstacles presented themselves. Essentially, God knew my heart's desire and dropped this trip into my lap. Or, as a friend pointed out, perhaps He placed the desire in my heart because He wanted to speak to me on the trip in some way.

Travel is good for the soul. I hate to over-spiritualize things, but the long days of driving really did minister to my very unquiet spirit, and God really did seem to be speaking to me through the trip. As I traveled, I regained proper prospective on life--I am small, my problems are small, and the God who created the Kansas plains, the Colorado mountains, and the Wyoming wind is awfully big.


People warned me that Kansas would bore me. I was a little bit apprehensive of the open plains, because growing up in wooded New England has given me a small case of reverse claustrophobia (Is there a term for that?). However, I thoroughly enjoyed the monotony of grass, sky (so much sky! How do people stay on the ground and not float away?), and strange-looking-irrigation-robot-things. The sameness soothed my nerves and reminded me of the Unchanging One: "I am Jehovah, I change not."

As much as I enjoyed the novelty of the prairie, the open spaces did lose a bit of their charm by the time we were well into Colorado. Just as their continuity began to wear on me, the Rockies appeared. I cried. I had no idea how majestic they would be contrasted with the prairie and high desert. "I will lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved."


Wyoming was my favorite state. The combination of mountains, sky, and wind was so beautiful it hurt. I encountered power like I never have before--we drove through fifty mph winds that knocked tractor-trailers over along the highway (The helpless trucks reminded me a bit of the helplessness of tipped cows, for some reason.) and caused the shadows of passing clouds to fly past us on the highway. When we stopped at a rest area to get a break from the wind, I could just barely move against the wind and could not breathe if I faced into it. Poor Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Lori were a bit stressed, but I have rarely enjoyed anything so much in my life. I've always enjoyed wind, and the sheer exhilaration of the speed and strength of an unseen force made me giddy with joy. The truckers huddled at the rest stop amusedly watched me, the "reserved one", run and stagger and shout and laugh out loud for pure happiness as the wind pushed me around.

After we left our shelter and headed down out of the mountains, Aunt Lori reminded us of another unseen force: "The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." Should I be expecting the same degree of spontaneity, joy, freedom,and satisfaction while being directed by the Wind? Food for thought...


Remember that Shakespeare bit about sleep knitting the 'raveled sleeve of care? I could feel travel healing up my internal unravelings. Despite pressing deadlines (two term papers and an exam due the week of the trip), as we drove for hours upon end and as I flew back, I had an almost physical sensation of something in my core moving back into place. Frazzled nerve endings shrank back into their proper places, and I felt as if God were telling me, "I knew you needed a break, I heard your desire, and I knew that the trip would help you. I created this vast country. I created you, as well, and I am taking care of you. I, Jehovah, change not, am your helper, and am working even when you can't see Me. "

Now I am home again. Still facing the challenges of juggling full-time school, full-time work, and living with a full-time family that I love dearly. The stress will pile up again, but God knew exactly what I needed this last time around. He's probably able to figure out what I need next time life gets too big.

The people in the cities

A man said, Why, why does travelling
in cars and in trains make him feel sad,
A beautiful sadness.
I've felt this way before.
It's the people in the cities you'll never know.
It is everything you pass by,
wondering, will you ever return?

~Innocence Mission


My mind contains quite a large gallery of faces. Strangers' faces. I recorded the earliest that I can now recall when I was about six years old. I add new ones all the time. Most of the pictures are quite vivid still, but some are so faded that I can't quite pull them into focus and just remember what it felt like to see them.

These faces are the faces of people whom I have never really met but have only seen or talked to in passing. I haven't the faintest idea who most of them are, but each one is etched in my mind as someone I wish I could know. And, yes, I do feel sad that I do not know them. Sometimes I can tell that someone is going to be added to my collection, but, more often than not, I don't "recognize" them until they're gone.

Faces added over the past years include a little girl in K-mart (this is the faint one from age six). Tall, bearded, French-speaking Jewish brothers, who perhaps were twins, seen at a violin recital in Jerusalem. A smiling girl with messy blonde hair who was auditioning for the part of Anne at the Palace Theater eight years ago.

The lady who looked just like Yoda. The sandy-haired kid who looked like he should be in school but sat instead in the Pizza Hut in a tiny prairie town with sturdy looking farmers who wore flannel shirts, greasy baseball caps, and lots of stubble. The frightened-looking Hispanic woman and child being yelled at by their father and husband in the hats and gloves section of Caldors twelve years ago.

The girl who toured the bell towers of Notre Dame with me. She spoke no English, and I could not figure out what her language was after ruling out German, Italian, and Spanish. Both solo travelers, we took turns taking touristy pictures of each other with the other's camera and communicated with smiles and sign language. We never took a picture together.


I'm from New England. I don't approach strangers. I feel uncomfortable down south or out west or anywhere where I have to emerge from my shell and talk to my "neighbor." And I like being the way I am, thank you.

Sometimes, though, I wonder what I'm missing.

Jealous

"Outside of literary study, life has no meaning or attraction for him...he is adapted for nothing else. You may make up your mind to that."

--Written to C. S. Lewis' father by his tutor


How convenient to be adapted only for literary study! I feel especially jealous of Jack as I wade through endless college applications, barely able to read and study anything else, ironically enough. Yet, I know that at the end of this tunnel are literary studies galore, so I can't complain. Must hang on for a few more weeks and get my intellectual sustenance in the meantime by filling out financial aid forms.

Je suis fanatique des bouquinistes.

I'm currently sitting in Soj's world famous reading chair, relaxing after a long tour of practically all the bookshops in Paris. (See her blog for proof that I am actually here.)Why did we spend most of one of my few days in Paris doing that? Well, in the last thirty-six hours, I had already seen for the first time all of the following:

~ Tower Bridge
~ Big Ben
~ Parliament
~ Westminster Abbey
~ Eiffel Tower
~ Notre Dame
~ the Louvre
~ Sacre Coeur

Admittedly, some of these were seen briefly and from a distance (Every time I say "from a distance," Soj bursts into a Bette Midler song.), but, still, I would say that I had already seen plenty of major sites of London and Paris in the last day and had my fill (at least for the moment) of tourists.

Yes, I do know that I currently could fall into the tourist category, but I prefer to consider myself a "traveller." If I think of it that way, I feel less guilty about turning up my nose at all the other people in front of me in lines, many of whom I will be hating tomorrow when I actually visit the Louvre and other well-known places.

Anyway, we did the "traveller" thing today and wandered through many little Parisian streets in search of the perfect used bookshop. We visited Shakespeare and Co., the Village Voice, Tea and Tattered Pages, and many of the bouquinistes along the Seine. I never actually bought anything, except overpriced postcards, but, now, having seen some of my choices, I will probably retrace my steps tomorrow and take my picks.

In the meantime, I am sleepy, as is my hostess. I need to be rested up to see Mona Lisa tomorrow, and I also need to get Soj to stop singing cheesy songs to me, so I bid you adieu. (Soj sings, "To you, and you, and you.")

The Umbrella

Dear Umbrella,

I have a confession.

I used to think umbrellas were only for elderly people. When cute little old ladies hobbled by me, carefully shielding their blue perms from the rain, I would smilingly note their quaintness. When young people carried them, I would scoff at their lack of fortitude. After all, I didn't need an umbrella. I could handle whatever moisture I accumulated between the house and the car, and I was smart enough not to walk anywhere in the rain.

Only old people needed umbrellas. And maybe the Wicked Witch of the West.

Umbrella, I have seen the light. Er, maybe it would be more accurate to say that I have seen the clouds. And the rain. And I have wished dreadfully for one of your kind.

In fact, last Thursday, I wanted you so badly that I said aloud, in public, that I was ready to kill for you. Unfortunately, I didn't feel like killing the little Asian couple that appeared around the corner a minute later, so I remained damp.

The day had started off sunnily enough, so much so that I smiled at Karena's predictions of rain and turned down her offer of a rain jacket or umbrella. My little brown coat was just fine, I assured her. And so it was, for most of the afternoon.

As I exited a bookshop, looking homeward (I thought.), a few drops fell to the ground. The local Britishers promptly opend their umbrellas and tied on their waterproof hoods, to my amusement. A few unprotected souls stepped into doorways (Just like in the books!). I was amused. A little drizzle wouldn't hurt anyone.

Then it started to rain harder.

Then I got lost.

When I finally consulted the map, I couldn't find the street I was on on the silly thing. That's because I had walked so far in the wrong direction that I was not in the part of Cambridge I expected to be in. But I didn't know that yet.

Rain started running off my nose, so I put my coat over my head.

"Maybe it will stop soon, I thought," and stepped into a doorway myself. Unfortunately, no P.G. Wodehouseish fellow was on hand with an umbrella to rescue a maiden in distress.

The rain did indeed slacken. It slackened three or four times in the next hour, in between downpours.

One especially torrential downpour found me sheltering under a tree on a green as I tried to turn the pages of a rather soaked map. I felt quite happy to be on a green, because the map showed that I should cross one on my way back to Karena's.

However, I crossed the green and the Cam River, only to find nothing familiar.

"Newnham?" A kind passerby raised her eyebrows at my request. "Oh, you're totally in the wrong direction." (Imagine this in the precisest of English accents. The beauty of it almost softened the blow of the words.)

I retraced my steps.

About the time I was back in the city centre (note brit. spelling) was when I resolved to kill for the umbrella.

My coat was soaked through. My shoes were soaked through. My purse was soaked through. My hair had come down and was soaked through. My jean skirt was soaked.

I was too wet to bother about waiting for the rain to let up, so I forged ahead. I remembered Brandon's little trick of singing, "Oh, how I love Jesus," when he was feeling miserable, so I tried it. Yes, I trudged along the streets of Cambridge singing about Jesus and trying to decide if I was up to murdering someone.

Eventually things looked familiar. St. Mary's swam into my ken. Then, as I stared with wild surmise, Charlie, Lexie, and Arthur did as well. Except they weren't swimming. They were mostly dry because they were standing in the doorway of St. Mary's waiting for either the rain to stop or Karena to arrive with the car, whichever came first. I decided to stick with them and was subsequently rescured along with them by Karena.

And, so, dear umbrella, since I survived the results of my foolishness, I do repent. Henceforth, (at least while I am in England, where rain clouds pop up at the oddest moments, and where I walk everywhere) I will carry an umbrella. Or at least wear a rain coat or something. I also resolve not to secretly mock those who carry umbrellas (at least, not those who carry them on this Island).

Perhaps this repentance is not as complete as it could be. However, allowances must be made for one brought up on Little Women. After all, "Under the Umbrella" would have had to be "Under the Umbrellas" if Jo had carried one of you with her, and that would rather have ruined the story.

That aside, I do respectfully and appreciatively remain your humble admirer,
Bria

Half a Mustard Seed?

After discussing a disappointing situation with a friend yesterday, the friend told me she was going to pray for a miracle in said situation.

My thoughts as I mulled over the conversation later went something like this:

"I appreciate her faith, but I'm not going to waste my faith on that. I'm saving up for a miracle for Paige."

Fortunately, the Holy Spirit stepped in at that point and reminded me that He isn't limited to one miracle at a time. He doesn't wear Himself out working on one situation and find Himself too taxed to take care of one more.

And, no, faith isn't a currency I can hoard until I have enough to purchase a miracle from my own private Max the Miracle Man.

Enough of trying to screw my faith to the sticking place. I don't get it, so I'm just going to plain believe God can do what He wants and that He wants what is good. That takes enough effort as it is. Maybe that's all He's looking for, anyway?

Because I Love and Adore Claire (and part of me really does want to do this, too.)

Claire tagged me. Now, I have not blogged in months. However, since Claire is one of my absolutely favoritest people, I will sort of play the game by listing seven random things about myself. (A nice painless way of blogging for a backslidden blogger, no?) I'm just too lazy to think of seven more people.

1. I used to regularly read the encyclopedia for fun.

2. I would love to be a librarian. Most people who hear that exclaim, "Oh, you look like one!" I still am not sure how to react to that.

3. I want to walk across England someday.

4. I miss Jerry Trupiano.

5. I once pulled a muscle in my face while trying to spit into the sink.

6. Oh dear. I guess I won't feel bad for Mariano Rivera anymore this year.

7. I have never mowed a lawn in all my nineteen years.


Voila. A post.

This Is Scary

What book or movie is it in which some piano virtuoso comes back to a piano after years away and is afraid to play again? I have this vivid picture in my head of him (or her, I can only picture the hands) opening and closing his hands as the pianist musters up courage to touch the keys.

That's how I feel. (Because I used to be a blogger virtuoso, of course!)

I haven't posted in a really long time.

I know you poor souls are all going to look at this because it is going to come up as a new post on Aaron's blog list.

I feel powerful.

Why is it that I feel compelled to tell you how I feel?

......

How many of you can instantly recall what you are wearing without looking to see? I frequently have a hard time remembering. "Oh, you like my skirt? Just a minute while I look to see which one it is." Perhaps this is a warning sign of Alzheimers?

Thanks

I really appreciate all of you who have prayed for me during the last month or so. This year at Bible School seems to be off to quite an auspicious start and already has blown first year out of the water.

My fellow upperclassmen (woohoo!) are incredible.

Our focus on the Gospel in class has fed me richly.

God is teaching me to rest.

I can even be on meals by myself with confidence!

God is good.

I just hope that He helps me to successfully "convert" my eighty-year-old-grandfather-who-has-just-been-diagnosed-with-cancer-and-has-one-month-
to-live (played by Uncle Neil) tomorrow. Hooray for personal evangelism!

End of Summer

Many times this summer I have signed into blogger and almost begun a post entitled, "Bria Comes Through in the Clutch!" This post would, of course, be about my experiences learning to drive stick shift this summer. ("Do you mind if I hide under the seat?") However, I couldn't quite bring myself to use such a terrible pun. And maybe the memories are still a bit painful...

How odd...I wonder how many times I've typed my name out in a sentence, as above. I've typed it out at the beginning of papers and at the end of emails, but I am pretty sure I've not typed it into a sentence myself. I felt strange when I typed it.

* (Report of learning incident that doesn't really fit into this post.)
Do you know what the word "amok," or "amuck," as it can be spelled, means? I had always thought it had something to do with running aground or with things generally going wrong. Last night, as Elizabeth was reading the Iliad aloud to me, while I arranged pennies in order of date, she read a sentence containing the word that made it very clear that it did not mean what I thought it meant. We looked it up and got these definitions:

(among members of certain Southeast Asian cultures) a psychic disturbance characterized by depression followed by a manic urge to murder.

3. run or go amuck,
a. to rush about in a murderous frenzy: The maniac ran amuck in the crowd, shooting at random.
b. to rush about wildly; lose self-control: When the nightclub caught fire the patrons ran amuck, blocking the exits.

Live and learn.
*

I'm off tomorrow morning to Fairwood to work. Will I be blogging from there? Probably not, but anything's possible. Perhaps I will write a nice retrospective post about the clutch-burning days of summer...

My courage for another year is quite good, but I wouldn't mind if any of you guys thought to pray for me.

Happy blogging!

Last Words

"Either that wallpaper goes, or I do."
~Oscar Wilde

I heard this quote for the first time while listening to NPR with Claire a few weeks ago. We pronounced it blogworthy.

Thus this post.

I was considering letting this be my last post before I head back to Fairwood, but now that I'm faced with the looming prospect of summer work I'm becoming more and more attached to this poor neglected blog.

Such is life.

Perhaps I will yet post again.

Overachieving, anyone?

I have been organizing all my papers, attempting to balance my account (it takes me awhile), organizing my "library", packing to go back to Fairwood, reading Don Quixote, berating myself for not practicing my violin, wasting time on blogs, reading In This House of Brede for the second time (It's scary how much Catholicism appeals to me), beginning a study of Latin, preparing to brush up on my French, thinking about studying Aristotle's Rhetoric, not participating in color week, doing laundry, and thinking that perhaps Lord Peter Wimsey would be just the husband for me.

And I'm happy because I don't feel obligated to finish most of the above "tasks." The illusion of business is enough to make me happy.

"Be still and know that I am God."

Okay.

Overheard in the S------d Household

At the dinner table:

Mother to Offspring X: Offspring Y will probably be president someday, he's so used to ridicule.
Offspring X: Mom, I'm not nearly as bad as Nancy Pelosi!
Offspring Y: Don't worry, I'll make you the Secretary of Defense.
Offspring X: Didn't JFK make his brother something?
Offspring Z, irrelevantly: Yeah, but he died, too!

Chivalry is not dead.

A wizened old man with wrinkled tattooes, lots of stubble, and a veteran's cap opened a door for me at the post office today before effortlessly got around me to open the next one for me. I'd like to see some young ATI guy do better. "They don't make'em like they used to."

Something I've Been Pondering

What if you and I see the color we both call "blue" differently?

Say I see it as the color you call green.

We would never know, because we would both consistently call it the same name and identify it with the same objects.

My brain hurts.

"Old Buddha"

is a song title from Mum's cd, "The Best of the Imperials," given to her by her sister in memory of their good ol' Campus Crusade days at UConn. This song amuses me so much with its unabashed unPCness that I am going to break my self-imposed rule of never blogging about song lyrics to share this one with you.

Well, old Buddha was a man
And I'm sure that he did well,
But I pray for his disciples
Lest they end up in hell,
And I'm sure that old Mohammed
Was sure he knew the way,
But it won't be Hari Krishna
We stand before on judgment day.

Chorus:
But it won't be old Buddha
That's sitting on the throne,
And it won't be old Mohammed
That's calling me home,
And it won't be Hari Krishna
That plays that trumpet tune,
And we're going to see the Son,
Not Reverend Moon!

Well, I don't hate anybody,
So please don't take me wrong,
But there really is a message
In this simple song,
See, there's only one way--Jesus,
If eternal life is your goal,
And meditation of the mind, it won't save your soul.

chorus

Well, you can call yourself a Baptist
And not be born again,
A Presbyterian or a Methodist
And still die in your sin,
You can even be Charismatic,
Shout and dance and jump a pew,
But if you hate your brother,
You won't be of the chosen few!

New Chorus:
'Cause it won't be a Baptist
That's sitting on the throne,
A Presbyterian or a Methodist
That's calling me home,
And it won't be a Charismatic
That plays that trumpet tune,
So let's all just live for Jesus,
'Cause He's coming back real soon!


That Reverend Moon bit gets me every time...

Peak

Know what? God is wicked good to me. Even when I refuse to talk to Him. Even when I don't believe He knows what He's doing. Even when I'm all grumpy and whiny and depressed.

Today I'm not grumpy and whiny and depressed, and I am amazed at how much He does for me. You'd think He loves me or something!

Look at all my blessings:

~Visits with friends at the FamCon.
~True blue friends with whom to visit
~Hours in the car by myself
~Beautiful weather
~Ice cream with friends
~KATHERINE!
~Flowers and herbs and things
~Lots of work hours
~Ice cream and flowers and music in Portsmouth with my ENTIRE family!
~Lindsay
~Peace
~Joy
~The discovery that slightly cooler than boiling water makes green tea so much better
~The remembering that God wants me personally, something I often lose sight of.
~Ecclesiastes--somehow it's ministering to me this year

The clouds are breaking, and, what do you know, God has been good all along. Weird.

I love Him.