Only the faint sounds of an oxygen machine could be heard in my consciousness as I was shelling peas. I looked up at my great Aunt Mary and a smiled kissed the edges of my mouth. She is such a beautiful woman I told myself as my mom chatted with her. Golden afternoon sun slipped through the cracks of the blinds, making the upstairs room warm but not stuffy. Cool pea pods snapped refreshingly in my hands.
This was the first time I had ever shelled peas, and it wasn't till I was half way through with a bag that I realized something. A thin layer of condensation graced the peas, making the lighter green pop from the dark green, and warm sun lit up the skin just enough so I could see the winding veins twist in their mysterious patterns. The textures of the peas themselves looked almost like velvet while the pod's inside was slick as dew, and that's when it happened. My breath was taken by the beauty of a split pea pod.
I don't know if something like this has ever happened to you, but I hope it has. A moment in time where your breath is lost over something that is too wonderful for words is such a lovely thing. If this hasn't happened to you, don't worry. I have tried to train my eyes to see little wonders, and your eyes can see them too.
It may sound idealistic, but I wish to see something gorgeous in God's creation at least once-a-day. I know what you're thinking. She'll run out of gorgeous things really quickly. I thought the same as well, but God has never ceased to amaze me. He gives me great joy over the beauty of things like grapes, trees, musical phrases, animals, people, and yes, even pea pods. It's refreshing to your spirit to see God's hands in the "little" things in life, and something can be found every day.
Will you look with me? You won't have to search very hard because most of the time God's beauty is staring us in the face. We just forget to see it.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Saturday, August 16, 2014
I Came Back from the Dominican Disgusted
I thought I could handle it, you know. I thought I could handle all the poverty. I had seen pictures and heard stories about how people were stunned at the conditions in other countries, but I didn't think I'd be one of those people. I thought that because the poor and needy entered my prayers on occasion before breakfast, I wouldn't be caught off guard. I went through one of the poorest villages to give the people some food and wasn't totally shell shocked, so I thought I would be okay.
I was wrong.
My mission group was going to help install a water filter in a near by home, so we all climbed into the stuffy, small bus. The bus rumbled down the dirt path while the passengers tried not to knock heads together. Dominicans waved as we passed, acting as if we were some kind of celebrities. The homes er sped by were made out of things we Americans would throw to the dump pile.
When I came from the bus, the smell was one of the first things to hit me. It wasn't an all foul oder, but definitely something that I had never sensed before. Our translator pointed to the "house" we would be going into, but you couldn't tell which house she meant because they were all packed together.
Then, a young girl of maybe seven emerged from a pile of metal that was her home, and she latched onto the nearest visitor. That little girl name was Maria, and she was a pretty girl, tall and lean, much too lean. The mother of the house invited us in, though not all 25 of us would fit. With the translators leading the way, I followed, going into a house that would change my life.
My eyes took a moment to adjust to the shack because there was no electricity, and the whole house was barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Everything was just so dark. I peered off to the side of the house that was supposed to be a room. I could scarcely make out what I think was supposed to be a bed. All I could see was a pile of clothes that didn't look much like clothes.
I then turned to the kitchen....or what they called the kitchen. Old plastic Tupperware and rusted pots were set on splintered wood that looked lethal to the touch. This description is inaccurate on so many levels. I wish I could perfectly capture what I saw for you.
Everyone circled up in the back yard around a pile of stones that was used as a stove. I realized that these people never have cold water. They get water from where ever they can, and tote it back to be boil clean. So if these people get semi-clean water it would be hot from boiling. That struck me hard because I had grown to love my cold water while in the DR, and they don't have that.
The mother of the house proceeded to tell us that she had gotten a virus in recent months and wasn't able to take care of her children. One of the leaders asked how long they had gone without food, and she said a week. A week with no food, and they could do nothing about it. At hearing this, some of the girls pulled out all their snacks and gave them to the family. The mother handed all the snacks to her two kids immediately, and she acted as if we had done something great.
After talking with the family and praying over them, we left. My stomach churned as I got on the bus. We were all going back to our hotel to have a buffet lunch in the air conditioning while this sweet family was still out there. The thought of this made me sick, and why was I the one who was born an American with so many luxuries? Why? I asked God that all day with no reply. It was three hours later that a complaint leaked from my mouth, and I thought I was going to throw-up from my own greed and selfishness.
So many people come back to the U.S saying how thankful they are for all they have, and that came to me later, but the predominant thought in my mind was disgust. All we waist, how little we think on people in these situations, and how much we complain shook me to the core.
I came back from the DR disgusted at myself and my culture.
I was wrong.
My mission group was going to help install a water filter in a near by home, so we all climbed into the stuffy, small bus. The bus rumbled down the dirt path while the passengers tried not to knock heads together. Dominicans waved as we passed, acting as if we were some kind of celebrities. The homes er sped by were made out of things we Americans would throw to the dump pile.
When I came from the bus, the smell was one of the first things to hit me. It wasn't an all foul oder, but definitely something that I had never sensed before. Our translator pointed to the "house" we would be going into, but you couldn't tell which house she meant because they were all packed together.
Then, a young girl of maybe seven emerged from a pile of metal that was her home, and she latched onto the nearest visitor. That little girl name was Maria, and she was a pretty girl, tall and lean, much too lean. The mother of the house invited us in, though not all 25 of us would fit. With the translators leading the way, I followed, going into a house that would change my life.
My eyes took a moment to adjust to the shack because there was no electricity, and the whole house was barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Everything was just so dark. I peered off to the side of the house that was supposed to be a room. I could scarcely make out what I think was supposed to be a bed. All I could see was a pile of clothes that didn't look much like clothes.
I then turned to the kitchen....or what they called the kitchen. Old plastic Tupperware and rusted pots were set on splintered wood that looked lethal to the touch. This description is inaccurate on so many levels. I wish I could perfectly capture what I saw for you.
Everyone circled up in the back yard around a pile of stones that was used as a stove. I realized that these people never have cold water. They get water from where ever they can, and tote it back to be boil clean. So if these people get semi-clean water it would be hot from boiling. That struck me hard because I had grown to love my cold water while in the DR, and they don't have that.
The mother of the house proceeded to tell us that she had gotten a virus in recent months and wasn't able to take care of her children. One of the leaders asked how long they had gone without food, and she said a week. A week with no food, and they could do nothing about it. At hearing this, some of the girls pulled out all their snacks and gave them to the family. The mother handed all the snacks to her two kids immediately, and she acted as if we had done something great.
After talking with the family and praying over them, we left. My stomach churned as I got on the bus. We were all going back to our hotel to have a buffet lunch in the air conditioning while this sweet family was still out there. The thought of this made me sick, and why was I the one who was born an American with so many luxuries? Why? I asked God that all day with no reply. It was three hours later that a complaint leaked from my mouth, and I thought I was going to throw-up from my own greed and selfishness.
So many people come back to the U.S saying how thankful they are for all they have, and that came to me later, but the predominant thought in my mind was disgust. All we waist, how little we think on people in these situations, and how much we complain shook me to the core.
I came back from the DR disgusted at myself and my culture.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Myth of Mighty Men
Have you ever wondered if those men really exist? You know the ones I'm talking about. The men who open door for ladies, call us miss and ma'ma, who turn there eyes when the Victoria secret commercials come on, who look into our eyes rather than our bodies, those who lead with strong hearts that are running towards God. I have wondered if the kind of man I'm waiting to marry really does exist, and I'm sure men have thought the same about us women.
I'm here today to tell you that they do exist. How do I know? I've met them. Now, I know many men, but only a handful are like those I described above. I want to tell you about some of the instances where these men have just astounded me.
It was a hot mid-summer afternoon, and I skimmed my hand over the blue water of the pool. It was smooth and fresh, twisting through my fingers. I was amazed that my older cousin Jared could still throw me up in the air, and that my other cousin Jacob still though screaming under water was fun. They started swimming ahead of me in what I thought to be as a sort of tag game. I was worn out when we came to a far corner, breathing heavy,
"Can we just stay here for a moment?" I asked as a group of bikini clad ladies came to our corner to dip their toes in.
"Not anymore," Jared said, and he started swimming away. I whined and asked why, but he just gave me a look, and it all clicked.
"Ooh, right," I said. We had been swimming around to find a spot where they could swim and not mentally stumble on what the girls at the pool were wearing.
Change the scene. The crowd started to whisper as the movie theater lights started to dim, and the first few commercials started to play. I looked over at my friend, Ben, excitedly. It was time to see Captain America: The Winter Soldier! He smiled, but then the snippet of sex scene in ever PG-13 commercial started to play. When I looked over to see Ben's reaction, he had his head buried in his knees. I told him when one commercial was over so he could come out of his turtle shell,
"You shouldn't be watching that junk either," He said, and my heart was convicted. So, we both spent the commercial time with eye averted, chatting while commercials played.
These experiences and others have astounded me. I realized that after each experience that this shouldn't be rare, and I shouldn't be so shocked. My shock indicated that I had lost faith that these mighty men really do exist.
I'm here to tell you that they do.
I'm here today to tell you that they do exist. How do I know? I've met them. Now, I know many men, but only a handful are like those I described above. I want to tell you about some of the instances where these men have just astounded me.
It was a hot mid-summer afternoon, and I skimmed my hand over the blue water of the pool. It was smooth and fresh, twisting through my fingers. I was amazed that my older cousin Jared could still throw me up in the air, and that my other cousin Jacob still though screaming under water was fun. They started swimming ahead of me in what I thought to be as a sort of tag game. I was worn out when we came to a far corner, breathing heavy,
"Can we just stay here for a moment?" I asked as a group of bikini clad ladies came to our corner to dip their toes in.
"Not anymore," Jared said, and he started swimming away. I whined and asked why, but he just gave me a look, and it all clicked.
"Ooh, right," I said. We had been swimming around to find a spot where they could swim and not mentally stumble on what the girls at the pool were wearing.
Change the scene. The crowd started to whisper as the movie theater lights started to dim, and the first few commercials started to play. I looked over at my friend, Ben, excitedly. It was time to see Captain America: The Winter Soldier! He smiled, but then the snippet of sex scene in ever PG-13 commercial started to play. When I looked over to see Ben's reaction, he had his head buried in his knees. I told him when one commercial was over so he could come out of his turtle shell,
"You shouldn't be watching that junk either," He said, and my heart was convicted. So, we both spent the commercial time with eye averted, chatting while commercials played.
These experiences and others have astounded me. I realized that after each experience that this shouldn't be rare, and I shouldn't be so shocked. My shock indicated that I had lost faith that these mighty men really do exist.
I'm here to tell you that they do.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
My nightmare, Their reality
My eyes popped open, but I didn't feel any more rested than when I had fallen asleep. My emotions were in a tangle, and my heart was full of anxiety. Memories came rushing back, and I realized why I was in a cold sweat. My heart sunk to my stomach. It was another dream, and the details were still fresh in my mind. Fear crippled my thoughts. I couldn't move from my bed.
It wasn't the first time though. This wasn't the first nightmare I had where I had been raped, but the fear I had forgotten came rushing back. I am a "sheltered homeschooler" and the last person one would ever think to have these kinds of fears and dreams.
Why had the dream come up again? I asked myself. Why would God allow me to feel such fear? No one was in the house I woke up in, but my mom was just a hill's climb away. I was too frightened to make that walk for a very long time. The few days following I was on edge with every male encounter.
But I think I now understand why God allowed this, and please don't think I'm any sort of a victim.
Oh no.
These dreams are only a very small window into the horror that happens to girls all across the world. I want to tell you about them. 17,500 hundred girls are trafficked into the USA annually, and many of them are between the ages of 18 and 24. Some girls are trafficked at 14. I was an innocent, goofy kid when I was 14. Prostitution is legal in places called the Red Light districts.Think about this! Let this sink into your head, or more importantly your heart.
These women who are trapped emotionally and physically are often forced into prostitution. Yes, I said forced. I can't say everything I would like to and keep this post readable, but if you want to know more about these girls and really put yourself in their shoes I recommend that you watch a documentary called Nefarious. Tears will be shed, but you can no longer say that you are blind.
God has given me the mission to pray for these girls and the people who go out and minister to them. My heart yearns to help them through prayer, and I hope that you see how important little ol' prayer can change everything. I can't go into strip clubs, out on the town, or bust in brothels to save these precious souls, but I can pray.
Will you pray with me?
It wasn't the first time though. This wasn't the first nightmare I had where I had been raped, but the fear I had forgotten came rushing back. I am a "sheltered homeschooler" and the last person one would ever think to have these kinds of fears and dreams.
Why had the dream come up again? I asked myself. Why would God allow me to feel such fear? No one was in the house I woke up in, but my mom was just a hill's climb away. I was too frightened to make that walk for a very long time. The few days following I was on edge with every male encounter.
But I think I now understand why God allowed this, and please don't think I'm any sort of a victim.
Oh no.
These dreams are only a very small window into the horror that happens to girls all across the world. I want to tell you about them. 17,500 hundred girls are trafficked into the USA annually, and many of them are between the ages of 18 and 24. Some girls are trafficked at 14. I was an innocent, goofy kid when I was 14. Prostitution is legal in places called the Red Light districts.Think about this! Let this sink into your head, or more importantly your heart.
These women who are trapped emotionally and physically are often forced into prostitution. Yes, I said forced. I can't say everything I would like to and keep this post readable, but if you want to know more about these girls and really put yourself in their shoes I recommend that you watch a documentary called Nefarious. Tears will be shed, but you can no longer say that you are blind.
God has given me the mission to pray for these girls and the people who go out and minister to them. My heart yearns to help them through prayer, and I hope that you see how important little ol' prayer can change everything. I can't go into strip clubs, out on the town, or bust in brothels to save these precious souls, but I can pray.
Will you pray with me?
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Waters of Honesty
Crystal water ripples from the whispers of the wind , and leaves kiss its surface. One strains to find the heart of it all, peering into
the water, but it cannot and will not be found. Time passes and the water
calms, getting comfortable with the penetrating stare of an onlooker. That’s when the mud comes forth, bubbling and
frothing. Stench rises up into his nose, but he plunges in anyway. Rocks scratch at his feet. What is
this?
Honesty.
It's a scary thing, really. When people see past your persona,
when the water calms, they can see the muck and stones that are logged in
that secret place. When we are honest, people will see the grit and grime we
all try to hide.
I often wonder why humans try to
hide their wickedness, problems, and sin. We all sin, and we all have troubles,
so why do we go around pretending like we don't? Often times I do it without
noticing it, like it’s a part of me that’s programmed in. I call that program
human nature, but it leaves me feeling alone. Wanting to be known but then fearing the outcome of honesty, and why is
honesty any better? Because after the out pouring of ones heart to a friend,
you can be sure you’re known, really known, by someone, and by pouring out
honestly to God I receive cleanliness, righteousness, and love.
And it might be
funny, but this is my reason for writing all this down and putting it out to
others. I want to be honest and share with people what I think, what
I believe, and how I feel.
Here marks my journey of honesty.
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