Friday, November 20, 2009

Baking, Baking, Baking

So much for blogging everyday, huh? Haha.
I don't have much to say, life has been pretty normal for the most part. Chris is making me a website. In the mean time, I'll get my own blog. For a photo blog thing. I'm excited.
Steph just cut my hair, it looks great. I'm going to french braid it tonight to make it HUGE for tomorrow morning. I'm pretty excited, for sure.
I'm leaving for Galveston, 6 am tomorrow. I'm beyond excited. God's going to change some hearts and some lives, I know it.
Yesterday was Science day. We made cookies, carrot cake, and baked spaghetti. Enjoy some pictures. :)


Besides baking, my life has consisted of coffee, poring over my Bible, journaling (with stickers, yay!), and reading Ansel Adams. I love life.

As for me, I won't be around for a week, maybe a couple days more. I love you all. :)

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Who Wants A Dirty Rose?

There is no one, NO ONE who wants a dirty rose. I mean, think about this. Someone gives you a bouquet of white roses for your birthday. You're all excited, because you know they're coming. They hand them over, and they're missing leaves and petals. They're more brown than white, and they wilt more than stand up. You smile a fake smile, and muster up the most genuine "Thank you" that you can choke out. But you know as soon as you get home, you're going to throw them away without another thought.
No on wants a dirty rose.
So why do we allow ourselves to be dirty? If God were looking at us as roses, He wouldn't particularly want a dirty rose.
But guess what? He does.
He looks at that rose, and says, "I love you."
He doesn't choke out a fake thank you, but He genuinely says, "Thank you." And means it. He takes us dirty roses, and makes us beautiful, makes us new.
I've made a lot of mistakes. Obviously. Humans are sinners. No sin is bigger than another to God. We've all messed up. We're all dirty roses.
But God picks those roses up, and smiles. He loves those roses. He will do everything in His power to make those roses new again. He will water them everyday, let sinshine get them, let the wind and rain get them, but all the while protect them. He will play them Mozart, if that is what it takes.
But the problem is, us dirty roses have to let him. We have to swallow our pride and say, "I have done wrong. I need your help to be beautiful again." God cannot make us new and beautiful until we allow him to. We have to let go, and let God.
And I'm very guilty of holding on, and saying, "God, just let ME do this. I know I can." And He will let us. And then we end up dirty again. And even though we turned our backs on Him before, He'll plant us again, watch us grow, and make us beautiful.
THROUGH GOD, and ONLY GOD, we are made new.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Word of The Week: Love

Words of The Day: Abused Love
Obviously, I abused love. I abused everything. Steph asked me this morning what my first memory of love was. I thought back to as far as I could remember, and I thought of when we were moving into our old house. We had to live in our grandma's house for 3 months. My Dad and I were always early risers, and so we would wake up early in the morning and make oatmeal. We would always tip-toe around the house, slippers on our feet; bath robes wrapped tightly around us to keep away the air conditioning that my grandma always had on. We whispered to each other, talking about nothing at all. He would make me a bowl of oatmeal, and once his was done, we would walk out onto the porch. We would watch the sun come up, and just silently eat our oatmeal, watching this beautiful thing that God made for us. In that moment, I was loved.
After I told my story, Steph asked me how I had gotten from that, to the love I thought I was getting two years ago.
My heart started thinking back to everytime I thought I was loved.
The first time a boy asked me out.
The second boy who asked me out.
My first kiss, in Skate City.
When we laid on his bed together.
When he told me he thought he loved me, even though we'd never met.
When we went to the theaters, and didn't watch a minute of the movie.
The first time he said, "If you loved me, you would..."
The moment I opened the car door, knowing it would be gone.
When he called me after and said, "I love you. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry."
The first time we snuck out.
In those moments, I was a piece of meat. Something to win, something to see how far they could get with me. Something to destroy, something to ruin. Something to use and abuse.
And then I remember something else. Something different.
I remember seeing His love for the first time. I remember Him smacking me in the head and saying, "I know you, and I love you anyway."
I remember His voice through my head; His hands places on my back as I cried, and let it all go.
I remember feeling saved. Feeling enough.
I remember hearing the story of His crucifixion REALLY for the first time, and crying, wishing I had SOMETHING to give in return.
I remember hearing His definition of love. I remember the times I failed, again and again, and I knew He was tugging on my heart.
I remember accepting Him into my heart.
In that moment, I was loved.

How did I get to where I was? It doesn't matter to me. Because now, I know true love. I know the love of Jesus Christ. And that is all I need.

Friday, November 13, 2009

The Room

"In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.
And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.
A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed."
The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I Have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger," "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.
An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.
But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.
I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?
Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.
Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.
"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.
He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."
I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written."
-Joshua Harris

Thursday, November 12, 2009

So this is it.
Steph has moved in, and we are homeschooling together. Each morning, after devotions, I'm going to take 30 minutes and just blog. About thoughts, about life, about anything and everything. I'll have another blog, and that will be more of an "assignment blog", where I do more prepared pieces. It's scary, this new path God is taking us on. But I'm sure He has big plans for us. I can feel it into the deepest part of my bones, the deepest places of my hearts. God's going to change my life, and use it for HIM. And I can't begin to explain how excited I am to begin my journey.
So, if you're reading, and going to continue reading, thanks. :) I hope that God is going to give me the right words, the right thoughts, and use me to my fullest ability. I'll be posting photos, words, poems, scripture, anything that is really just on my heart.