It's not quite 8:00 yet on a Tuesday morning, and here I am. This is the one day each week I take the time to sit down and write whatever I have a mind to write. No theology papers, no forced, edited, tweaked, deconstructed and entirely re-written essays or short stories. Just my thoughts, my experiences, my own judgment.
Today I have to write a paper on what I believe about God's character, His works, and His Trinity. I know what I believe about these things, but I never realized how much theology has to say about just these aspects of God. For centuries people have put a lot of thought and time into trying to explain God. Truly, there is nothing new under the sun.
The Trinity. Three in one. It's hard to grasp, yet Christians insist it is the true nature of God, and we try to explain it, attempt to understand. In the end, only to find it's impossible to fully understand.
God is Father, God is Son, God is Spirit (or as my theology book put it, an inversion: Father is God, Son is God, and Spirit is God). All three separate, all three equal, all three one. It's paradoxical. It doesn't make sense to our little human minds. It's been argued that it's not even biblical. But it is, isn't it? It certainly explains how Jesus spoke of God and himself. If it's part of God's nature, why is it so hard to understand? Why can't we just know?
It's part of God's nature for us not to understand. He's so big, so much more than we are. How could we begin to understand the mind of the one who created the universe. It's impossible. We are just the tiniest reflections of the Creator, and we are consistently imperfect creatures trying to reflect on the nature of One who holds all things together and abides outside of time. It's crazy to even try to understand.
But we have to try, don't we? Our knowledge grows with trying. And though the more we know the more we realize we don't understand, still the closer we come to Him in our attempt to know Him.
God is good. All powerful. Gracious, loving, merciful. He is patient and constant. He is eternal, infinite. This is what I know, and as I explore and falter, it's all that matters. To know Him.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
A Coffee Break Study of Nature
Writer's block. A masked man with a gun to your head when you don't have the answer.
Eventually he goes away, right when you expect to be shot through the head, usually. Still, it's paralyzing.
I took a break this morning when I got to campus at 7:30, bought a mocha and sat in the campus cafe to sip my drink and nibble my strawberry Pop-tart in peace. It's funny how if you go to a coffee shop without a laptop these days, or at least a book, you get funny looks. One sir even stared directly at me as he passed after saying hello. It's mysterious, I guess, to just sit and take in life.
I just needed time before retreating back inside myself and relinquishing the precious knowledge of anything I've learned about writing, about theology, about analyzing style. Time to clear out the corners of the mind and find all that's there, if possible. With a laptop in your lap, a cellphone in hand, a book to hide behind, it's hard to take in the world around you without distraction. So I sat, undistracted, and watched.
It is said that writers pay closer attention to nature, have more reverence. I don't know if that is necessarily true, or if we just document our observations more than most. This morning, at the window in the cafe with my coffee, I was a student of nature.
I watched the birds in their flight patterns, swell and dive, swell and dive, two by two. I contemplated the ice cracking and melting and running, forming puddles. I saw the few people here this early take slow, safe steps, cautious on today's ice layer.
Sitting as a silent observer, I overheard the different volumes of the baristas, listened in on the topics of their discussion. What's important to strangers. We're all a little bit the same.
This morning, I took the time to soak in the mysteries and revelation of the flitting birds, the tedious steps, the words that say nothing but reveal more of us than we know.
I watched the trees, reaching up, always reaching up. Even when the snow and ice weigh down as if to break their strength they remain firmly planted, reaching. But even strong trees sometimes fall. Yet they maintain their upward stretch until their time is over.
I want to reach up like the ancient pines and great oaks. Up, beyond the trees and clouds and stars. I want to stop being so conscious of the ice sheet on the ground, afraid of falling, and focus on what is all around. In front, behind, above. Reaching for the answer, the reason, the strength against the things of this world that weigh down. Always up.
Eventually he goes away, right when you expect to be shot through the head, usually. Still, it's paralyzing.
I took a break this morning when I got to campus at 7:30, bought a mocha and sat in the campus cafe to sip my drink and nibble my strawberry Pop-tart in peace. It's funny how if you go to a coffee shop without a laptop these days, or at least a book, you get funny looks. One sir even stared directly at me as he passed after saying hello. It's mysterious, I guess, to just sit and take in life.
I just needed time before retreating back inside myself and relinquishing the precious knowledge of anything I've learned about writing, about theology, about analyzing style. Time to clear out the corners of the mind and find all that's there, if possible. With a laptop in your lap, a cellphone in hand, a book to hide behind, it's hard to take in the world around you without distraction. So I sat, undistracted, and watched.
It is said that writers pay closer attention to nature, have more reverence. I don't know if that is necessarily true, or if we just document our observations more than most. This morning, at the window in the cafe with my coffee, I was a student of nature.
I watched the birds in their flight patterns, swell and dive, swell and dive, two by two. I contemplated the ice cracking and melting and running, forming puddles. I saw the few people here this early take slow, safe steps, cautious on today's ice layer.
Sitting as a silent observer, I overheard the different volumes of the baristas, listened in on the topics of their discussion. What's important to strangers. We're all a little bit the same.
This morning, I took the time to soak in the mysteries and revelation of the flitting birds, the tedious steps, the words that say nothing but reveal more of us than we know.
I watched the trees, reaching up, always reaching up. Even when the snow and ice weigh down as if to break their strength they remain firmly planted, reaching. But even strong trees sometimes fall. Yet they maintain their upward stretch until their time is over.
I want to reach up like the ancient pines and great oaks. Up, beyond the trees and clouds and stars. I want to stop being so conscious of the ice sheet on the ground, afraid of falling, and focus on what is all around. In front, behind, above. Reaching for the answer, the reason, the strength against the things of this world that weigh down. Always up.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Calm Coolness of Winter: A Reflection
Right now in the Twin Cities, MN it is -11 degrees. The high today is 1 degree above 0. Walking the one minute walk from the Billy Graham Community Life Commons (called "the Billy" by students) to the arts building on campus, my coffee had sufficient time to cool to a reasonable temperature. Question: how did anyone ever see this region as habitable for humans?
Then again, how do people survive the Middle East in their burkas? I mean, it seems to be hot enough there in the desert without them, right? What I mean is, there is probably something to complain about no matter where one lives.
I do have the hope, however, looking ahead, that spring is approaching. With each passing month, the weather will get warmer. For now, we're still in the deathly cold. But soon enough we will get our thaw.
The day, though cold, is beautiful. The sky is blue as the sun rises on the bricks of campus' oldest building, which used to be a monastery. After last semester's tears and hair loss (not major, just stress-related), I am finally able to look around campus and remember the beauty. I like it here.
So I drink my mocha and watch campus come to life from the library. I'm here (at the library) enough during each semester that it's actually a wonder why I don't work here. It's too late to apply now (I checked), but maybe next year. For now, I'll do my homework, people watch a little, write a little, sip my cooling mocha, and enjoy the opportunity to be properly educated. Life, as I see it, is good.
Then again, how do people survive the Middle East in their burkas? I mean, it seems to be hot enough there in the desert without them, right? What I mean is, there is probably something to complain about no matter where one lives.
I do have the hope, however, looking ahead, that spring is approaching. With each passing month, the weather will get warmer. For now, we're still in the deathly cold. But soon enough we will get our thaw.
The day, though cold, is beautiful. The sky is blue as the sun rises on the bricks of campus' oldest building, which used to be a monastery. After last semester's tears and hair loss (not major, just stress-related), I am finally able to look around campus and remember the beauty. I like it here.
So I drink my mocha and watch campus come to life from the library. I'm here (at the library) enough during each semester that it's actually a wonder why I don't work here. It's too late to apply now (I checked), but maybe next year. For now, I'll do my homework, people watch a little, write a little, sip my cooling mocha, and enjoy the opportunity to be properly educated. Life, as I see it, is good.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Your Short Story
I hate it when I get a magnificent idea for a topic for this blog while I'm sitting in class and neglect to write it down. I suppose I could write it in the margin of my notes, but at the moment the idea comes to mind I always think that I absolutely need to find a way to sneak my little notebook out of my purse and write the idea in there. My thought journal organizes my thoughts, but man, I really need to learn to write things down wherever there is available space just for the sake of keeping it with me.
That said, welcome to my new topic. That is, what I was learning in my fascinating Writing of Fiction class at the time I thought of (and subsequently forgot) a topic for this blog. Short stories, and the necessity for conflict.
I'm not talking about a page long, I'm talking twenty-six words long. Twenty-six being the maximum number of words we were allowed to write for our story during class yesterday. Does this seem impossible? Well, if you're a writer, you're already thinking up multiple different sentences that tell a story. If not, well, let me explain.
Ernest Hemingway wrote this one: For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
See the story? This one sentence all on its own brings the reader to ask so many questions. Most questions trying to answer "why were the baby shoes never worn?" Yes, the questions go unanswered, but there is still conflict, still tension. That is what it takes to make a story.
The child ran out into the street while chasing a ball. His mother looked up and let out a scream.
The dog chewed up my only pair of work shoes for my new job.
He leaned in a little closer and Sara could feel her breath catch, but nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
There was so much traffic on the way home that the ice cream melted all over the trunk of the rental car.
These short lines tell a story. There is no climax, no resolution, yet there is story. The Post Secret website (www.postsecret.com) is filled with these short strings of words that tell stories on post cards sent anonymously. As a society, we have become people who think of our life situations in the form of short story.
Status update: My car battery died last night when I closed for work. Fml.
Anyone with any form of social networking, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, etc have become accustomed to these little stories. Everyone has become an author, sometimes only of their own stories. We're all writers, even if the traditional conventions of "being a writer" aren't present.
I find the interconnected relationships of our minds simply fascinating. We are so many, yet we are bound to one another by experience, tendency, and desire.
That said, welcome to my new topic. That is, what I was learning in my fascinating Writing of Fiction class at the time I thought of (and subsequently forgot) a topic for this blog. Short stories, and the necessity for conflict.
I'm not talking about a page long, I'm talking twenty-six words long. Twenty-six being the maximum number of words we were allowed to write for our story during class yesterday. Does this seem impossible? Well, if you're a writer, you're already thinking up multiple different sentences that tell a story. If not, well, let me explain.
Ernest Hemingway wrote this one: For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
See the story? This one sentence all on its own brings the reader to ask so many questions. Most questions trying to answer "why were the baby shoes never worn?" Yes, the questions go unanswered, but there is still conflict, still tension. That is what it takes to make a story.
The child ran out into the street while chasing a ball. His mother looked up and let out a scream.
The dog chewed up my only pair of work shoes for my new job.
He leaned in a little closer and Sara could feel her breath catch, but nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
There was so much traffic on the way home that the ice cream melted all over the trunk of the rental car.
These short lines tell a story. There is no climax, no resolution, yet there is story. The Post Secret website (www.postsecret.com) is filled with these short strings of words that tell stories on post cards sent anonymously. As a society, we have become people who think of our life situations in the form of short story.
Status update: My car battery died last night when I closed for work. Fml.
Anyone with any form of social networking, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, etc have become accustomed to these little stories. Everyone has become an author, sometimes only of their own stories. We're all writers, even if the traditional conventions of "being a writer" aren't present.
I find the interconnected relationships of our minds simply fascinating. We are so many, yet we are bound to one another by experience, tendency, and desire.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Not Another Abandoned Blog
This may be more for me than it is for you, but I just have to make something clear: this is not an abandoned blog.
I understand what happens when blogs aren't written in enough, when the writer walks away never to look back, or gives up because he or she can't keep up. But this girl is not going to abandon this blog.
Recent readers may have come across this blog and find that it hasn't been written in for awhile and never return. That "follow" button may go unclicked because the content is neither interesting nor frequent, but I'm working on it. Readers will return, or there will be new ones, or I'll just go on to make a new blog (the link of which will be posted on here for anyone who may somehow be interested).
Writers write because the words eat their way out eventually. The need for expression through words is a weight that cannot be bore for long before it becomes crippling. Sometimes so crippling that the words all come out at once and can't be sorted to make logical sense.
So, as I do school and try to work despite the copious number of homework assignments, as I try to balance classes with cooking and cleaning and making money so that my dear husband is not the sole provider, I promise this semester, this year, to make time to write something that is not a required assignment.
As the creator and author of this blog, I will breath new life into it and do my best to make it something that may bring hope, inspiration, and at least entertainment to you. Whoever you are.
Just wait and see.
I understand what happens when blogs aren't written in enough, when the writer walks away never to look back, or gives up because he or she can't keep up. But this girl is not going to abandon this blog.
Recent readers may have come across this blog and find that it hasn't been written in for awhile and never return. That "follow" button may go unclicked because the content is neither interesting nor frequent, but I'm working on it. Readers will return, or there will be new ones, or I'll just go on to make a new blog (the link of which will be posted on here for anyone who may somehow be interested).
Writers write because the words eat their way out eventually. The need for expression through words is a weight that cannot be bore for long before it becomes crippling. Sometimes so crippling that the words all come out at once and can't be sorted to make logical sense.
So, as I do school and try to work despite the copious number of homework assignments, as I try to balance classes with cooking and cleaning and making money so that my dear husband is not the sole provider, I promise this semester, this year, to make time to write something that is not a required assignment.
As the creator and author of this blog, I will breath new life into it and do my best to make it something that may bring hope, inspiration, and at least entertainment to you. Whoever you are.
Just wait and see.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Making Sense of Purpose
We often have goals for where we want to be in the next five years (lately, I've heard a lot about the "5-yr plan" wondering, "where's mine?"), but we can never really know where we will be in the next five years. I know that you know this, so stick with me here.
Lately, I have struggled to understand exactly what I am supposed to be doing with my life. I don't mean in five years, I mean right now. Anyone with me on this? I feel like an alien in the world I'm currently living, just waiting to feel acclimated to this life. I have so many questions like, am I where I am supposed to be in life right now? What's next? Where will I be in the next five years (or two, even)?
I know I'm not the only one who feels this way, but here on campus it seems everyone is just on their one-track paths booking it toward the finish line, and here I am wandering aimlessly without a distinctive path. It's just dried-up desert land. If I scream, will I be heard?
I take comfort, I have to take comfort, in knowing that even my thoughts are heard, and that when I cry out, it doesn't fall on deaf ears, or even merely soil. I am heard, and even though I don't know where I'm going right now, there is a plan set just for me, and I can't make the wrong decision.
I have this theory that even when we make the "wrong" decision, it's the right one. Sometimes taking the wrong path at first helps us see what we are really supposed to be doing in the long-run. When we experience failure, we learn what doesn't work, and in turn, what does. When we live in uncertainty, we learn to depend on God, and more deeply understand that we as humans know nothing and have no control over the long-term plans.
All we can do is continue to put one foot in front of the other, even if we are teetering like toddlers. If we fall, we'll get back up. If we go the wrong way, we'll find arms reaching out, waving us in another direction.
Here's a parallel for life from that example: Toddlers have very little, often no sense of danger. Parents are often seen running behind them, bent over with their arms out to guard them. When the little one comes to the top of a stairway, they have no clue that one misstep could send them toppling down the stairs, so they don't understand when their parents turn them in another direction. Like learning toddlers, we have no idea what danger the next step could bring. When we are turned in a different direction it's frustrating. But we have to recognize that we don't know what dangers the next step could have brought, and have faith that we're better off going whichever way we have been pointed, until the next re-direction.
This is how we can know our purpose. To continue taking everything in stride, working faithfully toward what we believe we are supposed to work for. If we are wrong, it will be made known in time, because our Father will always turn us back in the direction He wants us.
Keep working at what you're doing, and do it faithfully. It may seem insignificant now, it may be testing your patience, but stick with it and you will see the purpose of it all. It may take years, but if you're doing it, you have purpose.
Keep going. I will, too.
Lately, I have struggled to understand exactly what I am supposed to be doing with my life. I don't mean in five years, I mean right now. Anyone with me on this? I feel like an alien in the world I'm currently living, just waiting to feel acclimated to this life. I have so many questions like, am I where I am supposed to be in life right now? What's next? Where will I be in the next five years (or two, even)?
I know I'm not the only one who feels this way, but here on campus it seems everyone is just on their one-track paths booking it toward the finish line, and here I am wandering aimlessly without a distinctive path. It's just dried-up desert land. If I scream, will I be heard?
I take comfort, I have to take comfort, in knowing that even my thoughts are heard, and that when I cry out, it doesn't fall on deaf ears, or even merely soil. I am heard, and even though I don't know where I'm going right now, there is a plan set just for me, and I can't make the wrong decision.
I have this theory that even when we make the "wrong" decision, it's the right one. Sometimes taking the wrong path at first helps us see what we are really supposed to be doing in the long-run. When we experience failure, we learn what doesn't work, and in turn, what does. When we live in uncertainty, we learn to depend on God, and more deeply understand that we as humans know nothing and have no control over the long-term plans.
All we can do is continue to put one foot in front of the other, even if we are teetering like toddlers. If we fall, we'll get back up. If we go the wrong way, we'll find arms reaching out, waving us in another direction.
Here's a parallel for life from that example: Toddlers have very little, often no sense of danger. Parents are often seen running behind them, bent over with their arms out to guard them. When the little one comes to the top of a stairway, they have no clue that one misstep could send them toppling down the stairs, so they don't understand when their parents turn them in another direction. Like learning toddlers, we have no idea what danger the next step could bring. When we are turned in a different direction it's frustrating. But we have to recognize that we don't know what dangers the next step could have brought, and have faith that we're better off going whichever way we have been pointed, until the next re-direction.
This is how we can know our purpose. To continue taking everything in stride, working faithfully toward what we believe we are supposed to work for. If we are wrong, it will be made known in time, because our Father will always turn us back in the direction He wants us.
Keep working at what you're doing, and do it faithfully. It may seem insignificant now, it may be testing your patience, but stick with it and you will see the purpose of it all. It may take years, but if you're doing it, you have purpose.
Keep going. I will, too.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
2000 Page Views!
Well hello there. After weeks of learning how to juggle life (and dropping things many times), I have some (at least to me) exciting news. My blog has had 2000 page views... as of today! It's also been somewhere around a year now since I started this blog. How lucky was I to log on and see this perfect number.
In celebration, I will go out to dinner this weekend.
Actually, I was already going to do that. This weekend is in fact Mr. Wonderful's birthday. Really, I'm so excited I could poo. (Name that quote in the comments below! Feel awesome for a day.)
I am finally getting into a rhythm being back in school, and thank the good Lord above, because I really felt like I was sinking. Drowning, actually, in paperback textbooks and guided reading assignments. Oh, and the poetry, Lord help me with the poetry!
I used to love writing poems. Really, I did. Until I found out that I suck at it. Does it matter how the "conventions" are if people legitimately like it already? Seriously... my self confidence has really taken a hit in my poetry class. And to be honest, I don't even like some of the "professional writer" poems that we read in class. They're dry. They're boring. They don't mean anything more to me than the stuff I write matters to my professor.
There are some really good poets, with poems so cleverly designed I can probably only dream of ever writing like them. When I try, oh boy... let's just say when a wanna-be poet sees a "C" on her first poem for poetry class, the emotion that gushes forth isn't pretty. I mean, come on, think poet here. Emotion... yeah. You'd think a good poem would come of that, but no, just goober and snot, and angry words on a page. Nobody wants to read your anger. Frustration, maybe, injustice, for sure. Angry words written to a college professor, nope!
Not to make you think poetry class is my life or anything. Poetry doesn't even take up a corner of my life, it's like 10%. Probably less, even. It's just the one that has broken me the most, maybe. The other classes are much more time-consuming and technical, and I won't burden you with the load of information I cram into my poor brain's throat every day. (Brains don't eat, I know this, but I'm a writing major, not biology, and just take in that visual, okay? Now you're getting it.)
I'm hoping sometime soon, I'll be able to clean my apartment and invite some friends over. Seriously, I haven't cleaned at all since we moved in (not that we've been home to make a mess), and I also haven't spent time with any of my dear ladies in over a month!
Oh, except for my dear German who was visiting last month! I'm so glad I could have her stay with me the last week. It was so much fun comparing how the school systems here and in Germany are so different. I so wish I would have had less work to do while she was staying with me.
Something must change about that. Soon. Very soon, things will be different. My apartment will be clean and the laughter of beautiful women and the smell of cheesy garlic bread and spaghetti will fill it.
So, as I have a battle of wills with God and my husband, who both tell me to do things contrary to what I would like to be doing (i.e. not suffering through schoolwork), I wish you all the best in your many endeavors. May you feel perfectly and pleasantly whelmed, nothing more, nothing less.
Here's to the next year of blogging.
In celebration, I will go out to dinner this weekend.
Actually, I was already going to do that. This weekend is in fact Mr. Wonderful's birthday. Really, I'm so excited I could poo. (Name that quote in the comments below! Feel awesome for a day.)
I am finally getting into a rhythm being back in school, and thank the good Lord above, because I really felt like I was sinking. Drowning, actually, in paperback textbooks and guided reading assignments. Oh, and the poetry, Lord help me with the poetry!
I used to love writing poems. Really, I did. Until I found out that I suck at it. Does it matter how the "conventions" are if people legitimately like it already? Seriously... my self confidence has really taken a hit in my poetry class. And to be honest, I don't even like some of the "professional writer" poems that we read in class. They're dry. They're boring. They don't mean anything more to me than the stuff I write matters to my professor.
There are some really good poets, with poems so cleverly designed I can probably only dream of ever writing like them. When I try, oh boy... let's just say when a wanna-be poet sees a "C" on her first poem for poetry class, the emotion that gushes forth isn't pretty. I mean, come on, think poet here. Emotion... yeah. You'd think a good poem would come of that, but no, just goober and snot, and angry words on a page. Nobody wants to read your anger. Frustration, maybe, injustice, for sure. Angry words written to a college professor, nope!
Not to make you think poetry class is my life or anything. Poetry doesn't even take up a corner of my life, it's like 10%. Probably less, even. It's just the one that has broken me the most, maybe. The other classes are much more time-consuming and technical, and I won't burden you with the load of information I cram into my poor brain's throat every day. (Brains don't eat, I know this, but I'm a writing major, not biology, and just take in that visual, okay? Now you're getting it.)
I'm hoping sometime soon, I'll be able to clean my apartment and invite some friends over. Seriously, I haven't cleaned at all since we moved in (not that we've been home to make a mess), and I also haven't spent time with any of my dear ladies in over a month!
Oh, except for my dear German who was visiting last month! I'm so glad I could have her stay with me the last week. It was so much fun comparing how the school systems here and in Germany are so different. I so wish I would have had less work to do while she was staying with me.
Something must change about that. Soon. Very soon, things will be different. My apartment will be clean and the laughter of beautiful women and the smell of cheesy garlic bread and spaghetti will fill it.
So, as I have a battle of wills with God and my husband, who both tell me to do things contrary to what I would like to be doing (i.e. not suffering through schoolwork), I wish you all the best in your many endeavors. May you feel perfectly and pleasantly whelmed, nothing more, nothing less.
Here's to the next year of blogging.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)