Tales of Intrigue

Lindy Focus-Pocus

2009-01-04T02:35:00.004-05:00

What can I say? It was a magical weekend :)

I wrestled with the decision to go to Lindy Focus. Would I regret cutting short family time, especially since Heather was just back from Spain and I hadn't seen her since September? Would it be an unwise financial decision? Finally, with the encouragement of my friend Jeremy to just go for the weekend with him and his girl Nancy, I bit the bullet. The event had intrigued me ever since I heard about it at Southern Belle. And I was really looking forward to dancing with the fun leads I'd met at SBSB.

I was not disappointed.

Let me qualify that. As a natural critic, I can always find things that can be improved. Say, the floor, for instance--squares of rented laminate that were unnaturally sticky. Or maybe floors in CO are just unnaturally slick. Either way, I had shoe nightmares most of the weekend (which led to fun late-night Wal-Mart shoe adventures so I'm only complaining a teensy bit!).

But overall, I was not disappointed! I had a blast, danced well, met some really cool people, took my first private lesson (Bill Borgida, you're amazing!), and came in second in my first real J&J! All on little to no sleep! It's amazing what adrenaline and good music can do.

The J&J was one highlight of the weekend. Leading up to the event, every time I thought about competing my heart would start racing...and I hadn't even registered yet! I can perform choreography in front of a packed theatre with barely a flutter, but the mere mention of a Lindy Focus comp and my heart started tap dancing! Becoming a better competitor is something I'd like to work towards this year, so I knew the Beg/Int J&J had my name on it if I decided to go. And the funny thing was, when I was actually there, in both the prelims and the finals, I was cool as could be. Nary a palpitation to be had. The prelims were really fun...and HUGE! 30 couples! Congrats for everyone for putting themselves on the line and going out for it. I thought I'd danced well and hoped to be in the finals but you never know what the judges are looking for.

Remember when I said my heart stayed calm through this whole process? Scratch that. At the Sat night dance, when they announced the finalists and called my name LAST out of all the dancers, I was about to have a heart attack! But I was excited to be paired with Sam and he and I pretty much tore it up :) I'm glad it was all all-skate style but I would have loved to watch my fellow finalists in action. What a rush! Hearing a roomful of dancers cheer you on, knowing they all want you to do your absolute best...it's a pretty awesome experience. Try it some time.

I did get to watch the other dancers in a video someone took of the finals. Correction: I will be able to watch them, when I stop watching myself :) I forget how great (read: brutal) videos are as teaching tools. For instance, I HATE MY FREE ARM IN SWING OUTS! What's with the stupid flexed wrist? At one point Sam and I were off the screen except for my stupid wrist that would show up every 5 secs! I almost couldn't watch it. My 1-&-2 is still a little bouncy and I need to relax my feet when I step. I'm my own worst critic, though, so the mere fact that I thought I looked decent is a good start. I'm so glad to have seen it, so I can begin to work through my little quirks. And I'm thrilled that, quirks and all, Sam and I placed second! This is quite an accomplishment in my book, as Lindy Focus is a pretty important event and there were lots of good dancers both dancing and judging. And the feedback we got from the advanced dancers after the finals was really encouraging. Thanks to Karen especially! You really know how to compliment!

Ok, this is getting long and it's getting late. Maybe I'll continue on this topic another day; maybe I won't. But to sum it up, I was really, really sad to leave on Sunday night; it felt so...incomplete. I didn't get nearly enough dances with my fav guys, but I guess there's always next year. And next year, I'm staying for the whole thing, so y'all come back now, y'hear?

SMOOSH!

2008-11-24T19:59:00.001-05:00

Bananas hate to travel
(they get bruised on all the bumps).
Their nerves start to unravel
and they're widely known as grumps

They quickly lose all muscle tone
(their posture starts to slip).
They simply have no backbone
when you make them take a trip.

They hate the car, the plane, the bus
(they'd rather stay and sit).
But, strange enough, despite the fuss,
they sure do love to split!

Fine, we are social creatures. Now stop bothering me.

2008-08-03T15:27:00.006-04:00

Why is it that there are some people you can spend your whole day with, talking, not talking...just living life...and it's so easy, almost like they're an extension of yourself. Your relationship glides. And then there are other people, people with whom having conversation is like pulling teeth. The awkwardness is palpable. You breathe it in and it chokes you. Words don't come. Not constructive words, anyway. You simply want to yell, "Why are we fighting for this? Why can't we just say hello and move on and drop this facade that we are actually involved in each other's lives?" Actually, you don't even want to yell. You just want to calmly state the obvious. It's not worth expending the sort of passion that yelling requires.

But we are social creatures. We are, even if I often want to run and hide and put up a sign that says "Not today, please." There is an appearance we must uphold because it is woven into the fabric of community, even if it seems false. And, sometimes...sometimes...you are blessedly wrong, and that conversation you dreaded becomes something indescribable. Something totally and completely unexpected is exchanged, and you lend or gain insight that brings pure, fresh air rushing in, blowing your hair about and swirling your skirt around your knees. Sometimes this happens, and it is extraordinary. Hope for these moments keeps me fighting through all the stagnant small talk, as much as I hate it.

But, still, often I fail and just head for the nearest exit.

Fridays: A Haiku

2008-08-01T19:21:00.002-04:00

Productivity:
A concept I am lacking.
Facebook is like crack.

The dentist and I are not friends.

2008-01-21T18:44:00.000-05:00

Inhaling the dust of my tooth as I sit,
My mouth in an oversize O,
I stare at the light
And try hard not to bite
The hands working under my nose.

I feel nothing. I’m numb from the lip to the gum
As my tooth is attacked by the drill.
My mouth tastes of rubber;
I try not to blubber.
The hygienist tells me, “Sit still.”

Breathe in. Now breathe out, I silently chant.
Don’t panic. You’re doing just fine.
I unclench my fists,
Let my insides untwist
To the lullaby of the drill’s whine.

Enough with the drilling!
Just finish the filling!

(Hours later)

The work’s finally done.
I still can’t feel my tongue
As I walk to the front with a frown.
The receptionist files, looks up with a smile:
“Now, when can we schedule that crown?”

*Luckily for me, the crown part is just poetic license :)

**PS. Thanks to my 2 "fans" who inspired me to blog again! May this post not make them wish they had kept their mouths shut...

Nightbreak

2007-11-02T01:31:00.000-04:00

I don’t know about you, but my dawn doesn’t break.
No, it seeps through the cracks in the quivering night
that can no longer hold all those stars.

Or…
Do fingers of morning peel layers of evening
til nothing remains but the flimsiest fibers
of dark in unreachable corners?

Perhaps…
Bottom to top, deepest midnight is rent,
silently, silken, with pussycat claws
and left in a ball by the stairs.

Either way…
If anything’s broken, it’s darkness, not morning.
The fire of sunrise sets darkness to dancing.
And dancing’s the nightbreak of dawn.

My eyebrows and other dramatic things...

2007-07-29T15:34:00.000-04:00

About two weeks ago, my dance company had a visiting choreographer spend a week setting a piece on us. (For those of you scratching your heads, setting a piece on us means teaching us a dance that usually has already been choreographed). I had just injured my leg in a tragic cirque-du-soleil-style rope incident and was limping around with a large bandage covering the 4-inch long rope burn on the back of my right calf. Great timing, huh? So, we got the rehearsal schedule and to my great surprise I had been given a solo and would have the first rehearsl with Danika. Now, don't get me wrong...it's great to be given a solo and I was pretty excited. But Danika knew I was injured and had even seen me limping around. So I was a little confused as to why she had chosen me as the soloist.

We met for rehearsal that Friday and began the evening discussing the intent of the solo. I learned that I'm supposed to be a sort of 40's Bela Lugosi-type female character. A bit freaky, a bit over the top. "Jan told me that you learn quickly and have a great eye for detail," Danika shared. "But when I met you and saw your eyebrows I knew you'd be perfect for the part. You have very dramatic, expressive eyebrows." !!!! Who knew that I would one day have my eyebrows to thank for a solo? So, in closing I'd like to thank my grandpa, whose thick, arched eyebrows I inherited, and my mom for teaching me how to pluck them into sophisticated, dramatic submission. I wouldn't be where I am today without you both. Thank you.

***

In other unusual news, Colorado was humid on Friday. I was not at all pleased with this turn of events. Nor was my hair. But a light brown bucket hat sprinkled with skull-and-crossbones and a teal cotton batik tie made in Malaysia (like me!) redeemed the evening at Alli D's hat and tie bday party! Very dramatic if you ask me...

How sweet fresh sheets feel...

2007-06-11T02:12:00.000-04:00

...after a week of camping. Even if it is a week in Yosemite National
Park, one of the most gorgeous places on Earth. Breathe in deep--the
smell of fresh laundry is even stronger when you've smelled like
campfire all week!

I'll have photos posted soon. Keep checking back...I took over 600. I
am officially obsessed.

Southern Lovin'

2007-06-01T19:30:00.000-04:00

Click on the picture to view more pics from Laura and Casey's wedding in Charleston, SC, over Memorial Day weekend. It was awesome! And I was thrilled with my new Nikor 50mm 1.8 lens...I used it and only it all weekend! Yay for happy investments! I'd highly recommend it. I'm taking it with me to Yosemite next week so hopefully I will be as happy in the great outdoors!

The dark side of powder

2007-04-18T11:41:00.000-04:00

Yep, that's me. I was "that girl," the one on the injury toboggan. On the way down I kept pushing the yellow tarp off my face and lifting my head to look around, just so people would know I wasn't, y'know, paralyzed or dead or something horrible. I wanted to yell, "Just a shoulder injury, people, just a shoulder. Looks much worse than it is." More pics to come of my adventurous trip on my flickr account

Why I love city neighborhoods

2007-03-11T12:47:00.000-04:00

Diedrich's is a neighborhood coffee shop on the corner of Downing and 9th in downtown Denver. It's exactly what a local java haunt should be: nestled among old, subdivided houses, it wraps around the corner of the block, surrounded by wrought iron tables and chairs at which Merrell-clad Denverites and their de rigeur dogs slurp large espressos and pant, respectively. The locals have turned out full force this crisp Sunday morning and the place is buzzing (pun intended).

I am a stranger in this mess of neighbors and, new to this part of Denver, I am all eyes and ears. I am not disappointed.

Although at first it appeared that I was checked out rather enthusiastically by a table of young guys as I approached, Paul's MacBook and paperback tucked under my arm, I quickly realize that this must be a gay part of town. Glancing around, I count about five women total in the place, two of whom are old, roll-out-of-bed ratty and very obviously regulars.

After ordering my mocha with soy, I plop down at small table in the center of the place, facing a wall of windows--the perfect people-watching post. Men in suits (Jehovahs' Witnesses, perhaps?), joggers and plenty of young, trendy lads walk by. The early Spring has the city outside in droves, enjoying what may be only a temporary respite from a particularly snowy winter.

On the small table adjacent to mine sits an abandoned Denver Post in disarray. I flip through the Sunday magazine, learning about the fascinating love swaps of the rich and bored, before turning to my borrowed book, Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There, a side-splitting account of a middle-aged man's travels around Europe. I'm not sure if I should read this in public, certain that I will laugh, perhaps snort, out loud, but decide to throw caution to the wind. It's a good choice. I have read this book three or four times already and will probably read it half a dozen more times in my lifetime. The newspaper sits, lonely, off to my right.

All of a sudden, the pierced older man from behind me approaches the paper and begins rifling through the sections. Turns out he is searching with remarkable focus for dog food coupons. He doesn't smile, ask or even nod. Although I didn't buy the paper, I feel a sense of ownership (it's at MY table!) and am slightly miffed that my presence is neither acknowleged nor my consent sought. How does he know that I didn't buy that paper? My silence must mean that it's alright. Slight annoyance fades to mild amusement as he finds multiple coupons, tears them out and returns to his seat.

A few minutes later, another older man pops up at my side, eyeing the paper. He scoops it up--all except the Sunday magazine, I note--and swoops it away, without so much as a questioning glance. I make a mental note: be in physical contact at all times with a newspaper if you don't want people to treat it as community property. I wonder what would have happened if I had protested. Every scenario I imagine always ends up the same: they somehow find out that I work for a ministry and accuse me of hatred and intolerance for not openly sharing my paper, that somehow claiming something as my own makes me a bigoted gay-hater. I realize that I am always the tiniest bit uncomfortable when surrounded by large groups of homosexuals, afraid that somehow I will be found out and persecuted for choosing heterosexuality and Jesus. It's a strange realization. As a dancer, I've had many gay friends, but they've usually been the minority. Here, the tables are turned. I'm not sure I like this newly discovered aspect of my character; at the same time I know that I'm being ridiculous and melodramatic.

Newspaper-swiping aside, I am charmed by this little place, with its bright jazz music, toasty-pastry smells, and the whirr and shoosh of the coffee drinks being made behind the counter. I could live around here, I think. I would walk here every weekend, Saturday mornings perhaps, and get to know the old man behind the counter in the pageboy cap (currently not behind the counter but outside socializing and furiously dragging on a cigarette). He called me dearie when he handed over my coffee; he would know my name for sure if I lived nearby. I imagine a new scenario: entering to a chorus of hellos (well, friendly nods, at least) from the locals, chatting and laughing with new friends and having civilized, rational conversations about the Bible and what it says about homosexuality. It's a nice thought, anyway.

So here I sit, banging away on this borrowed computer, surrounded by gay men who rifle unapolagetically through the newspaper that could be mine without so much as a nod or a smile. My mocha is rich and hot, the sun is shining and Bill Bryson's book is as funny as the first time I read it. I heart the city.

Written shortly after the November elections

2006-12-21T16:52:00.000-05:00

STATE OF A NATION

We are people so blessed, but our blessing’s a curse
For it seals shut our eyes as it fattens our purse.

We celebrate selfishness posing as love.
We lift up each wolf in the clothes of a dove.

We’ve opened our minds (and diluted the truth),
We despise age’s wisdom (we’d rather have youth).

We totter on fences, one foot on each side.
Our pleasure’s our purpose—we’re here for the ride.

We are certainly blessed—we are fat, we are free...

Never has death crept in so silently.

From the minds of children...

2006-12-16T01:20:00.000-05:00

...come some pretty strange ideas.

On my way to work today I saw a car abandoned in the bike lane. Now, it wasn't a particularly huge car--maybe a Corolla or something similar--but the entire thing fit in the bike lane. I don't know how many times I've driven this street. Probably four times a day for over a year, and that's a conservative guess. But never in my life would I have imagined that the bike lane could practically be an extra car lane. It fascinates me still. But the reason I bring this all up is the train of thought that it started. It all goes back to my dad.

My dad is an insanely smart man. He knows bunches about everything, it seems. Often, when you ask him a question involving knowledge (not a when's-dinner-type question), you'd better precede it with "In a yes or no answer..." or you'll be listening for at least 3 months. And knowing my father and his boundless wisdom makes me love this story even more. When he was a wee, tow-headed boy, he was afraid to learn to ride his bike. Not because he was afraid to fail, not because he didn't want to get hurt. No, he was afraid to start riding his bike because he thought the bike lane was the double yellow line that divided the road! It never occured to him that he had never seen a single person cycling in between the yellow lines; somehow, that idea had just fixed itself in his brain and IT WAS TRUE!

Because of the way our minds love tangents, I found myself reminiscing about my own vehicular misconception as a young teenager. Maybe a year before I got my permit, I was riding on the interstate with my mom and she mentioned, off-hand, that one should not stop in the middle of the highway. Perfectly logical. Well, for some reason, that was seared into my brain as "you're not allowed to use your brakes on the highway." For months, I silently fretted over this: "But what if I need to slow down??? Do I just coast to a more reasonable speed? What if traffic doesn't allow me to do that???" I was scared to death about highway driving, and I wasn't even allowed to drive yet. Luckily, this myth was dispelled when I did in fact get my driving permit. And today I proudly apply my brakes on highways across the country.

So this little story got a smile out of me, then jolted me further back in my childhood to my very first memory of a miscommunication. When I lived in England, we had a drawer in the kitchen where all manner of pens lived, including highlighters. There was one highlighter in particular that was extraordinarily bright yellow. It was the first thing you noticed upon opening the drawer. Well, one fateful day, I needed a pen. Naturally, I went for the drawer and, as usual, my gaze went straight to the highlighter. But that day, I saw something I had never read before. WARNING, the highlighter announced. AVOID EYE CONTACT. Of course, what it meant was don't try to use the highlighter on your eyeball, but this was England, remember, and they have a funny way of phrasing things. So, to my young, mostly-American mind, this meant DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LOOK AT THE HIGHLIGHTER. IT IS BRIGHTER THAN 1000 BLAZING SUNS AND WILL PERMANENTLY SEAR YOUR RETINAS, THUS RENDERING YOU BLIND FOR ALL ETERNITY. MWAHAHAHA. Or something similar to that (not sure if I had a concept of the "evil laugh" at this point). From that day on, every time I opened the pen drawer, I had to search for a pen by feel because I would immediately close my eyes or look away. It made things very difficult, but I was sure that a slight inconvience in pen selection was a whole lot better than being RENDERED BLIND FOR ALL ETERNITY. I honestly could not figure out why they would sell pens that caused instant eye damage, or why my parents would keep it in the house, but of course, I never thought to ask.

Then, last month, I realized my error.

Just kidding. I don't remember when I came around, but it was years ago. But it brings me to another random thought. The programmer who is helping build our website at work has a page of funny fake computer error messages. My favorite:

USER ERROR.
REPLACE USER.

Indeed. Indeed.

Psalm 33:17

2006-12-14T20:03:00.000-05:00

Horsepower is a vain hope for deliverance.
The blackest asphalt, no matter how smooth or how far it stretches, cannot save.
The distance between a memory and me sets nothing right.

Sin, like love, transcends space and time.
Luckily, love is the more persistent of the two.

-nksgiving...

2006-11-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

Ankfulness: the state of having exceptionally large ankles. Also known as cankles.

Hankfulness: the state of having pockets overflowing with handkerchiefs. Everyone’s best friend in flu season. 2) the state of owning every Tom Hanks movie ever made. Also popular during flu season.

Thankfulness: the state of overwhelming gratitude for every undeserved blessing God has showered upon me.

Whether you’re ankful, hankful (or Hankful), or thankful, I hope you have an amazing Thanksgiving with people you love. Happy Thanksgiving!

Acts of Dubious Intelligence #1

2006-10-29T12:41:00.000-05:00

Take some time out of your day today and simply observe the other people who share our tiny slice of this great big planet. What I believe you will find is that many people are frightfully lacking in common sense, for they do things that anyone who possessed that fine trait would never consider.

I'd like to state for the record that these things shall henceforth be known as Acts of Dubious Intelligence. And one to get us off and running:

1) Riding a Motorcycle without a Helmet

Never in my life have I seen as many people riding these two-wheeled death machines without some sort of skull protection as here in CO Springs. Perhaps it is a side-effect of oxygen deprevation--CO is awfully high up in the atmosphere. Now, I understand that your chances of survival upon being thrown from your seat at 50, 60, 75 miles per hour have GOT to be slim to none, even if you were wearing a helmet. But just toodling around town in the 30-45 mph range, I'd imagine that hard hat would greatly increase the possibility that you would one day be able to function normally after taking a spill from your bike. Not to mention the fact that your baby girl/boy might get to grow up with you rather than not. That your wife or husband would not be left alone with the cash from your life insurance policy, which on all counts is not very good to cuddle with at night.

The point is, I'm baffled. Is the feeling of wind tossling your hair SO TREMENDOUSLY INTOXICATING as to render all thoughts of family, health and safety null and void? If anyone can help me understand this, I'm willing to listen. I don't know that my opinion will ever be changed on this issue, but I'd like to hear you out. And if it's just about the fact that, in CO, one CAN legally ride sans helmet, I don't want to hear it. I don't believe the government is here to protect us from ourselves in most situations. But I would hope that, given the freedom to choose between permanently scrambled brain and perhaps temporary steamed brain (I'm guessing helmets can get toasty), people would choose the latter for the sake of everyone involved. But that's just me.

Ah, the life I lead

2006-10-29T12:37:00.000-05:00

I have pondered at length and reached this very definite conclusion: There are few things as scandalously luxurious as lying in bed under a down comforter, reading on a weekend morning.

Been shootin' again...

2006-09-11T03:02:00.000-04:00

New photos are up! Shots from my Labor Day Weekend O' Fun with Katie (aka Kumquat): Rennell and Tyler's wedding in Eagle and Maroon Bells outside Aspen. Both great for a snap happy gal like myself :) Click on the Snappy Snaps link on the right for a peek. And yes, many are artsy-fartsy...consider yourself warned!

I asked

2006-08-26T17:49:00.000-04:00

I wish I could claim this as my own, for I think it is beautiful and true—two things I strive for in my writing—but the credit goes to an anonymous poet.

I asked for strength
and God gave me difficulties to make me strong.
I asked for wisdom
and God gave me problems to solve.
I asked for prosperity
and God gave me brawn and brain to work.
I asked for courage
and God gave me dangers to overcome.
I asked for love
and God gave me troubled people to help...

My prayers were answered.

The speckles are really more like ridges

2006-07-08T13:39:00.000-04:00

I don't lie on my floor and stare at the ceiling enough. My current life is not conducive to this.

Reason #1) Colorado is not a state that encourages you to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. 300+ sunny days! Mountains in your backyard! Zero humidity and refreshing breezes! You feel guilty for running errands, emptying the dishwasher, being inside for any reason, like you're wasting a perfect day.

Reason #2) I wake up at 7, arrive at work by 8:30. Write and design and generally be creative until 5:30. Home by 5:45 to eat dinner and be out the door by 6:10 for dance or shortly thereafter for other regularly scheduled activities. I often don't get home until around 10, when I usually check my email, tidy my room, tuck in my roommate. Then bed for me. Breathe.

BUT...
For the past 4 days it has rained nonstop. We are under flash flood warnings. The temperature is a damp 65 degrees and the thick white brightness of a cloudy day pours in my window. It is yucky. And for once, I do not feel guilty for being inside. It is not a perfect day.

And so I spent considerable time this morning lying on the floor staring at the ceiling. I loved every second of it.

Land of the Free From?

2006-07-04T22:45:00.000-04:00

Today is July 4th. Today we are suppposed to remember that we are free. Today we tend to focus less on what we are "free from" but what we are "free to"--free to worship anything, free to disagree with the President, free to waste our time, our money, our lives, free to decide how we decide. In the great span of culture and time, it's quite an unusual position, the freedom to live how we like. And so we celebrate with mass quanities of juicy griled beef, fresh ripe strawberries, sugar-sweet corn-on-the-cob, triple-scooped ice cream cones. Great food is a blessing. So is "freedom to". But really, "freedom from" is the most mind-boggling concept of all. Freedom from sin, freedom from fear, freedom from death, freedom from crippling anxieties, freedom from destructive lusts. "Freedom from" is a gift, one that cost Him dearly. Only by exploring "freedom from" can we properly appreciate the "freedom to" that most Americans think is an irrevocable right. So many people practicing their "freedom to" are anything but free. And those of us who, with wide eyes, have accepted the gift of "freedom from" must exercise our "freedom to" and share that gift. Maybe accompanied by a nice scoop of ice cream.

YOU try to milk a pissed-off cow

2006-07-02T13:13:00.000-04:00

Last night a group of us went to the Working Ranch Cowboy Association Rodeo. It was fantastic...and I took 181 photos! I know! I couldn't believe it either. I got a few good shots. Many of them came out blurry--lots of frantic motion at a rodeo, and me with my little point-and-shoot digital--but I was able to salvage the best blurry ones with the help of my Photoshop filter friends. Click on the Snappy Snaps link to see some of them.

My favorite thing about last night's festivities was that all of cowboys competing are real manure-shoveling, calf-birthing, working cowboys. These aren't show-boys; they actually do chores similar to the events they compete in. It's such a far cry from my 25 years of suburbia, but it was made more real knowing that day in, day out, these cowboys are making a living with the very skills I just cheered for. And that makes me appreciate it even more.

If John the Baptist were a Redneck Rapper...

2006-06-08T01:43:00.000-04:00

My name is John the Baptist (I’m a Presbyterian.)
I spend my day a’dunkin’ sinners in the searing sun.

My suit is made of camel; a camel made my suit.
My favorite snack is locusts—you should try ‘em…sure beats fruit!

First ya wash ‘em in the river (they’re less chewy when they’re wetter)
Then a dip in wild honey…yep, the wilder the better!

People come from every corner to my desert dipping spot.
Most jump in to please Jehovah; Some jump in because it’s hot.

I tell them that He’s coming, one who’s wilder than me.
We’re not worthy of his toenails, yet He’ll die to set us free.

I tell ya, He’s a-comin’! Just repent, for goodness sake!
He’ll baptize you as I do, but with spirit, not with lake.

And for those who choose to follow Him, it’s not an easy way.
Who knows? Your head might even wind up neckless on a tray.

NAH!

I’ve got a strong suspicion, if you follow, you’ll be poor.
But, bet your bottom dollar, it’s adventure, that’s for sure!

For He’ll wow you more than money can, and you’ll get your reward
Here on earth and then in Heaven: You’ll be kickin’ with the Lord!

How Beautiful the Hands

2006-05-02T20:59:00.000-04:00

She sings with her fingers,
Silent poetry, slicing and carving the air,
Hands fluttering like a bird.
Announcing in a gesture, proclaiming without a sound
The thunderous majesty of our King.

In this borrowed language of motion,
She dips and she raises her hands up in praise.
Sustaining a gesture, repeating one twice.

A caress for her Father,
She offers her hands as music
To those who linger in silence.

When the Lord seems quiet,
When I pray for His voice,
He is faithful to answer:
He gives me a sign.

New pics!

2006-04-23T19:44:00.001-04:00

Hey there, all you peeps with nothing better to do! I've just posted a bunch of new pictures on my Flickr--my favorite "photography" from the past few months. Hope you enjoy...and if you do, please let me know!

Just click on the snappy snaps link in the right column for the fun to begin!

He loves me, I know it.

2006-04-23T04:10:00.000-04:00

As I pull my hair back to wash my face, I can smell the day on my skin. Campfire, damp grass, sunshine. It’s not a bad smell. It smells of happy days, of sunny days, of busy, friendly, early summer days.

No, I know what it smells like…it smells like blessings.

The Saddest Day of All Time

2006-04-15T17:13:00.000-04:00

He’s dead.

He’s dead. How can he be dead???

Oh, God…He’s DEAD.

He was supposed to be our king. He was going to save us all. But now he’s dead. How can he save us if He’s dead?

Oh, God…HOW CAN HE BE DEAD?

Where is our hope now? He was our hope, but how can he be now? He is wrapped from head to toe in linen, cold, without breath, laid in a cold, dark cave. There is no life in that cave.

And here we sit, mourning and weeping the man who would have been our king. Was he even who we thought he was? Why didn’t he save himself? Why??? He brought people back to life countless times…how hard would it have been to free himself from that cross, to show those hypocrites who he was once and for all? No one could have doubted him then. They all would have fallen on their faces, crying out for mercy to the one they had just crucified. What better opportunity?

Father in heaven, why have You forsaken us? Why did you bring us this man who would be our king, only to take him away in utter disgrace? We saw his works and signs…who but the Son of God could have performed such miracles? And yet you allowed his own people to put him to death. They chose a common criminal over him and demanded his innocent hands be pierced. His was the death of the scum of the Earth. Where is your mercy, O God?

What do we do now, Father? Who will choose to follow his teachings when, in the end, we’re all the same—dead. Oh, they’ll say he was a wise teacher; they’ll say he did great works. They’ll even say he was Your prophet. But with those very statements, they will dismiss him. Who can believe that the Son of God eternal would be as limited by time as the poorest beggar in Judea?

In my heart of hearts, I know that he came for a purpose bigger than his brief time with us, but God, I am so lost now. My heart aches with this sorrow and my eyes fill every time I think of his face. The light in his eyes haunts me every time I try to sleep. Father, he can’t be dead! Your hand was in this, I know. The noon sky was black as night at the hour of his death; the curtain in the temple was ripped in two by unseen hands. Surely You are not finished with him yet. Surely there is more for him here, here with us.

Oh God of Abraham, God of my fathers, hear my cry. Why, God? Oh, why, my Lord? How can he be dead? How can he be dead? Will I ever feel joy again?

Longings

2006-03-15T00:33:00.000-05:00

I don't know your name.
I don't know where you live or what you do.

Are you fearless?
Do you speak German?
Did the full force of God hit you square between the eyes one day,
or has it been a long, slow dance?

The only thing I know is that the shimmer and hue of your soul
brings the glow out in mine.

And we'll talk.
Oh, how we'll talk!

A Psalm for My Love IV

2006-02-14T21:20:00.000-05:00

Even if I don’t know what it means to love you, even if I don’t know how to love you, Lord, You’ve never left me. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You, Father. You loved me first. Thank You, Lord.

Father, how freeing is Your love! You’ve traded my shackles for wings, a prison for flight. So many times in each day I forget this and behave as if I still bore all my own burdens: things to accomplish, situations to control, and an endless fatigue and disappointment when I can’t do it all to my unrealistic expectations. But through You, Jesus, I am released. Released from my own standards and the world’s. Released from worry. Released to Joy.

Released to Joy

Running as fast as I can through life
Each day blurs by,
Leaving an impression rather than a memory.
Eternity is mine,
Although you wouldn’t know it by watching.
Slowly, slowly, My child.
Everyday is a gift I give.
Don’t let life steal My joy from you.

Just as You promised—a way out.
Our victory over death
You cleverly hid in a man condemned—for who would guess that death would die through death?

***

Oh Father! Remind me each day:
--That You forgive me forever
--That You are bigger than suffering and bigger than sin
--That You are with me no matter where and no matter what
--That You have released me to joy

Never let me forget that You love me, not for anything I’ve done or will do, but because I am Your Gwen. And that is enough.

In Jesus’ precious name, I lift this all up to You. May it bless You, Father.

I love You. Happy Valentine’s Day.

A Psalm for My Love III

2006-02-14T21:19:00.000-05:00

When my heart is breaking You hold the pieces. When my spirit is exhausted, You support me. When I feel so alone, You surround me. There is no place I could go that You wouldn’t have been there first, preparing for me, awaiting me, waiting to embrace me.

With Thou

When troubles at my door do pound,
And fear and weakness swirl around,
My heart will tremble; still I know
With Thou before me I shall go

I step up to the airy edge
And peer down from this crumbling ledge.
I wish to run, but still I know
With Thou beside me I shall go

My past creeps up on me at night,
Confronts me with more wrong than right
My soul feels black but still I know
With Thou behind me I shall go

The door flings open, blinding light
Surrounds me. I give up the fight.
The price is paid so that I’ll know
With Thou within me I shall go.

A Psalm for My Love II

2006-02-14T21:18:00.000-05:00

Over and over, you forgive me. Before I was born, before I was thought of, You had forgiven me. How can we fully understand that it’s nothing that we’ve done? That it doesn’t matter how good we are on the surface, for we are all sinners through and through. Yet You overcame that and You, sometimes gently, sometimes abruptly, lead us to that realization—that You are bigger than sin and pain and suffering, even if You sometimes have to use sin and pain and suffering to get our attention.

Suit of Sin

I wear a suit of sin that squeezes on my heart. Some days it’s so tight, I feel as if my heart would break. And break it does, over and over again. But there is beauty in its brokenness, for as it bursts, it pours forth light. As it shatters, I am fixed. The bigger the break, the more I am filled by something better than myself. And it hurts, oh how it hurts. But the One who made me lives in my heart and nothing could be better than to slough the dull casing and allow the Love that formed the universe, the Love that sacrificed all, flow like blood in my veins, shine like a torch into my darkness.

A Psalm for My Love I

2006-02-14T19:09:00.000-05:00

My roommate and I, being single, decided to dedicate Valentine's Day to God and wrote psalms to celebrate His love. Here's mine, broken into parts cuz it's LOOOONG! It fits together really well, though, so if you have a spare 15 mins, I recommend reading it all together! The structure is pretty much intro, then a poem, then a transition then another poem or bit of free verse...

***

What is a day dedicated to love if it is not a day dedicated to Christ? For who could truly love without Him? We, dirty in our sin, would be forever separated from the Author of love. We could never be reconciled to God without the ultimate price of His son, the death that gives us new life each day, life without limit, regardless of what we’ve done.

77 x 7

Chance after chance and time after time,
I’ve stumbled on my feet
and fallen on my face.

But I’ll have to ask for forgiveness again,
For tomorrow’s a new day…

And here I come crawling back to You
So full of shame I can’t look at You
But You knew this from the beginning of time
You’ve waited to say, “Come to Me, love, you’re mine.
I’ve got your heart in My hands—you’ll be fine.
It’s all part of My grand design.”

And You knew this,
Didn’t You?

The Water Bearer

2006-02-05T16:52:00.001-05:00

“No,” He pushes my hand away, weakly but with certainty. “I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

Even as he speaks, his lips are cracking. His skin looks dusty, and his hair is falling out in chunks. “Goway,” he slurs. As he stumbles to get up, my eyes gloss over. Three tears fall to earth and are gobbled up by the thirsty ground. Would that my friend do the same…

I am the Water Bearer, even when the thirsty do not choose to drink. I cannot force them, like that old proverb about horses says. But in this case, I cannot lead them anywhere; I come to them. My gift is free and my gift is for all. But most people don’t realize that their lips are bleeding, that their eyes are dilated, their skin hardening. Everything around them is withering and dying; to them everything’s normal. They do not realize they need water to live.

“Friend, take this cup. It will help, I promise.” I extend my hand once again.

“I said NO!” He struggles to shift from his knee to standing, his supporting leg swaying like a palm on the beach. “I’m not thirsty!” he croaks. “I just need to stand up…”

With each cup I offer comes the promise of restoration, rejuvination, replenishment. The water refreshes not only the tongue but slides its way between the cells of the body, plumping and repairing—my water fills the empty spaces.

He grabs for that tree, for those rocks, something solid to pull himself up with, but they are useless mirages. He looks around, but we are alone in this wasteland, save another man, tiny on the horizon. He slumps back to the ground, aware for the first time that standing is hard without help. “Maybe just a little,” he mumbles. I hold out the cup again. He draws it to his face, eyes trained on the ground the entire time. But instead of drinking it, he lifts the cup high and pours my water over his head. Little rivers stream down his face, and he closes his eyes. His parched lips part in a crack of a smile. But even as I watch, the water disappears, evaporating into the arid desert air. His smile fades as the cool is replaced by the same old dryness. Except this time, because he knows water now, he can feel it. He thrusts the empty glass at me, waggling it around. “More!” he cries, as the heat returns. He still avoids my gaze.

My cup is not to be taken lightly. My cup is not to be squandered. It revives so long as it is truly tasted. Occasional splashes do nothing but make misery more apparent. My water refills, but you must offer your body, your vessel, to be refilled. It is a commitment.

“Friend, so long as you choose to waste my water, you will never be satisfied for long. The water must become a part of you. Please drink.” I offer him the glass, refilled to the brim, but he just sits there. I know what he’s thinking—who are you to tell me what to do? I just needed a little refreshing. One more glass to splash on my face and I’ll be fine. But I know he’s also thinking about how fleeting the pleasure was, and how, even after that, he can’t stand up. He reaches out and accepts my offer. As the cup trembles toward his lips, light sparkles off the water. The reflection dances on his face and I smile.

I refill his cup as quickly as he drains it. Over and over, in great gulps he drinks, like a man falling in love for the first time. He doesn’t waste a drop.

He looks up at me with new eyes, glistening now instead of dull. I can see my reflection in them as I extend my hand. “Come.” I point into the distance. “I think our friend over there is thirsty…”

Dancing on Dust

2006-01-17T21:58:00.000-05:00

The essence of wealth and the perfume of diamonds
Eludes us but sirens its song on the wind.

And we reach, how we grasp, for the treasures our senses
Can gather and measure and finger and spend.

But at once, in a breath, we are naked and empty
How naked and empty are we in a breath.

And the things of this earth that we swore by, now rubble.
The perfume of pleasure stinks plainly of death.

For no matter how solid the world seems around us,
We’re dancing on visions of dust all the same.

But for us, there’s a light with more substance than granite,
And for us, that light has a name.

Only in my house...

2005-12-29T23:24:00.000-05:00

*Please keep in mind that I live in a white, Southern Baptist household in Georgia.

Tonight Heather and I were having dinner with my parents. The other two girls were off at various events. We'd just about finished eating our pork stew when Dad looked over at Mom and said, "Should we tell them about CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Oh," replied my mother. "You mean the CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Yes," Dad answered. "I think CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE."

Allow me to point out that CHINESE-CHINESE is, in fact, real Chinese. My parents were speaking Mandarin over our heads.

I'm almost 25, but at that moment I felt like a little kid whose parents opt to spell out choice words in dinner conversation. "Don't mention that we have C-A-K-E or she won't finish her P-E-A-S." My focus switched from Dad to Mom and back again but, not speaking a word of Chinese myself, I had no clue what they were talking about. Something about that strikes me as unfair--I am an adult now, after all. But as Mom loves to tell anyone who'll listen: "Whoever said life was fair?"

Such is life in the Phillips family. Surreal.

The 5 Phillips femmes

2005-12-27T18:55:00.000-05:00

"You're seeing a rare event," my dad always informs people. "All of the girls together at once." Inevitably, he announces this a few times before the evening is over, a note of pride in his voice. And often, a hint of a tear in his voice as well. He adores having all girls. As a word of warning, if you are ever over for dinner with the entire family, the "rare-ness" of the evening will be impressed upon you, too. Even if you don't care. Even if you don't comment on it. It doesn't matter.

As a group, we are insane. Giggles ring through the house, though we're often not sure what's so funny. Or at least, we won't be able to explain it. We are just sisters; we share funny bones as well as parents. "I'm going CWISMAS CWAZY!!!" Kate yells, flailing about and tossing her hair like a rock star before collapsing on the floor. The rest of us can barely breathe for laughter, and we watch the video of her performance over and over (thanks to the advances in digital cameras, Cwismas Cwazy will live on in infamy!). Countless times throughout our week together, you can find us in a lump, piled on top of each other on a couch. Somtimes chatting, but mainly just enjoying being close.

Right now, Heather and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch in the den, laptops open. She's reading columns on Townhall.com and chatting on IM. I'm writing this entry. We are the geeks of the group--she's a computer science major at Georgia Tech, so I adamantly proclaim that she's the premier geek, though I can't deny that I make my living with my computer. Heather takes no crap. She's a tough cookie who might very well intimidate me if we weren't related. But she's become a true friend over the past year, especially since we share an intense love for swing dancing, and I miss her fiercely when I'm away.

Kate has "popular cooties," as my dad likes to say. She can do anything, no matter how dorky, and somehow remain cool. Just the other day, she ordered bagles at Panera with a lisp, on a dare from a coworker. "Thix bagelth with a thmear, pleath...Yeth, that'th good." Smile. I wouldn't be surprised if the cashier wanted to ask for her phone number anyway. Who can explain popularity? You either have it or you don't. And Kate does.

Madeleine is truly an angel. She'll give you the shirt off her back then crochet you a scarf if you're still cold. Every request at dinner--"Could someone get me the hot sauce?"--has an implied "Madeleine" following it. And she always complies without complaint. She takes out the trash, washes the dishes, is number one in her high school class, and dances like a dream. Like I said, she's an angel.

And then there's my momma. What a perfect match she is for my father. Even though she and my dad married long before they became Christians, watching them together reminds me of how God works everything for good. She is fiesty, yelling at the guests on Fox News shows, sighing in disgust over columns in the AJC. She is mild, holding her tongue when one of us snaps at her, and completely diffusing the situation in the process. She is wise, my little momma, and I would gladly accept her offer of a "core dump," a concept she has dreamed up where she could simply funnel all her life experiences and the knowledge of 55 years into my thirsty brain. I'd be unstoppable!

So there we are, all 5 of us. I'm assuming you know me, so I'll spare you the details. I have been blessed with a dear family. Dad's another entry all together (not in a bad way). This one's devoted to the ladies in my life. Take a good long look--after all, it's a rare event.

Crushed

2005-12-17T14:31:00.000-05:00

It appears there's no away around it. I've tried everything. You simply can't fall in love God without spending significant amounts of time alone with Him. I've tried praying over every morsel that's about to go in my mouth. Nope. I've tried closing my eyes and singing my heart out at church. Nuh-uh. I've tried going to church twice on Sundays. No.

All these things have caused me to develop a serious crush on God. I suppose that's better than hating or ignoring Him. But the thing about crushes is that they're more about you than about the person you're crushing on. A crush is based on scraps of fact, yes, but supplemented by heaping portions of idealism, concocted by your own brain.

Crushes crackle with emotional electricity--volts and volts and VOLTS of it. You see him drive by--SURGE. He doesn't call--DRAIN. But wait...is that an email from him?--SURGE! Is that him at the movies with HER???--DRAIN (well, this one's accompanied by a surge of its own: rage, jealousy, sorrow...take your pick). It is inevitable that, continued at this pace, something will blow.

Crushes fluctuate. You may have multiple crushes at once; they wax and wane depending on your mood, the weather, who you're hanging out with that day, who you decide you'd like to be that day. How many times have you remembered a past crush and thought, "What was I thinking?" Constant they are not.

Love it most certainly is not.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Earlier I mentioned that having a crush on God was perhaps better than hating or ignoring Him, but allow me to correct myself. Because what is a crush if not a lukewarm sentiment? It runs hot and it runs cold. Take random samples, combine, and stir, and there you have it: lukewarm. He will spit me from His mouth, He tells me. No thank you. I've seen the world on the other side of heaven...not a place I desire to travel on my own.

I want my love for God to burn so hot, it purifies everything I think, everything I do, everything I touch. I want my love for my Abba to be so transparent that people look at me and wonder at how like my Father I am. I want my love for my Lord to make Him smile always and to compel me daily to discover ways to make that smile even broader. I want this love to be so transforming that I barely remember the me from my past; it merely flickers around in the shadows of my head, like an old film of someone else I knew once. I'm sick of fickle. I'm sick of empty passion, spurred on by a moving word or a powerful chord. I'm ready for love: deep, constant, holy, true love. My God, my shepherd, will You lead me there?

yes, my love. grab on.

2005-12-12T22:42:00.000-05:00

Exodus 20:3

2005-12-04T03:43:00.000-05:00

With special thanks to the women at the retreat this weekend...

Released

I bow and bend and seek to please
my god without a face.
I say I'm Yours but with my life I lie;
You are replaced.

My God, my God, though I forsake
Your offer to direct my days,
You love me still--in spite of me--
and You alone deserve my praise.

My lips I part and words flow out--
in speech, You I proclaim.
But do they echo in my soul
or am I yours in only name?

The master that instead I serve
desires not to set me free.
With fear and lies in whispered tones,
it binds me in captivity.

But in Your boundless, ceaseless grace
You show me holy light,
and, blinking, I accept Your hand
and step out of my self-made night...

I LOVE MY JOB!!!

2005-12-02T02:54:00.000-05:00

The front of the very first postcard I designed at my new job!

Guess I AM a graphic designer!

Tell me I rock and I'm yours forever.

2005-12-02T02:43:00.000-05:00

This is a summary of my day:

Boss Mike: Phillips, there's a lot of good work coming out of this corner.
My heart: JUMP FOR JOY!!!

Positive feedback...there's nothing like it.

Here an eyeball, there an eyeball...

2005-11-04T02:59:00.000-05:00

Tonight I saw Minority Report for the first time. Ew. Ick. Weird.

Thought-provoking.

Without giving away too much of the plot, murder in DC is eliminated, thanks to three goopy, pale kids who spend their lives floating around in a tank of who-knows-what and seeing visions of future murders (what a life!). The pre-crime division just waltzes in, nabs the future felon, dusts off its hands and goes back for another donut. Well, a few twists, a couple turns, and some eyeballs later (just see the movie), we the audience learn that just because an action is predicted doesn’t mean you don’t have a choice. You can fulfill the prediction or you can choose to behave otherwise.

WHAT? YOU MEAN, I HAVE A RESPONSIBLE ROLE IN MY OWN ACTIONS???

The introduction of the concepts of moral free will and human error leads to the dismantling of the entire pre-crime program just when it’s on the brink of implementation on a federal level.

Pretty interesting, Spielberg, but I’m holding out hope for a sequel, one that asks WHY we have the ability to make moral choices and WHY we as humans will never be free of error. Holding out hope, not holding my breath. I’m not stupid; this is Hollywood after all.

But I think a sequel would work—if we threw in a few more eyeballs, we might actually see some of the truth struggling to come to light in this movie.

Coming to grips

2005-11-02T03:18:00.000-05:00

He emptied me of sin
And in this emptying I became whole.
A paradox, I know, but true all the same.

Some things are true whether we understand them or not.

New pics!

2005-11-01T02:59:00.000-05:00

After a long hiatus due to my poor decision to upload HUGE files, I am finally able to announce a plethora of new photos on my Flickr page. Click on the "snappy snaps" link in the righthand column and ENJOY!

As you will soon see, I'm having a blast out here in Colorado Springs!

Mmmm...rock

2005-10-29T17:54:00.000-04:00

Rock climbing. Those two little words make my heart smile. In GA, I'd have to do about a 5 hour roundtrip to get anywhere decent to climb. Out here in the Springs, I have multiple destinations within 5-25 mins from my house. Which makes my face smile as well as my heart.

Here are some of the reasons I love climbing:

1) It's very social in a unique way. Nothing beats a day outside trusting your life to your friend's belay skills. You can't BS with a climbing friend--trust is ESSENTIAL.

2) When you're up on a climb, you think of nothing but that climb. Now, I'm not one to recommend drowning your sorrows in anything, not even a sweet, exposed 5.10b. But when your brain is on overdrive on solid ground, there's nothing like thoughts of crimps and jugs and scary cruxes to sweep out those cobwebs of worry. Well, at least the worries you had yesterday. I guess falling 20 feet could be considered a worry...

3) I am a girl. Yes, this is old news. But really, it is so much fun being a girl who climbs because she wants to, not because some boy wants her to (although, I must admit, that's how I got started in all of this). I like being friends with guys and climber guys tend to be pretty awesome friends. You just get a different kind of respect as a girl who climbs well. And I won't lie...I like it when I climb harder than the boys!

A Writer's Prayer

2005-10-12T23:01:00.000-04:00

A gift of words You've given to me, yet time and again I choose silence. A gift of a blank page and a blank slate each day You've also given me, but more often than not I choose to leave it blank. Or allow someone else to fill it, or worse, consider it...then ball it up and throw it away.

Father, You made it so clear that a talent not used for You is a talent that will be lost, a talent wasted. But still I allow fear to make these decisions for me. Your love, as evidenced by the cross, has bought me out of fear. And I want that evident in my life. Make writing an act of worship, not something for myself or for others, but an act of praise toward You, the Giver.

Father, as I am perfected through perserverence, replace this fear with love for You and then let this love spill over onto my page, reveling in the gift You've given me, but most of all reveling in the Giver.

Father, for all the people out there who write, I pray that their inspirations will lead them somehow to You. We are by nature an inquisitive breed, writers. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but in this case scrutiny cannot harm because You are Truth. Father, for all those with a spark, an inkling of who You may be, I pray that You ignite it, with words, with people, with situations. Words on a page are just words on a page. They may be beautiful but how beautiful can untruth be? Father, in Your grace, give us all light and lead us to water.

This I pray in Your Son's name.

Amen.

Invent America, here I come!

2005-09-28T02:39:00.000-04:00

Watch out, all you little 4th graders--Team Gwen is representing strong this year. I'm expecting a patent...

Invention category: Home improvement/Sleep improvement/Heck, Life improvement
Invention title: Curtains
Materials used: navy blue flannel, pushpins, twine, stick-on plastic hooks.

The judges may as well stop deliberating. The winner here is clear. And if they can't see my genius, they obviously haven't caught the vision yet...curtains are gonna sweep the nation.

And there's always MacGyver Fest 2006.

Stay tuned for pictures of my handiwork. It will be glorious...

Sinners in the hands of a sassy and legalistic God

2005-09-19T18:33:00.000-04:00

Road rage...

Highway 316 connects Atlanta/I-85 and Athens, GA, home of the Bulldawgs and my alma mater, the University of Georgia. It is one of the most boring stretches of road I have ever driven. And while I haven't driven across Texas, I have driven through Kansas (and even the vile Missouri) and I think that I hate 316 more. At least on I-70, you don't have to stop at lights every 10 seconds.

Today I went up to Athens to say goodbye to some friends and an old dance professor of mine. And on my way up there I saw one of the infamous "God" signs that some well-meaning person paid to have erected. And by "well-meaning person," I mean FOOL. A series of these huge black billboards dot this stretch of North Georgia monotony, blank except for a little white text "note" from God. I can't tell you how many times I've driven past these but, for some reason, today was the day that I really got pissed.

Here's the text of the offending sign:

What part of "Thou Shalt Not" didn't you understand?
-God

You know, you have to be careful around that billboard because people will just leap from their still-moving cars and throw themselves on their knees begging for forgiveness and asking Jesus to come into their lives. I tell you, lives are transformed on 316.

Oh, wait. That doesn't happen.

What kind of message is this sending non-believers? Does it speak of a God whose love knows no bounds? Does it tell of His mercy and grace that led to the sacrifice of His Son, so that we might know Him? Does it indicate that forgiveness is available to any who call on His name and repent? Does it proclaim the beauty and intimacy of having a relationship with the One who created the universe?

NO. According to this billboard, God is a jerk. He is sarcastic like a bad sitcom character. He is uninspired and uninspiring. He is a cranky old man who wants you to stay off His grass, because His top concern is that you follow His rules; if you do that, you and He are copacetic.

The sponsoring party behind this monstrosity hasn't the courage to even put their name on the sign. They give no address, no website, no phone number where people can go with questions. They probably decided on a slogan, patted themselves on the backs in appreciation of their wit, shook hands with the ad agency, and toddled off to lunch at the Golden Corral, fat and happy that they did their part in communicating God's word to the heathen student drivers heading back to Athens (appropriate in the Greek, hedonistic sense).

But instead, they have missed the mark entirely. In trying to be "hip," in trying to be "relevant" by writing in sassy teen-speak, they have painted a picture of a God that no one would want to be around, much less give their lives to. With misguided, self-righteous Christians like these at work, who needs Satan?

Clear some room on your bedside table!

2005-09-15T08:44:00.000-04:00

NEW! From the acclaimed ShowerHead Press! A true Tale of Intrigue..."The Devil Drives the Anti-Chrysler"

Shiver your way through chapter after chapter as you peer inside the car of the one and only Lucifer (The Angel formerly known as Light--TAFKAL), Prince of Darkness. Missions of death, hijacking lives, drive-by terror, and the occasional run to the drive-through for some minion rings, "The Devil Drives the Anti-Chrysler" will make you think twice about buying American for a long time to come.

Available only at Gwen's Yard Sale, Saturday, September 17 8-4.

CHECK IT OUT!

DING!

2005-09-10T02:15:00.000-04:00

The cake is done! Enjoy! Click on the link in the cake entry earlier until I get to a computer that will let me add a link, as stupid Blogger doesn't have good compatiblilty with Macs...grrrr...

The Machine Stops

2005-09-09T15:12:00.000-04:00

Read a reasonable analysis of the Katrina evacuation shambles.

To feed my Father

2005-09-09T13:15:00.000-04:00

Less than five minutes after I filled out an online volunteer registration form for Hosea Feed the Hungry and Homeless Katrina Relief Efforts, I got a call from a coordinator in New York. "What's your background?" she asked. As I listed my varied experience, from telemarketing to cashier to writer to waitress, she mmmm'd in approval. "Great," she responded when I was finished, "When can you come in on Monday?" They are undestaffed right now, and are in need of people who can work several days in a row on specific projects. I'll show up there Monday at 10 and work every day through Thursday 10-4. I have never done any volunteering that lasted longer than 2-3 hours on one evening once every couple months. I really needed to work at my mom's office next week, to make a little more money before I head out to my new jobless life in CO Springs. But this is so much more important. If you're in the Atlanta area, come help with me!

Matthew 25: 35-40

Zee cake ees almozt rrready!

2005-09-07T15:34:00.000-04:00

Do you like cake? Does your keyboard have a drool protector? Are you amused by anthropomorphic fruit?

If you answered yes to all these questions, then I invite you to peruse the work in progress, the story of a cake.

It should be finished soon but I couldn't wait. It is just too yummy to keep to myself.

Bon appetit.

And now, for something completely different...

2005-09-07T01:12:00.000-04:00

At what cost, Now?

At what cost, Now?
My silent sigh shakes me through and through
As I realize the very weight of my choice
As I mouth the name that I will not speak for shame

At what cost, Now?
The price rises with the tide
Each second bears the pain that will be mine tomorrow
Each breath brings me closer to my rusty knees

At what cost, Now?
Consequence waits in the wings
Shrouded in velvet and grease
Shrouded in a grave cloth that should one day be mine

At what cost, Now?
My leaden heart falls through the ceiling
Bringing my face to the sand
Bringing my thoughts to the sky

At what cost, Now?
The answer is clear in my empty
A man with a hand like a ladder
A man with the Answer:

At My cost. Forever.

Put Citronella in the Bathroom

2005-09-01T16:54:00.000-04:00

So it seems I'm on a poetry kick. My idle mind likes to rhyme, I guess...

Put Citronella in the Bathroom

Why do mosquitoes bite fingers and toes?
They’re unlikely places for meals.

But then, I am not a mosquito.

But if I were…

I’d go for people with thick rolls of flesh
That bulge over waistbands and belts.
I’d bit and I’d sip and I’d feast and I’d gorge
And leave them all covered with welts

Forget about fingers and elbows and toes
I’d only want places with meat.
I’d scoff at my skeeter friends who, quizzically,
Go crazy for rank, bony feet

I might aim for buttocks—yes, that’s what I’d do
They’re often quite juicy and plump
I’d wait til, trou lowered, their guards were let down
Then I’d zoom in and nibble said rump

The one disadvantage to buttocks, I’d find
The reason all others steer clear
Is, if you’ve poor timing when biting the bum
You’ll find yourself squished by a rear

The grass is only greener until your eyes get used to it

2005-09-01T14:12:00.000-04:00

The huge stack of books by my bed is getting smaller: I just finished A Woman Alone: Travel Tales From Around The Globe. I recently completed my own stint of global travel, although certainly not alone. I read much of this book while on my trip to Kenya. The writing inspired me; the tales challenged me; but most of all, the irony of every essay struck me. In every single case, the woman narrator thinks of, longs for, seeks out companionship. It is not aloneness she desires, but newness. It is global Miniver Cheevy-ism: relationships at home grown stale or shattered completely, they assume that those made on the other side of the world must be richer, better, more meaningful. So they leave behind the familiar and set out with a plane ticket and a wish. And for a time, that wish may come true.

But none of these essays continue past the honeymoon stage, past the point where even suffering is enjoyed for “the experience.” The sad truth is that, should they continue on in their solo adventure spot of choice, they would smack hard into cruel reality: Nothing remains new forever, and even exotic locations and companions become the status quo. And then relationships grow stale or shatter completely, and that itch on the soles of your feet returns and you find yourself at midnight surfing the web for the cheapest ticket to the furthest city. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Seekers through and through, these women search for wholeness in their travels. They assume that it must be found in regions abroad, as they cannot seem to find it at home. They conclude that it must come from authentic experiences, from doing the undoable (or at least the uncomfortable). That roughing it in some way smoothes, that suffering heals, and that getting dirty cleans your spirit. They’re right, of course.

Except they’ve misapplied these truths to travel.

Catharsis

2005-09-01T12:05:00.000-04:00

Missour-y

Is it safe to keep on driving when your eyeballs are dissolving?
Is it prudent to speed onward while your breath comes in great gasps?
Is it smart to push the pedal on the right while you are wailing?
Is it wiser to pull over when your heart wants to collapse?

***

Missouri, you were boring; now I hate you with a passion
That eclipses even Kansas with it’s neverending plains.
But Missouri, poor Missouri, you were caught in circumstances.
Now forever I’ll remember that Missouri equals pain.

You can call this melodrama, not the trauma I proclaim
But I guarantee you, in Missouri you would feel the same.
When the road just keeps on stretching, and your stomach keeps on retching,
“Where’s St. Louis? Damn Missouri!” with hot fury you’d exclaim.

When the dream job you desired, one day offered, next day fired,
And you’re looking for a scapegoat on which to pin the blame:
“It’s Missouri! Yes, Missouri,” you irrationally claim.
By the time you reach St. Louis, you’re about to go insane.

But then you cross the border, and your temper starts to wane.
While you drive through Illinois and then Kentucky, what you gain
Is perspective and some distance from that state you will not name,
As God picks up the pieces and reminds you of His fame
As Protector and Provider and and the One who will Sustain.

He is bigger than Missouri, He is bigger than the rain
That cascades on all your plans and melts them back to mush again.
He always keeps His promises, so even when the strain
Of uncertainty and joblessness and monetary drain
Seems far to big to handle, just know this much remains:

God makes rainbows out of rain.
(Even in Missouri!)

What to do when your plans go SPLAT...

2005-08-24T21:55:00.000-04:00

Square One, my dear old nemesis. It appears we meet again. And here I thought I had finished you off. My bad, for counting my chickens before they got "official" job offers from HR...

Driving alone across the country from Denver to GA is never fun. But it's even less fun when your future employer calls you as you slog it across Never Ending Missouri to tell you that the position meant for you has been cut from the budget for next year. Is it a bad idea to keep driving when your eyeballs dissolve? (more on that later)

Well, I went through all the appropriate stages of grief, and I'm glad to say that I involved God in all of them. Hey, if this is what needs to happen to clear the way for Him to work something jaw-dropping then I'll suck it up and wait. I must say, though, that it is nice to know that it's not my talent that is being rejected, it's my salary. Makes the soul feel better, although my wallet sure smarts...

***

What exactly does "Seek first the Kingdom of Heaven" mean to you? I mean the exact words. 5 1/2 more hours in the car to FL and the relentless presence of these words in my echoing head had me working those neurons like a South Asian sweatshop. It is a question that begs to be answered, since that is the key to a life with true direction. And as my brief tale above revealed, my trail has recently dipped valley-ward. The horizon, if it is ever clear, is obscured right now and I'm not sure what foot to step with next. That's why I need to fully understand this command. I know Heaven's orientation remains constant. Now, just how do I properly calibrate my compass...?

But Xanga's trying for a comeback!

2005-08-19T12:45:00.000-04:00

In an interesting development, just when I thought Blogger had pummelled Xanga's shrimpy little behind, Xanga crawls from the wreckage and offers me a free Premium subscription. Trial-sized, of course. Now, I don't believe that this will change my mind. Truth of the matter is that, when the trial is over, you're still left with the same bland Xanga Normal (or whatever they call it).

Never fear, Blogger, you're still number one.

***

Today is move-out day and I'm dragging my heels. Somehow I have to figure out the one magical configuration that allows me fit 1/3 of my wordly possessions in the body of my Nissan Altima. I've always disliked puzzles. I mean, I have trouble putting shoes back in a shoebox. Don't laugh...spatial intelligence like that has just never been my thing. I bet when I was a tyke I tried for hours to fit that round peg in the square hole. But, alas, puzzle I must. I will be homeless as of 5 PM. With or without my stuff. And for the moment, I choose with.

So, bye Lilly, you loveable lunk of a 3-legged German shepherd. Bye Voodoo and April, you cute meowly furballs. Bye Tobin, and thanks for sharing your lovely little home with me for two weeks. It's time for me to head home, across Kansas and Missouri, Kentucky and Tennessee, to Hotlanta, where the players play and heat could melt tar. It'll be an adventure, driving across the country by myself. I'll have pretzels and my iPod and possibly a riveting book on tape or two. I will hopefully have many fun stories to regale you with soon--Tales of Intrigue, if you will...and I do hope you will.

And it's Blogger by a nose!

2005-08-19T01:49:00.000-04:00

As much as I HATE to admit it, Charlie was right. Blogger is far superior to Xanga. I mean, I get to have a parchment background and fancy quill-esque script! Xanga just offers me a few color choices. Sorry, X. Better luck next time. Maybe it's time for some new user options...

So it's Thursday for about 10 more minutes. My last Thursday in Denver. Sniff, sniff. Man, I love it out here. Can anyone visit Denver and not want to live here? And if so, who are you people? I love the neighborhoods, the green space--swing a cat and you'll hit 10 parks, it seems--and the weather. My skin/hair is not looking forward to stepping back into August Atlanta humidity, even if it is temporary.

But what I realized today as I drove down I-25 to CO Springs was that, despite all the effort put into beautifying the area and its public spaces, it seems that no money goes toward road maintenance. None. Zero. I felt like I was driving on tires made of rocks. There's a trade-off, I thought, as I clumped my way down the highway. I can't tell you how much my soul is pleased by the parks. I love all the public art. But right now I'm a visitor. I don't drive these roads everyday to work. Who is deciding that all this tax money should go to build a 30-foot bear statue peering in the glass walls of the Denver Performing Arts Center? I can picture the council meeting now: "So we've got a stretch of highway that is in dire need of repairs. We've received 24 calls today alone complaining that it's like driving on tires made of rocks." "Hmmm...right. Well, we'll get to that. Perhaps next April? But now we have a pressing issue. I've got a guy who can make a 45-foot tall bear sculpture that we can place in front of the new Arts Center." "What? That's ridiculous! You can't be serious." "What do you...oh, I guess you're right. 30 feet tall is plenty." And there you have it, folks--your tax money hard at work. Just remember--the Flintstones drove on tires made of rocks and look how well it worked for them.

Doot doot. Do do doot doot. Do do doodoodoodoo do do doooooo...."WILMA!!!!!"

Shame and agony

2005-08-18T02:29:00.000-04:00

"For the LOVE of all that is HOLY and GOOD and RIGHT in this world..."

And with that, I decided to try out a blogger. com blog instead of my current Xanga. It'll be like the battle of the century. Blogger vs. Xanga. Xanga vs. Blogger. A virtual bloodbath of my own verbiage. Stick around to see who the winner will be. It should be quite obvious based on the dates of my postings and whatnot.

I know I'LL be checking back in. The suspense is killing me...