Strange Articles

Sometimes we have to take turns presenting articles of literary criticism to the rest of the class. My turn is this Friday. I also have a test Friday, another presentation Monday and a finished manuscript for an entire play due next week. This accounts for my running across campus like a chicken with its head cut off instead of blogging lately. When I found the article for this week's presentation I started to wonder what I got myself into: “Eat Me, Drink Me, Love Me”: Eucharist and the Erotic Body in Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market by Marylu Hill. Possibly weirder than others, but I do find myself agreeing about the Eucharist. The other part, not so much.Needless to say I'm a little concerned about how I'm going to pull this off with an audience of conservative Christians.... Friday will be an adventure.

I Buried a Dead Body

This past Saturday, the sun was shining and light breeze was floating through the window. How it managed to float through a very dense bush and down a small cement wall before reaching my basement window is a complete mystery but I was rather grateful for it. With my homework completed, I grabbed my sandals and went for a walk around campus. On my third round past the activities field, I noticed something small gleaming with reflected sunlight. I walked past it, thinking it was trash someone had left. What with our college hosting a basketball tournament, a lot of trash was being left around by visitors who had no respect for our campus rules on litter. Then something hit me: grey fur. I turned around and found to my surprise, a  full grown mole lying face down. I stood there for a few seconds wondering if he was afraid to move because of me or if he was dead. Then it hit me that he would have made a run for it by now if he could. From what I could tell, there were no wounds on his back, and his stomach was laying on the ground. He could have not have been there long, for there were no flies or any other sort of insect eating at him. "Oh, baby" I hear myself whisper. "I'm so sorry." I stood up and made a dash back to my room. Once there I grabbed five tissues and, for lack of a better option, a fork. No I did not eat the mole. I went back to the activities field, and noticed mole tunnels through the grass leading up to their owner's little body. Gently, I picked up the mole's body with the tissues. I had to cup him in both hands and stick the fork in my back pocket. Yet despite that he seemed so small and fragile. His body was limp and warm from the sunshine. His tiny white nose reached my fingertips and his perfect little tail rubbed against my wrist through the tissues. He was full grown, but to me he was as miniscule as a pen cap and as breakable as a glass figure. Ever so carefully I carried him to the cliff behind the library and ducked back behind some trees. Using the fork I dug a small little grave and paused. The mole lay on his back, velvet grey fur highlighted against the white tissues. There were no wounds on his front either. A blood covered tongue hanging out of his mouth was the only sign that he hadn't died a natural death. Chances are his little neck was broken by a predator before he died. With the greatest of care not to squeeze or damage him, I picked my little friend up with my bare hand. His fur was soft, so much softer than the silky belly of our family cats. His miniscule little white paws were perfectly formed and as endearing to me as the fingers of a new born babe. Once again I was struck by how small he was in comparison to me. Is this how small and fragile we seem to Abba? In a physical world where we are the largest, most powerful creature it can be easy to forget just how tiny and fragile we truly are. This past Saturday I remembered. In Abba's eyes I am no bigger than a mole, but I am loved with a fierceness that surpasses the compassion I felt for my smaller fellow creature at that moment. I sat there for a few seconds and stroked brother mole's fur lightly, putting it all in place as I hummed a small song and talked to him. I apologized for the shallow grave in a rocky earth that no mole would dig in. I couldn't bury him in the field where he had lived, not without getting caught and most likely in trouble for ruining the field where college students played Frisbee and had picnics. I apologized that he had to die right when the weather was starting to get nice and when he had just come out of hibernation. I described the trees, the view of the river below, the birds and the lack of college sounds to him. Then I laid him in his new home face down, as if he was tilling the soil beneath his paws once again, and covered him with the rather loose dark earth. It wasn't much, and in some ways I felt like Antigone, who just sprinkled earth over her brother. No doubt the wind and rain would blow the earth off and leave my poor friend open to the elements again. I offered a prayer for him, that he hadn't suffered, that his grave wouldn't be disturbed, and that I was grateful he was back with his creator. I asked for a chance to see him again when the whole world is restored. It isn't just humanity Abba wants to restore, it is all of creation, even the trees and moles. I wonder if my little mole will look any different when he is restored, will I recognize him? The chapel bell tolled as I stood up again, as if it was tolling for the death of my little brother. I wonder if it will toll for me when the time comes.  I do know part of my prayer for Mr. Mole was answered: it snowed the next day and the ground was frozen solid. He will rest undisturbed for a while longer. I can only hope the same is true for me when I am buried in the earth where the moles will make me welcome....that sounded much more morbid than I planed it to be.

Wednesday Quote

An old proverb for today.

"Men are more mindful of wrongs rather than benefits"

Believing in Fairies

I should be studying for a midterm right now. For some reason I can't focus, perhaps it has to do with the weather. Perhaps not. Whatever the cause, Swift, Austen and Byron are not holding my attention this evening. So here I am trying to write a blog post instead, listening to the soundtrack for the 2003 production of Peter Pan.

One of my coworkers and I are in love with Peter Pan. We both love the story even though we are both halfway through college. In someways, he even reminds me of Peter. He has the same clever, sneaky smile that could charm the fairies while he steals their purses. Not that Puck (as I shall here call him) would ever steal. He is far too good natured. We both would defend J.M. Barrie against the American authors his best friend (and our fellow worker) preferred.

What is it about Peter Pan that fascinates us both? The idea of retaining our childhood? Perhaps, no one ever fully abandons his or her childhood willingly. There is that small part of us that wants to continue to believe in fairies even when we know they are not real. Something in us withers when the Hooks in our lives whisper "there's no such thing as fairies." There is no magic. There is no fun.

My love of Neverland started when I was little, and I adored Peter as most young girls do. However, it was when I started Jr. High that I truly fell in love with the story. That was when it finally sunk in that I was growing up, and  oh how I wished Peter would visit my window before that happened! While my little sister slept beside me, I would stare out our window at the stars and wonder which one was "second to the right." I retreated, and cried myself to sleep as I slowly, horribly continued to grow older.

At some point in high school, my grandmother took my little sister and me to see Peter Pan on the stage. I don't think she ever knew how much that meant to me. I was re-connected with the best part of my childhood: the steadfast never doubting belief. Belief in fairies, magic and light. Pure unfiltered sunlight and joy. I hate heights, but I wanted with all my heart to fly with Peter that day. To me, flying has a different definition all together.

I am much older now than I was then. I no longer live at the small house at Possum Box Lane. I had to say goodbye to the fairies that rustled the trees in the day and danced in the garden at night. I had to wave farewell to the mermaids in the creeks and the unicorns in the hidden glade I named Mossflower (after Brain Jacques' book by the same name). But only because we moved to a new house. I stubbornly clung on as while the rest of my classmates prepared for college and uttered their own version of the hated line "there's no such thing as fairies." I didn't want to grow up, and fought back by not applying for scholarships and my mother had to drag me by my hair to get me to apply for colleges. It wasn't until the summer before I left that I finally stopped fighting. Peter wasn't coming. His forgetfulness had gotten in the way yet again. I would have to find him.

I think the hardest thing for a six year-old child to understand is that Peter Pan is a story about growing up. The whole reason Wendy, John, and Micheal Darling left was to avoid growing up. It always confused me why they went back. Yes, they loved their mother and missed her. That reasoning I could very well understand. But it was the argument between Peter and Wendy about feelings that always got me. Understand that I was very romantic as a child and took Wendy's side; even then I knew that that disagreement between Peter and Wendy was the real reason why she left Neverland and that while the part about missing mothers was true, it also served as Barrie's way of making the departure easier to swallow for the children. There was something about growing up that Peter was (and probably still is) terrified of. And why shouldn't he be? As small children, we are given the impression that the adults around us wish us to stay small and pure. Somewhere along that time frame our small hearts begin to think that growing up is bad, why else would our parents wish us to avoid it? However, there comes a time when we, like Wendy discover that growing up is not a bad thing, if you handle it right.

No one likes to be told to stop doing something they enjoy. "Don't play in the mud." "Don't stay up late reading" "No, you can't go play with your toys, go do your homework." "There's no such thing as fairies." Children get it into their heads that growing up is losing all the fun things in life, all the things they enjoy. Wendy was going to have her own room, away from her darling brothers (sorry, I couldn't help myself). That is not what growing up is. Growing  up is learning to take responsibility for your actions. Something that the Lost Boys, Peter and Wendy do throughout their adventures. Peter puts Wendy and the Lost Boys' safety before himself when he ties Wendy to a kite, or goes in to save them all from the pirates.He never admits that it was his actions or lack of actions that caused their scrapes, but he does try his best to fix the problems that arise. In that respect, Peter is a grown up (although he would be ashamed to admit it and would argue with me, the cocky fellow)  Growing up is also learning to take the fun things and turning them into part of who you are. Wendy went to Neverland to play being a mother. She loved taking care of her rowdy brothers and the Lost Boys. Guess what she became when she grew up? How do you know that the child who plays in the mud will come to nothing? Perhaps he has the making of a great gardener.

Wendy's father tells her at the beginning of the story to put away childish thoughts. That it is time for her to think like an adult. This is the lie that all children are told, even inadvertently. We are told to forget the Easter bunny, Santa and so on. "There's no such thing as fairies." We are told to toss away that unquestioning belief in what we cannot see. That is part of growing up, we are told. It is a hard pill for any child to swallow, a bitter one. One that many take, but we don't have to. Peter never took his medicine. Hook poisoned it. And he has poisoned ours as well. We were called to have the faith of children, to keep that unquestioning trust and belief. We are to take responsibility for our actions, but to keep that child's sight, the laughter and the ability to fly. We are to keep that hope and love. Living without faith, or hope is dismal and is a surefire way to piracy towards the soul.  Wendy willingly went back to her window in London, as we must all go to our own windows. But she kept hope, and Peter came back for her; and later for Jane. Peter never truly leaves Wendy, just as he never leaves us. Those who claim to be adults, and say "there's no such thing as fairies" have broken themselves off from themselves, creating another Lost boy (or girl) for Peter to lead while the "adult" part becomes as heartless as a pirate. Our childhood never leaves. Sometimes he hides from us, but in the end, we will find him and keep him close.

Puck and I both are still determined to never grow up as the world sees it. We still believe in fairies. I wear medieval dresses just because I like them. So what if people think I'm crazy? They would be right. I once danced barefoot with Abba on a cliff during thunderstorm at midnight till my feet bled. And enjoyed every second of it. I still go out and dance with him on that cliff. Granted with shoes now, bleeding feet are not fun and the Wendy in me was horrified and berated me for the full week my feet were healing. The Peter in me still thinks it was well worth it though. Puck tries to act as like an adult as much as I do, but he still likes to watch ice chunks shatter on the sidewalk with the same fascination my sister and I had as five year-olds. And last semester he did try to shove a snow ball down one of our co-workers shirts. In someways we will never grow up. We will always see fairies and believe in magic. Not the witches and wizard magic, true magic. Real magic, the magic of all fairy stories, the magics of the Bible are called miracles. What is magic but a miracle that we don't understand or recognize?

My mother once wrote the following line on her blog, and it sealed my view on this matter. "Faith and Faerie, I've been told are incompatible. Once cannot believe in both miracle and magic. One should not open windows in the wind. Phooey."  I believe that they are one and the same. Yes, witches and dark magic is real, and we need to stay away from it. But I firmly believe that God has his own magic. With his fairy dust, I can and will fly.

Tonight, as I came back from dinner, I walked in the dark with orange street lights and falling snow. The clock outside the caff glowed, and for a second, I thought it was Big Ben. The snow became fairies and I could feel Peter laughing beside me, tugging me along. As I listened to the below song, I felt that I was flying. In some ways I will never grow up. I will never abandon my belief in the unknown. "I do believe in fairies." I sleep with my window open in the wind. You never know when Peter may drop in.

 I Do Believe in Fairies

Pebbles in a Creek

                I stand with my feet in the cool golden waters of the creek, in my hand is a smooth honey colored pebble. A leaf falls from a nearby tree and lands in the water, making faint ripples. Smaller such rings appear as a water skater lands and looks for tiny bugs. I drop the pebble as hear the “plop” as the water rings spread further and further apart. With a tiny motion, I disturbed the flow of this simple creek.

         Each action we undertake has a reaction. We affect all of those around us, whether or not we are aware of it. We all drop pebbles into creeks, the lives of others. There are numerous ways to drop a pebble and the ripples that emerge are different every single time. The dropped pebble can cause a positive change in someone’s life, or they can terrible consequences.

“Hey, Retard!” A dodge ball comes flying at me, hitting my hip as if it was a missile. I can already tell that it will bruise in a few minutes. As I move to sit on the bench, three more balls fly at me. Two thump my back while the third finds its mark on my head.

            “I’m already out!” I turn back and face the three boys standing there in complete confidence, convinced that they are allowed to do this.

            “So?” The leader, a tall tan sports player with dust colored hair spreads his arms. “This isn’t for bookworms, Retard.” The boy to his left starts to throw another ball when Coach Percival tells us to change and head to our class. I walk into the locker room, shaking with the effort of keeping my feelings hidden. I can’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I stifle a sob as I pull out my t-shirt. Why did my teacher have to place me next to them? How long will I have to pray until we get a new seating arrangement?

            I sat between two of my tormentors for the rest of the school year. Everyday new insults were added as they tried to cheat off of “The Retard’s tests.” When the next year started, nothing changed. My teacher finally found me sobbing in the bathroom one day. Although I did not understand at the time what had happened, several bad ripples had emerged in my creek. I refused to make eye contact, flinched every time someone tried to hug me. Worst of all, my prayers had gone unanswered for so long that I was convinced God abhorred for me. I hid in a fantasy world of books, build a wall around myself; all because three boys dropped pebbles of doubt, hate and fear into the creek of my soul. We may tease each other, but to some it is not teasing. Every step you take, the smallest word you say can and will affect those around you. I still struggle with what happened to me. What those boys did has impacted my outlook on life, and the way I think of myself. Their pebbles were thrown in with force, but we have the choice to gently let the pebble skip cheerfully across the creek.

            “Hey, are you going to Jen’s party?” A tall boy with coffee colored hair stands in the doorway of my mother’s classroom.

            “I don’t know…” I trail off, trying to come up with some excuse.

            “I can give you a ride if you need one.”

            “I’ve got a lot of homework, Kaleb.” I glance down at the desk, refusing to meet his gaze.

            “It’s on a Saturday.” He strode over and sat on the edge of the desk. “You’d enjoy it. We’re watching a movie, playing games, the whole gang will be up there.”

            “I don’t really know Jen that well.”

            “She loves reading the same stuff you do and is an excellent cook. You’d like her.” He bends down till his eyes are level with mine. “Please Sis? You spend too much time avoiding people. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re my sister, well, in spirit.”

            “Alright,” I sigh and try to hide my small smile from him.

            “You’ll have a lot of fun, you’ll see. I love you Sis.” The nineteen year-old college student wrapped his arms around me, a mere fourteen year-old nerd, and pulled me into a bear hug. I froze, no boy, not even my cousins had hugged me in years.

            That hug, from a friend who became my honorary brother, was a pebble. Unlike the first, it radiated kindness and a form of love that I had believed to be dead. The initial ripples of fear and confusion gave way to hope, support, loyalty and adoration. I could see the light again, although I did not yet comprehend its meaning. Even now, I can still feel the effects of that one hug in my internal creek. However, it was a year later that my creek truly began to find its true course, with the help of an avalanche of pebbles that were tossed in by three complete strangers.

            “Sis!” Zach, a tall tan boy with chocolate hair and earth brown eyes turns and looks for me. “Where are you going?” He raises his voice, trying to make himself heard over the concert music and the writhing crowd.

            “I’m gonna buy some of that last band’s stuff.” I point to the tents set up not too far from the stage.

            He lifts one eyebrow. “Really? I’d think you liked that kind of stuff.”

            “I don’t, but they did a good job of working with the crowd. Plus they mocked Twilight, I’m just doing it to support them.”

            “A’right, you want me to come with you?” A look of concern crosses his face. This kid may not have known me for long, but I can tell he thinks I’m too shy to go by myself.

            “I’ll be fine,” I lie, Zach needs to spend some time with his real sister, not the girl he claims as one. I turn and let the flow of people take me to the line of teens and adults wanting to buy Manic Drive merchandise.

            “CD’S!” A girl comes out waving a basket of CD’s. “Two for twenty bucks! Get them signed inside!”

            “What the heck, why not?” I raise my hand and give her a twenty as she hands me the two albums. I stand there and look at the smooth cool covers that are now mine. One is dark blue with the three band members standing under the title Blue. The other shows a wind-swept desert and bares the phrase Reason for Motion up at the top. I look up to realize that I am next in line to meet the band.

            A boy, only ten years older than me meets my eye. His short black hair is on end from his recent performance. I step forward, a compliment about his singing on my lips when he smiles at me. I freeze, the hand holding the CD’s outstretched. Still holding my gaze he gently take Blue and opens it. “Did you enjoy the show?” He inquires as he signs his name.

            “Yeah, you guys did a really good job.” I bite my tongue. “Really? That’s all you have to say to the kid?” He looks up as he hands my CD to the guitarist, still smiling at me. I’m tempted to see if he is looking at someone behind me. As I take Blue back from the drummer, I look back at the singer. Why did he smile at me? He doesn’t know me.

            That smile, a tiny twitch of facial muscles had a huge impact on my creek. That smile held words, as did the look of kindness in his eyes. The singer (Shawn Cavallo) did not know that I did not trust people enough to make eye contact; he just reached out and looked straight into my dull and unused eyes. He did not know that only my closest friends, my “brothers” gave me looks of kindness. I had never thought to look for that in a stranger, but Shawn did. I thought about that smile for the rest of the concert and until the next day.

            The rain fell hard on the tin roof, drowning out the sound of my father’s snores from the next room. I glance at the clock as I lay my book down, the digital face reads seven a.m. Gazing around my room, I spy two CD’s I bought at the concert yesterday. Careful as to not wake my parents, I place the first CD in the player and press play. The lyrics had been placed inside the cover and I read them while the music played.

            “… thought I made a masterpiece, compared it to clones I thought I made an art that was unique (Manic Drive, “Blue”).” “That’s funny,” I was having the same problems with my stories. I sit and listen, intrigued now by the band who has the same creative problems as me. “Tried my own way, still I can never feel at home. Please don’t remind me that I can’t do this on my own; change my will to Yours... (“Blue”) “Change my will to whose? Do they mean God? No,” I rub my arms. “No, he doesn’t care about me.”

            The song switches, a slow piano number begins. “…I need you closer, so take all I am, start again, bring me in cause I need you… (“Closer”) “Do I need God? He certainly has not done a good job of taking care of me.” I shudder as a brief memory of the bullies flashes through my mind while the next verse goes on. “We turn around and we curse his name, they convince us that our God is dead and it’s His fault that we lost Him (“Closer”).” My head jerks back as if I had been slapped.  I sit there for a few minutes before putting the second CD in.

            “I know you’re hurting; your eyes, they show me the truth and my heart, it hurts for you (“Tragedy”).” I frown in thought, “does God feel pain for me? How could he understand what I had gone through?” “How can I come to you when life’s a tragedy?” I nod my head, even the song writers don’t get it. “I don’t want to think that I’ll lose you over one mistake. I hope you try to find a place for me in your heart…” “God wants a place in my heart?” I bit my lip as I try to figure out this seemingly complex puzzle. Then the song changes again, speaking of hiding from the past and leaving God behind (“Crying”). That’s what I did, “should I stop running?” Tears of confusion start to build up as the second singer sings his part of the chorus. “I’ll wait for you, if you want me to. Look at me, in the eyes, cause it’s now or never (“Crying”).” “Has he been waiting, or have I left it too late?” The second verse continues to describe the fears and doubts that I have held for what seems an eternity. The tears start to fall from my eyes as I try not to sob. “What have I done? Did I really cut myself off from what I needed? Can I ever get it back?”

            The last song begins, as I try to read the lyrics with eyes floating in salty water. “My spirit came and created light and since then I loved you (“Alive”).” The impenetrable wall I built around myself trembles. “He loved me?" “I’m alive, I’m still here. Just seek and you’ll know (“Alive”).” Once again I start to weep as the wall breaks. Somewhere inside I feel as if a final puzzle piece has been placed in my soul.

 The band Manic Drive dropped more than a pebble in my creek. Their decision to start singing resulted in me gaining my life back. They gave me the final push I needed to be in God’s arms. I found out in the course of writing this paper that the main album that save me, Reason for Motion, came out the same year that I lost my faith. The actions of three Canadian boys in their mid-twenties made me become a true believer of Christ, and they do not even know my name.

            No matter what we do, someone is watching. They are watching our actions and are being affected by them, no matter how big or small the decision. What we do does have an impact, whether we know it or not. Insults will lead others to ruin, and not just the victim. People do judge us by the way we treat others. Small movements, such as a hug can show someone the meaning of love in ways we could never understand. Perhaps the most wondrous of all, we can change the life if a complete stranger without knowing we have done so. We all drop our own pebbles in all the creeks around us. The question is, what kind of pebble do we choose to drop?

Works Cited

Manic Drive. “Blue.” Blue. Spring Hill, TN: Whiplash Records. 2009

Manic Drive. “Closer”. Blue. Spring Hill, TN: Whiplash Records. 2009

Manic Drive. “Tragedy”. Reason for Motion. Spring Hill, TN: Whiplash Records. 2006

Manic Drive. “Crying”. Reason for Motion. Spring Hill, TN: Whiplash Records. 2006

Manic Drive. “Alive”. Reason for Motion. Spring Hill, TN: Whiplash Records. 2006

Bedtime Thoughts: Brothers and Memories

It's late, my parents and sister have already gone to bed. I lay in my bed, the warm light from my lamp casts light across my room. This light, so much smaller than my bedroom light, still manages to light up the entire room. My light may not be as strong as Father's, but it still shines. Be it science or faith, light and dark cannot co-exist.

The fan blows my still damp hair in my face, I brush it back as I stare at the ceiling. The cardboard dragon model above my bed spins in the breeze created by the fan. It's blue and white scales make it as a frost dragon. It's long shadow spreads across the ceiling, looking for a place to land but doomed to fly forever. I give a snort of laughter as I recall how this past December Tristin and Ayden had told in about the monstrous frost dragons they had fought in their computer/video games. They had been so excited and eager to tell me of their conquests and of the magical creatures that hold all three of us in awe.

I pause for a minute, listening to the music coming through my mp3 player. Again I hold back my laughter, thinking of the look on Ayden's face when he introduced me to TobyMac. He had thought I didn't like it, yet today I've listened to this album three or four times. I'll probably have it memorized by tommorrow.

My eyes move from the dragon to the tall white bookshelf at the foot of my bed. Tales of the Kingdom, The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Circle. I smile, Tristin Ayden and Aric all pushed me to read that last series. I finally gave in and ordered a set after Christmas. Those books have helped me understand love in a way had never though possible. Yet another thing I have to thank my brothers for.

At the foot of the bookshelf is a small wooden treasure box. Letters from Mexico, a rosary, a candle, a photo and a blue chopstick reside inside it. All of them are from Aric, my gifts from a close friend and brother. Sometimes I pull the letters out and read them. Laughing at his adventures on the missionary trip, and fingering the wooden rosary he brought back for me. I play the chopstick, wondering is Aric still has the matching one.I look at the picture of the two of us at prom, thinking of how excited we where to dance in a castle, despite not knowing how to dance.The candle fills my nose with the sent of lemongrass, my favorite. I can remember when he went to the store he bought it at on our one evening out. Next to the chest, on the bottom shelf are two binders. One is filled with my first and only completed manuscript, the other is Aric's. The creative fantasy worlds that we helped each other create. On rainy days I flip through them, amazed by how much we have grown with our imaginations and a pen.

Next to the white bookshelf is a small brown one, under my window. There, on the bottom left shelf is a pitiful collection of CD's. Red, Manic Drive, Skillet and Newsboys. Ayden introduced me to Red, and even gave me one of the two CD's that I have by that group. I giggle, then stop, not wanting to wake my sister or Dad in the adjoining rooms. Ayden took me to my first concert, I've only been to one concert without him, actually. He was with me when we heard Manic Drive for the first time. This past year he has helped me grow in my faith by using music, or lectures where Aric used his pen.My fondest memories of my last year in the Asylum were of the weekend long concert I spent with Ayden and the rest of the youth group. Sometimes I play his favorite Red, Skillet or TobyMac songs and try to figure out why he likes them so much, and why I agree or disagree with him. Like writing, music has a flow a plus that can affect the lives of people around the world. The pen and music is what gave me my faith back.

On my west wall, next to my mirror is a picture, Tristin gave it to me on my birthday. He spent over a month drawing this detailed picture of the library we both dreamed of yet never had. I grin at the way he had complained about how long it took to draw every single tiny book on the endless shelves. I love it, at least once a week I go up to it and look at his signature in the bottom right corner. It's a friendly little wave that reminds me that he really did draw that medieval underground armed library just for me.I looked at the back of the picture once. Tristin's favorite smiley face, the head of a dismayed man (he may have been in pain, I couldn't tell) a half erased celtic knot that beat any that I could have drawn and the phrase "It's equal." Whether that is just his doodles or something meant for me, it brings a smile to me face.

These gifts, given in passing are tokens of the love that resides between siblings. I've never told Tristin how much I love it when he calls me "sis"; it makes me glow on the inside. The way I can't stop smiling when Ayden runs to give me a hug when he sees me at church. The feeling of trust when Aric tells me of his problems and how he has fixed other issues. I belong when they give me these small gestures. I strive to impress them, to live up to their expectations as much as my parents'.I want them to know I listened to what they told me and that I love them too. A few times I've had bad dreams about letting them down, though as of yet I haven't done anything too major. Aric still want to know what I am writing and always offers his help and thoughts.Tristin told me he was proud of me several times on my graduation day and kept apologizing for not being there. Ayden did the same, and continues to tell me about how much I am going to love being at college this fall.

My eyes move back to the lamp and to the new Bible laying next to it. If these boys see me as their little sister, how much more so my Savior, Jesus? I may not have any letters, music or pictures from Him, but His love for me is stronger than any shared by two mortals. In my ear, TobyMac continues to sing "this ain't no ordinary love." He's right, this is a special love, one that needs no gifts or tokens, yet Jesus still gave me one. His gift for me is in my heart. I can feel his arms around me when I close my eyes. This brother gave his life for mine, Tristin's, Ayden's and Aric's. I don't know if he'll call me '"sis", but the love of a brother is unique and I have learned to recognize it, thanks to Tristin, Ayden and Aric. I only hope and pray that the love of a little sister is enough for all four of them and that I don't abandon my eldest brother.

The song changes, taking my thoughts with it. I roll over, glancing around my room once more. Before long this won't be my room, I'll be gone to college. What will I take? What will I leave? The letters, the music, the picture? The stories we all told and listened to? Will I leave them behind and start anew, like so many of my classmates are doing? Will do the opposite and take the past into the future? I stretch, my fingers brushing the smooth, cool cover of my Bible. Is it the past, the memories that defines who I am, or is it what I do with my past? I turn off the lamp and take out my earbuds, the player goes to sleep as the last song ends. My Bible, letters, music and picture will come with me; to remind me to stay in touch with all four of my brothers and make new memories with them. A new beginning does not mean an end to the laughter of the past, and I want to have their friendship and support for the rest of my life. I flip my phone over to find a text from Ayden: G nite sis. Sleep well n God bless. Love ya. Yawning, I save the text and send him a similar one back before pulling the sheet up to my ears. Some nights, like tonight, I can feel Jesus sitting on the foot of my bed. He's watching over me with the love and wisdom of a brother as I drift into the dreams he wants to share with me. I hazily wonder what he has in store for me, Tristin, Ayden, and Aric.

Sacrifice of Love

Recently my church began to do a twenty-one day fast. My youth class decided to give up one or more of our hobbies and habits. Honorary older brother, Ayden, gave up his video games. My dear companion at school, Mae, gave up facebook and texting. I gave up restricted myself to read only the Bible and to do no writing besides what was needed for school. I started on the first day of second semester and went on from there. When my classmates found out about it, they all stared.

"Now Lizzy, be serious." One senior tried to reason with me. He has been my friend since we were ten. He knows that I read to escape, to draw strength from the characters; to learn how to be a better writer and to gain more understanding of how the world around me works. This boy understands that writing my fiction stories is how I process what happens in my life and that it kept me sane during my rough time away from God.

"I am serious." I meant it. What better place to gain strength and understanding than from God? How would I be able to hear what he said if I had my ears stuffed with wax?

"Wow, Lizzy, you're crazy." A dark haired girl points her finger at me eyeing me carefully. I used to play house with her on the playground. We've never been very close, but to her I'm the daughter of two teachers who has had her nose in a book since second grade. There's a look in her eyes that startles me. Yes, she really thinks I've gone round the bend. However, the way she looks at me holds more. She's in awe that I'd be willing to even try this fast, I can see that she respects me.

"I'd never be able to do that." Another girl I grew up with shakes her head. It startles me. I've never really been part of the group. I sit with them at lunch, but for the most part I do my own thing. We don't hang out outside of school and the clubs we participate in are different as well. Her grades are above mine and I've always felt shabby in my old black jeans and red Wal-Mart blouse compared to her outfits. Sometimes I felt she looked down on me because of my eagerness in English and Viking-like hair. Yet here she was, giving me a look of pride and respect.

I shrug, not sure what to say. "Anything is possible with God." All three of them widen their eyes further, anymore and the eyeballs may fall out. "Plus it's just books and a pen." The eyes shrink a tad, but I can still feel them watching me as I go back to the video I'm making for class.

A week passed. I had no problem with not touching the shelves of fiction that reside in my room...until the books I ordered over break came in. A leather bound edition of The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis and Ted Dekker's The Circle Series. I was tempted, but as soon as they were out of the packaging they were on my book shelf next to The Lord of the Rings.

By the second week I noticed changes in my behavior. I had more energy, physically I felt the same as always. Spiritually I was jumping up and down like a toddler on soda. I had a few free classes. While the others were playing games I opted to read my Bible. I studied First Samuel, Esther, Ruth, most of Daniel, and parts of Job, James, and Genesis in those classes. It was a very good learning experience. To top that off, I gained more patience with the classmates that I normally have the urge to strangle. I saw them differently and grew to love them. My love for God seemed to explode and I swear I could feel his hand on my shoulder when I walked down the hallway (no, it wasn't my backpack).

During my last week, I had a surprise. Part of what I had been praying for was that my classmates would become closer to God. Suddenly the friends I mentioned above were praying and discussing Bible verses on Facebook. They still said that I was crazy, but every time they ask if I was still fasting, I could sense their excitement and the pride when they explained to the teacher why I wasn't reading my favorite authors in my spare time (I tried to tell the teachers, but they beat me to it). To top it off, one of the girls walked up to me with a huge grin and a glow of joy. She told me she was fasting by giving up Facebook for a week. I wanted to hug her and cry for joy (unfortunately even a hug breaks the PDA rules and can land you in ISD).

I gave up my books, paper and pen for God. In that time I began to understand just how much he loves me. Jesus gave up his life for me, why can't I show my love for him by sacrificing my other loves? Even now that the fast is over, I'm still learning about the Father's love. The Circle Series continues to open my eyes and heart. I can feel my mind turning over these new ideas and comparing them with parts of the Bible to make sure Ted Dekker's words match. They do, and a few issues I have always been confused on are starting to make sense. That doesn't mean that I can't continue to to my part in what Dekker calls "The Great Romance" and turn over what I have (pen, tongue, heart and mind) to my Lord.

The Real Narnia

Today my sister and I watched The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Once again we were swept into the world of Narnia that our mother first took us to when I was six or seven. My sister rode on Aslan's back to the White Witch's castle. I watched as Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy made their way to the Beavers' dam. The world of Narnia is one that has held the hearts of children for generations. They cry and laugh with the characters that mean so much to them. More than anything, we all wish to see Narnia with our own eyes. Now most of those who read the books know fully well who Aslan is and what he means when he tells the children he has a different name in our world. Yet the reader who knows that Aslan died for Narnia as Jesus died for us and that Aslan's name here is God still longs to be in Narnia. We still want to dance with the fawns, talk with the dryads, and learn to fight with the knights of Narnia. Christianity seems to be so much simpler there. The truth is that it is just as hard there as here. People fall, make mistakes, turn away from the truth, suffer for doing right, loose all they have and die in Narnia as much as in the real world. It just sounds better and less dark in those books because we are not really there. We are observers and cannot easily get inside the minds of the people in books. You cannot understand why Susan forgot Narnia completly unless you have forgotten Christianity. Everything is more obvious in books than in real life. Most of us distrust the White Witch as soon as she turns up in the book. C.S. Lewis made the line between good and evil plainly. In real life it is blurred and covered in a fog. Yet the signs and warnings are the same there as they are here. You just have to keep an eye open for them, or you will miss them. Nothing is spelled out for you as it is in books. The same evil is in Narnia and in this world. The same God as well. There may not be magic and fairies, but there is still a real deep magic, although it is not so much magic as it is power. You can have your adventures and battles with the White Witch and other villains. However they have different names here. The story is still the same though. The world of Aslan is real, you just have to find it inside yourself. Walking into your closet will do no good, the forest with the street lamp is all around you. You were born into it, but today it is called by a different name. I believe in Narnia, do you?

Unexpected Plan

There's a joke that has an important message. How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.
So far in my life, my plans and God's have matched. I want to be a writer, and as my brother told me recently, I seem to be pretty good at it. I want to go to one college so badly that I pray every day for an acceptance letter almost to the point of tears. Friday, part of God's plan became obvious to me and I was completely thrown by surprise.

I am doing an online Bible Study with a group of kids around my age and young adults. We come from different states and some of us live in Canada. We all met through our favorite band, Manic Drive. The band members are administrators of the study along with a young mother who made friends with the band and started our Bible Study, Prayer Group, and friend group (for us to just chat). After the first few days, I was the only one commenting and saying my thoughts and views on the daily readings our teacher, Jodi, was posting for us to learn from. Jodi contacted me, she told me that this was the first Bible Study that she had taught and that my comments were very encouraging to her and that I was catching stuff that she was missing. I expressed how much I was enjoying our Bible Study. A few hours later I was staring at her reply, unsure if I should cry or scream. " If you'd like you can do one of the chapters studies for the day :) just let me know if you'd want to."

Me teach a lesson? I just got my faith back roughly two years ago! I don't know the books of the Bible and I have no Bible verses memorized. I've never been to church camp and only one concert. How the heck could I teach about a whole chapter of Proverbs to people I've never met? I just looked at the computer screen, part of me really, really wanted to do it. I love our online lessons, tearing apart the verses for any secrets God hid within for me to find. I loved posting my findings for my teacher and friends to read and tear apart for themselves. I even liked it when they proved me wrong on certain issues, but could I really teach a lesson myself?

Unsure of what to do, I reached for my phone and texted my brother at college, Ayden the son of my pastor. "Well, I think God is asking you to do something for him that would also help you as well." He replied within minutes. "I wouldn't pass it up. What are you nervous about?"

I told him my fears and doubts, but even then I knew I would take up Jodi's offer. God wouldn't have put this before me if he didn't think I could do it. I had no cause to be nervous. Still the back of my head tittered back and forth. At least until Ayden texted me again. "I'm going to tell you what my dad told me. It's not you who's speaking or even influencing them. It's God who's doing the talking. The disciples didn't know their scripture either, but God spoke through them." That did it, I typed a reply to Jodi immediately saying I would be interested in taking one of the lessons if she would like me to. Ayden continued to talk to me, saying that I couldn't be that surprised by Jodi's offer. "I'm just saying you've got a way with words." He added, which gave me more strength. If I was actually meeting these people, chances are I would fall over from stage fright, normally I have no problems with talking in front of others, but this will be the first time I've done it over the Bible. All I have to do is type my thoughts over the chapter and post them for the rest of the class to see. As Ayden put it, it was "a good starting point."Although, I did start to panic a bit when I read that text. Starting point? Oh boy.

Jodi messaged me back and we agreed that I would take over the lesson for Proverbs chapter 20 when we reached it (we're going through the whole book, one chapter a day). My pastor had a huge grin on his face when I told him this morning at church. I still can't believe that I'm actually going to teach a lesson. My stomach has been fluttering since last night, though that may be due to the Girl Scout Cookies and peanut butter cups.

While I'm very nervous, I can't wait to reach chapter 20. Teaching a Bible Study lesson was never in my plans, but it was in God's and I'm sure he was laughing when I opened that message from Jodi. I can't help but laugh at my reaction with him. Was I really stupid enough to think that I knew what all was going to happen? This was completely unexpected, but it's still part of God's plan.