life after the white routine

We shared this hollowed cove of a room. Dimly lit by the last of our functioning bulbs, fractured by the buzz of air that was kept constant and steady. Nightly, we'd shield ourselves under caves of white blankets - she would be on her bed, I'd be on mine - hidden deep in the cocoon of cloth. We'd laugh until two in the morning, tipsy from sleeplessness. Fifteen years spent waking and falling into sleep to the same face.
The room is quieter now. Dust has coated many of the surfaces, and the books that once lined every shelf and filled every drawer are now sparser than before. The white blankets still top each bed, but one will go unused from now on. The stairs below my doorway will no longer hear the familiar footsteps they once did. Pieces of laundry and clutter have been left behind without intent to be washed or straightened up.
We used to fight over who would move out first. We'd argue over our brother's and sister's rooms. Years would escape us, and those rooms would never know us as their residents, still. Nights spent arguing and words used to intentionally damage the other's self-worth. Days spent in silence and petty quarrels concerning unasked for borrowed t-shirts and skirts returned with stains from slips and spills. Living in such close proximity breeds a type of closeness that can't be found elsewhere. We learned each other this way. I know her because of years spent analyzing how she lived, what she threw away and how she managed to fall asleep following break-ups and newly said I love you-s.
She's moved out now. I'm left throwing away old picture frames and unintentionally salvaged price tags and gum wrappers. Now a man will learn her. He'll know her far better than I ever could, even. He'll watch her in ways I never had the ability to, in a manner that was never intended for me. I'd just like to tell him how to fold her clothes and in what way to dress himself in the morning as to keep her from waking.
And now I sit on the floor, barer than it's ever been and marked with messes from projects gone wrong and mud-caked shoes. I'm sad for the days that are escaping. I'm sad for the time we spent idly. I'm sad for the distance that will be felt over the course of our lives. But I'm also anticipating my own move. I'm anticipating the day a man will ask to be the one to learn my ways of sleeping and making messes and cleaning them up again.
This transition pushes us all one step further. Where to is still unknown. I'm beginning to see that just as the burnt out bulbs on my dresser have been replaced anew, my life, too, will again be illuminated.

down the yellow brick road

Looking back, I wish I had come here more often. This rustic, underground hub of a Starbucks that is tucked under the Maryland Inn off Main Street--so unassuming and calm. The walls echo with thoughts, ideas conjured up by the articulate and unpretentious. A true Annapolitan, gilded in the signature Polo outfit so many boater-town patrons wear, sits barefoot atop the worn leather couch to my left, reminding me I'm back on the Chesapeake. The hum of an acoustic guitar sings through the speaker, and fading snapshots of often forgotten celebrities line the charred brick walls. I almost want to kick myself for not coming more often while I had lived here permanently.
When I recall how I had spent my years in Annapolis, I often think of sitting dockside on humid July nights or acting out in moments of ignorance in some classmate's basement. There are occasional recollections of hours spent with my fingers plucking away at the keyboard, composing thoughts and creating habits. I also remember April evenings spent in bed, listening to thunderstorms as candle-glow flit about my shadow painted walls, drowning in some story that grew my ambition for writing and now elicits nostalgia of such a night.
It's easy to peer in on this past of mine and resolve that much of it was filled with wasted time. I hadn't involved myself with certain occupations that I now define myself by, and in analyzing time by that standard, much of it was spent idly. But I have to remember that I have grown into this person--with each step of my past, the future drew in closer, awakening new dimensions of who I am.
Perhaps I hadn't had time to visit this Starbucks. Perhaps it was yet to have such an influx of customers, which would have left me unknowing of its existence. Either way, I never visited. I never soaked in my precious time here or utilized one of the hidden gems I now frequent upon returning home.
These things combined is why I am so intrigued and drawn in by the charm of this little coffee cove. Knowing now where my life would lead, I want to go back to the young Rebekah and tell her who she would be, what she would enjoy. I would urge her to take certain chances, and let others pass her by. I would encourage her to speak more freely, but also to enjoy the silence more peacefully. But this would all be in vain, I very well know. Though I'm at a place in life where sitting quietly underground, listening to my mind and enjoying the silent presence of fellow coffee consumers brings me joy and contentment, there was a point in life where this would have merely been white noise. I can only fully enjoy all of this now because of every road I took to get here, though many were uncharacteristic of this place. The absence of such a satisfaction is what makes its sudden presence so beguiling. The former, "bleak" roads offer me insight into the fullness of the roads I now travel, filled with a new, complete richness. I was unknowingly relying on those former roads to bring me here, to a place of appreciation of simplicity and the scent of brass instruments sitting on pedestals that seem to thrill my soul.
It's actually quite reassuring to know that it wasn't coming into this cafe that made me who I am. It was staying out.

Remember that period of life when we were all young and had gigantic dreams that were so plausible, and could stay in bed forever and stay out all night... doing non-sketchy things?
Looking back will be filled with goodies.
Somehow that's the most tragic, yet wonderful feeling in the world.

In case you didn't know, I'm semi-obsessed with these two. And will be progressively cataloging their engagement. So, I guess this would be the second step in three documented moments of their life together. Enjoy!

                                          chris & ash

Seven Years After Freshmen Year: a poem about courtney ferracane

Valentine's Day was the night that we met 

You get so self-conscious when your hair appears wet

You like making bracelets and sending out cards, 

You lived in a tent in Indie Brown's yard

You're deep and you're shallow, whichever is needed

And just so you know, you're never conceited 

Elderly sickies call you at work 

But you dislike your job 'cause your boss is a jerk 

Twilight and R-pats, they make you so giddy 

But you don't like K-stew since she isn't that pretty

You stand up on tables and yell people's names 

Your favorite sport teams are the SEU Flames

Sarcasm's your humor and maps, your profession 

When telling a story, you use no discretion

We kid and we joke and misspeak very often, 

But when you're around, all our hearts soften

You're one of a kind and ever-so dear 

We'll always be "girlz", from far or from near 

A Whole Lot of B.S.: a poem about becca strang

Now sugar's my weakness because of you

Starbursts and Reese's, just to name two

But it brings me joy to nosh with you so

To talk about boys and hear what you know

To bike around town and jog by the lake

To laugh at each other and faux pas that we make

Oh, where had you been for twenty-plus years,

Hiding in hay-stacks and absent of tears?

Searching in mountains for men with red cheeks

Or living out stories of which you now speak?

And now we're together, and again we will be

Many more days to enjoy, you and me

For now let's remember the times that we've shared

And hold on tightly to the dreams we've compared

We drank our tea and whistled our tunes

We've shared our cake, but never our spoons

Good-byes are for wusses, and we aren't such twits

In matter of fact, we're proud of our wits

So this is my poem for Becca, my boo

Now sugar's my weakness, because you are too. 

"Pack up all my cares and woes. Here I go, swingin' low."

This season, I've seen it before. But it's also new. It's also alive with something very different than when I've experienced it in the past.

If I could write down all of the memories I have from hearing springtime nostalgic songs, the list would seem endless--in my mind, at least. And now new memories are forming to different songs. Memories that will largely shape who I am, just as all the past moments shaped who I am today. It's scary and thrilling to acknowledge the power of Now to determine who the future you will be. But I'm embracing it. 

I'm embracing a God who is good. Who calls us into so many seasons and allows us to choose joy for each. I'm trusting my faith to see me into the next season and show me who I want to be even further. 

So on and on I'll travel, remembering and living, but always moving to the next spot. I'll evaluate, but also let much of my living be spontaneous and unquestioned. We're all just mid-flight, anyway. One day we'll arrive, but it won't necessarily be the place we thought we were going. It'll be the right place, though. 

This poem always reminds me of springtime. And I love it.


Rainy Day
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Things I'm currently into. . .

• These crazy prophetic moments that everyone's having
• Blue grass (the music, not odd colored grass)
• Candy (that ends tonight)
• Driving around Lakeland, and loving this city very deeply
• Random niche-y antique shops that are hiding all over the place 
• Falling asleep at 4 am in the morning (bad habits, I know) 
• Very large iced coffees 
• Any/everything with a wild west motif, it is rugged and dusty-ish and I love it
• Books circa the 1940's that explain things like how to enjoy literature or what to serve at cocktail parties--they're oddly applicable today 
• Procrastination. 
• This really cool ring I can't seem to take off. It has an owl on it. Enough said? 
• Road trip planning
• The Starbucks on Beacon, which has been seeing more of me than my dorm room
• Sporadic phone calls between my sister and I about life and weddings and singleness 
• Talking to people. Listening is becoming an enjoyment again
• Eating waffles on Saturday mornings. For the community, and the sugary syrup... 
• Andrew Bird, The Weepies and Local Natives are all making their rounds in my playlist more frequently again. Absence and fondness and all that
• Tea with friends, I've missed this for the past month 
• Court Ferracane and her love for pre-teens and deep conversation at erratic times
• And you! If you're reading this then you probably think I'm at least semi-interesting, which I appreciate. So thanks!

Sometimes there's too much to say, keeping you from saying anything at all.

There are quite a few. Writing. Style. Literature. Men. Cities. Music. I have used all of these to heavily dictate who I claim to be. My identifiers that in attempting to pronounce an identity over me completely suck out all signs of my true character. Not one of those things really defines me. I'm not that easily accessible, honestly.
But even despite knowing I can't be contained by an object or idea, I still allow these associations to be made. I still allow myself to be called "this" or "that", for the sake of just knowing who I am. But in this, I never truly figure that out.
Right this second Rebekah Renko is... the answer is in a perpetual state of change. As it should be. But maybe the transition doesn't always need to be so harsh.
I don't often take time to evaluate who I am at any given moment. I'm very easily influenced, and this has been the driving force to many of my identity crises. In relating to others and enjoying certain talents and likes, I allow myself to become boxed in and characterized by things that aren't fully me.
I'm created in God's image, conforming to His likeness.
That's all there should be. Everything else falls subordinate. It's when we forget what our initial image was modeled after that we fail to truly figure out who we are when conformed to the likeness of that thing.

            

The goal was New York City. Growing up, my family would see the Rockettes perform at Radio City Music Hall at Christmastime. I was terrified of the city, actually. I can remember the relief that surged through my veins as our car rolled away from the slums and under the tunnels, enveloping us under the cityscape that Woody Allen described as best being seen in black and white, showcasing a broken horizon with the twin buildings on our right. Something about this terror I felt toward the city grew in me a curiosity for it. Over time I realized my fear was for the mass of dejected denizens we passed, curled up in cardboard boxes with blankets of soggy newspaper. My fear was that these people would never know what life was really about, what it could be. But even more than that, it made me wonder if I knew what life was about, shielded in by the tinted windows of a warm, sans-newspaper vehicle. Through those windows I could see their eyes. They could see mine too. It was the loneliness in those people’s demoralized glances that scared me and constantly tore at me to return. For some reason I just always felt that if I were there with them maybe we’d all understand everything a little bit more. 

{photo credit: Walk In New York}

give it up

Do you ever just wake up in the morning and realize you're alive? I have an incredible life. He has given me everything I've ever wanted--really. And now I'm at a place in life where He's bringing back old desires, renewing them and allowing them to come alive within me.
I'm starting to see that if I don't sacrifice everything I want then He can't perfect these things in His own time, so that I can actually enjoy them one day. He never says, "Sacrifice every want and desire you have to me so I can completely obliterate each one and leave you with nothing." He wants us to enjoy our passions and desires, but in the most perfect way possible. After all, He created us with these desires and dreams. How much more do you think He wants to see them fulfilled?
The things I sacrificed when I was younger in order to gain a better picture of who I am in the Lord are being brought back to me, only now I can fully enjoy them because I have learned to fully enjoy the Hand that is providing them.
It's just a matter of putting our focus on God. We're in love with the good things of this world. But why wouldn't we want to be in love with the Giver of those good things, instead? All He asks is that we trust His sovereignty. And there really isn't any other way. We can't eternally enjoy something that hasn't been marked by His holy goodness.
We need to start realizing that we don't really sacrifice to lose. We sacrifice to gain.

wake up

When we’re young we see adults engaging in lives that seem so elegant and manicured. We place ourselves in their shoes and dream dreamers’ dreams of what it would be like to live within those moments also. But when those things actually begin happening to us we allow them to slip by without a turn of our head. It no longer becomes the fruition of what was once our longing. It simply becomes life.

There’s no resolution in that. There’s no living. Yeah, dreams are important to living, but rather than imaginative dreams, I want an imaginative life. 

I feel the need to share this. Whether you care or not, here it is...

Christine Wilson was my first "friend" at Southeastern. I use the quotes because she was really just the first person I used all the dumb introductory get-to-know-you phrases on. Whatever the case may have been, we played the, "Hey, how are you?!" game for a good few months, dilly-dallying around progressing our acquaintance-y to friendship. Well, the past few weeks we've been upping our status and now we're full on friends. Like friends friends. The ones who call to tell you they're not doing anything so you should come keep them company for the heck of it.
I'm telling you this because Christine Wilson is cool. And you would like her too. And now I realize the Lord is just as un-incidental as I say He is...

i wanna forget how convention fits

There's a comfort in conventionality. Stirring raisins and cinnamon into my oatmeal every morning is a silent way in which I acknowledge that my day will be planned around uniformity--reminiscent in appearance to the day before. I sit on a taut white comforter against bright floral throws and cover my legs with the same knitted blanket I have used for over two years. Even the forest green ceramic bowl I use to hold my warm cereal tells of days past, mornings of stark resemblance to this one.
All that to say, this makes me wonder how much of my life is conventional, housed in by presuppositions that it must be so in order for any semblance of normalcy to be held. But then I analyze that question. How badly do I wish my life to be normal? How strongly do I really desire to fit into the molding of uniformity and adjust to the worldly standards of expectation?
I think of the freedom that the Lord has given us. Complete freedom to move and breathe, yes, but also freedom to roam about this world and release His presence wherever we dare to. A "normal" trip to the store can quickly turn into a wild spiritual adventure, depending on my determination for it to be so.
I want to speak up, touch, give and take from this world. As a body that houses Jesus, I see Him doing that. I see Him doing so much more than I do, thinking that that is how it should be--after all, I'm no Jesus. But what about the words He spoke in saying that we will do greater things than even He did? The power of the Holy Spirit (the same one that resurrected a murdered Christ) is now mine for eternity. There should never be a normal moment with that kind of power embodied in me.
I love oatmeal. I love consistency. I love knowing what's coming next.
But more, I love being pleasantly surprised by the unknown. I love learning how wild and abnormal the Lord I serve is. I love knowing that deep inside me is the potential to be wild and abnormal too. I'm ready. I'm finally admitting it.

Spring is here! Let's pot plants and whistle outside.

I grew up reading the books most teenagers wouldn’t appreciate, let alone understand for the value that they held. Books that knew me. I came to know them also, and would continually call upon them for reassurance throughout my life. To a certain level, they defined me. I helped define them. We were in it together, yet worlds apart. I loved those books. I still do, but even now, they’re different. I’m different. It’s this blasted curse we’re all under. It’s this blessed transformation process called growth. It’s something else, too. 

Sometimes I'm eccentric. I say 'sometimes' because I don't always fall under the abnormal category. I actually tend to steer towards the stand in a line and mimic everyone else way of living. All too often. It's not that I like conforming, and I don't know that I would even consider myself a contortionist of sorts, but rather I can comfortably lack the vivacity to explore and dare. I count down the days to a future that will never arrive, waiting. Constantly waiting.
Well the waiting must end. Now.
Sometimes must become always. Or else some will just become a modest synonym for none.

terminal A

I always order a tall skinny vanilla latte. After the sun sets they dim the lights in the airport and you feel as if you've been asked to just sit and relax for awhile, like an upscale ballet is about to start or something. That's how I feel anyway.

What do I see? A man reading one of this week's best-sellers from the airport bookstore that he probably payed ten dollars more for than he should have. A Starbucks employee eating an apple danish, slowly. I don't know what she's thinking about, but I know she's thinking. I'd imagine she's prolonging her snack break by taking bites in ten minute intervals. And, of course, the high profile businessmen on their way to somewhere warm and in need of their expertise, stirring refined white sugar into their venti paper coffee cups. I also see children. A lot of children. Everyone's always excited in the Orlando airport--Disney is the choice destination for those traveling here, so it makes sense. But even in spite of the anticipation, everyone is taking their time. Everyone's enjoying the night, it seems. 

As for me, I'm waiting. My sister's on her way. I'm playing Sweet Disposition on repeat and trying to get a liquid thought to emerge. I'm excited. Not "we're going to Disney World for a whole week!" excited, but excited in all the senses I should be. 

I guess anticipation is weird. You wait so long for something, your sister's arrival for instance, and you almost make yourself believe you can't live without it. But then the night comes when she boards the plane and calls you after landing, and suddenly...well you realized you lived without it. And not only did you live, but you had fun leading up to it. You may have even been okay if it were next weekend she decided to come. 

I'm not saying I don't want her to come or that this weekend isn't going to be as great as I imagined it to be. I'm just saying, unlike these kids coming to see Mickey Mouse for the first time, I understand more about life than I used to. I understand that days come and go, some exciting and some dull. But they all come and go, either way. 

{print by http://www.portroids.com/directory4.htm}

We're all searching for something, all of us. We're all waiting for the moment in which we can boldly announce we've made it, we've found the treasured "there". I don't think we recognize that this moment is that moment. We've always been there. It's just disguised itself as "here".

The "in-between" is only a trick.

Okay.
Do you ever feel like a poser? Perhaps a pseudo-intellectual who can quote poet's names but can't extend the conversation any further?
I'm pretty sure we all do on one level or another.
I'm not all that intellectual. I'm not all that bright either, it's just a misconception that's been made and is now irrevocable.
I'm just trying to get by and use my love of art and writing to express something. God knows what (I clearly don't).
And please. I beg you. Do not mistake me for someone who knows what she's talking about or who can recite "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" effortlessly. I can't. Probably never will.
As Salinger so eloquently wrote, "I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot."
And yes. I just name-dropped.

Love on the 102nd Floor

            

Ashley and Chris Engagement

Today I am remembering something that happened two months ago, yet still remains to be one of the most lovely moments I've ever seen. Vedere l'amore!

What is there to say? I am blessed. (Of course.) I am loved. (As all people are.) I am unique. (Is there any other kind of 'individual'?)
At the end of the day it can be hard to compose what you are thinking into a legible arrangement of words. I often search for topics to rant on and find myself mid-page with nothing being said. Sometimes there is too much to say that saying nothing at all seems to be more understandable.
Well tonight I have something to say. I don't know which words to use or how to properly fix them in order to form complete coherency, but I'm going to make an attempt. It starts with this: God is truth.
That's it.
I doubt. I'm probably the biggest doubter you'll ever meet. I find reasons to doubt and allow myself to trudge forward, thinking I'm hopeless. But you know what, I don't serve a God that entertains doubt for long. As hard as I may try to cling to sin or force my mind to find a reason to stray from the faith, the Holy Spirit intercedes on my behalf and turns my face toward the very thing I tried desperately to avoid--truth.
It's beautiful, really. I serve a beautiful God. I serve a God that says, "You will be given a cross to bear, but my strength and miracles will be shown through it." I serve a God that says I will never be too far out of His reach. No amount of doubt or difficulty will overcome my mustard seed faith.
Tonight I've returned to my destiny. I've seen the God I serve. Tonight I live. That's pretty much it. But that's all there is.

He

This is what I am thinking about. I preoccupy my time with other people's thoughts. I delve into the caverns of minds that are not my own. I inherit the brains of those around me, connecting in a way that transcends normal barriers, seemingly becoming the person before me. I am me. I am you.
Who are we, anyway? Are we drones--distant aliens that inhabit a land not our own, ultimately following a path of strings that lead to our waste? Or are we sanctioned to be here, performing tasks of menial difficulty that will better serve the human race, whether that task be seen and heard or otherwise silent from the world?
Were we created or are we merely a regression of this universe that envelops us?
I think about these things. I think the things that your mind cautions you not to. I seek so that the answers I find will leave me seeking no more. And with this I have found that I find.
The question of God looms and booms in the back of our heads until we decay. We earnestly seek with faces of placidity, pretending we don't care if we find or not. We search for gods, but never God. We worship figments and fragments until our souls are spent. Twistingly, He is the Finder. The true Lord seeks those who protest against the waging war of the world and raise high the true flag of searching. Those who yell in the streets, "Where are you," are not merely heard, but are placed on such a street that they might be found.
The act of asking whether or not a god exists is proof enough for His existence. Why question the reality of an entity that has no proper reason for manifestation in the mind of drones unless such an existence is fortifiable? Here we find revelation. Divine revelation that we are not insane, but rather that, even in our limitedness, we have the capability to understand a Creator-God's voice.
I searched. I did not find. I toiled and lost. I sold my soul to others, in hopes of truth being gained. And then He searched for me. When I was weak enough to grasp only Him, I was found. I am strong now. But it's His strength.
I preoccupy my time with His thoughts. I am in a state of becoming. Not you or me, but the Church--we. 

incoherent thoughts on a coherent subject

Do you ever take time to look back at what all your life has accomplished? I can think of quite a few struggles that, at the time I was facing them, seemed absolutely insurmountable. Yet here I am today, not overcome, and continually resolute to remain that way.
I look back on the times before I knew Jesus Christ. Before I really knew him, and there is such a staunch difference between how easily I am able to overcome the things in my life that hold me back from true freedom and my lack of ability before. So many doubts and insecurities--now completely dissolved with the knowledge that a God came to this earth as a man so that I could be counted righteous. I'm holy. Me. This nut-case who deems herself despicable and disgusting so often. Yes. I am holy because I have chosen to serve the One who called me to such a standard.
And then I look at the world around me. Not the whole world, but the world in which I was raised and have grown. I have had so much access to the kingdom of God since I was child, through my family, school, and whatever else filled my time. Basically, I grew up in a very Christianized setting. Some people might scoff at this and recommend that is the reason I have acquired these beliefs of mine, but I would argue against that. I have seen the worst of Christianity. I have seen hypocrites. Lived with liars. Befriended thieves and cheaters, and all the while knew of their "relationship" with Christ.
But I've also seen another side. One marked with compassion and truth. One of a genuine spirit that gives off an aroma of righteousness. I know this spirit, and I knew it long before I met many of the people marked by its presence. I knew it from the Scriptures I grew up reading alongside all the fakes and phonies. Even if I haven't always witnessed it, I have now.
And for that, I appreciate Christianity. Even if I wasn't a believer, this whole faith has been the definition of my life. My friends, my schools, my hobbies--so many have been in this Christian setting. So much of who I am is based on who Christ was.
I'm looking back to what I have been in the past, not to be sentimental or regretful, or even to hold onto a visage of something that once was, but so that when I look forward I can better understand the distance between the two. The gap is spacious and the grace is wide. I'm not here because of me. I'm here because of the countless people who have crossed my path, sharing little by little this Message that turned out to be true. I'm here because a man lived over two thousand years ago professing to be something that all the other men around him couldn't deny. He changed me. He accomplished what I never could. I guess that's why he named himself 'Savior'. I guess that's why it's good to look back at the past.

what's yours is mine

Part of my job as an intern includes sorting and reading...a lot of reading. I've encountered so many diverse, yet triggering pieces, each one unique to its writer. I'm blogging about this now because I just came across two of the sweetest pieces I've read yet. They pulled at my heart, but also left me with a palpable excitement for what they were updating their readers about.

One of the letters was written by an American man--young, according to the picture he posted alongside the text--living in Korea. He was reporting on how he has met his future wife there, and gave detailed plans explaining their meeting and falling in love. She is now his fiance and wedding arrangements are quickly being made. 

The second letter was noticeably terse and straight to the point. But through the quickly-written text you could feel joy and love pulsing through this man's finger tips. His wife was in labor at the hospital and he was waiting in the lobby for his two twin girls to be born. 

I'll probably never meet either of these men. I'll never hear their long life stories or understand the true emotions they're experiencing as they type away these exciting updates, but their joy has been passed to me in a very real way. I don't need to know them. I don't even need the details, really. And I think that's what I love about writing most. It doesn't take analyzing and extensive knowledge of someone to understand them through their written words. Sometimes all it takes is an exclamation point. 

So, here I sit on a very cloudy, Hitchcockian afternoon and yes, I am indulging myself in a bit of organic peanut butter. On the one side of the coin I am faced with the looming question of, "Becky, did you not enjoy a heaping amount of tortilla chips and salsa (and two itty bitty tacos) for lunch?". On the other side is a very appreciative girl in dutiful gratitude for the absolutely, mouthwateringly delectable treat of buttered peanuts. So to speak.
For all of you out there who are resisting the gym and embracing the chocolate, or whatever else your fancy may be, I say enjoy it! We only live once and our hunger is a good measure of our vivacity for life.
I have spent far too many hours slugging away at myself in anger over my incessant indulgences. I am finally ready to embrace the candy cabinet and take a spoon to the pudding. (Even though I'd probably rather reach for the sugared granola and hazelnut truffles...).
My peanut butter treat started as a spread for my apple...now it's taken on a feast of its own. And I am A-okay with that! You should be too.

Sometimes, unbelievably, we are handed the most neatly packaged, perfectly designated gifts from God, waiting to be unraveled and devoured by our anticipation. Circumstances fall in the exact order as to create the perfect moment, the perfect destiny. This is usually a combination package of our desires mixed with God's fervent longings for our lives--how interchangeable the two are is a completely different matter.
Today was a day of unexpected bliss and satisfaction as I watched the Lord not only fulfill my heart's desires, but also display His own through my abilities. All I can say is THANK YOU, JESUS! And, more on this whole tangent to come. . .

your eyes are the sunset

Today can be a day of prosperity. It can be filled with good hair and sweet nothings exchanged by passers-by to passers-by. It can be filled with the Lord's providence. A day that is nothing short of joy abounding and peace overflowing. Today can look like a sunrise greeted with soothing tea and sugary biscuits, followed by a sunset waved off with a brisk jog and a bottle of iced water. Today can be embraced by a prayer on bended knee, recognizing the existence of such a lovely Creator-God.
Or today can be meaningless. It can be overlooked and forgotten. It can forget where it came from and return to where it had already been. It can be dismal and down, saturated with pessimism and reluctance. It can be denied all of its beauty and all of its divinity.
For me, I choose Life today. I choose joy. I choose love and faithfulness. I choose to taste from the well of goodness and enjoy what my Father has laid before me.
I hope you choose the same.

{print by Peter Tarasiuk Photography}

mmm. mmm.

I would like to give out some love to my sisters who have braved the pathway to fine dining and foodie blogging. As a passionate, pathetic lover of food and one who deeply appreciates all things related to the matter, I could unashamedly gaze at fancy macaroons and posh looking fish tacos with bright hues of greens and reds for hours. One day, I too hope to write something that brings such...salivation to my readers.

What did I get myself into?!

Here I sit at 8:00 p.m., thumbing through pages of sociological research and deconstructionist explanations of literary theory. I will have no life this semester, thank you English Major desires.

So why then, in the midst of all this struggling through understanding and lack of innate insight into theoretical assumptions and wordy textbooks am I unabashedly excited to be so up against every academic difficulty I'm currently facing?

Perhaps haste really does make waste and being lazy, well...only makes you lazy.

So off I go. To study. To learn. To be an intellectual and a theorist. And to become, yes, yet another exhausted, in-too-deep university student waiting to be the next novelist/great mind of America.

Lord, give me the strength!

the new year

Welcome 2010.

And so another year passes, and what mark has really been made? Can we truly say yesterday was a yesteryear and we've moved past the implicit ignorance and mistakes we try to associate with 2009? I don't think it works that way. Today is much like yesterday, identical almost. Just as today is a striking resemblance to 200 years ago, minus the outfits and idioms. But none the less, it's very similar.

We're often victims of "ancientism", this mindset that our time period/generation is any greater than the last. This must have been the same mindset that the Greeks and Romans had viewed their society in, and the Israelites long before them. There is no more progressive or engineering time than the current age, but how many current ages have there been?

Society as a whole functions in much the same way as it always has, despite the year mark. We'll wake up tomorrow and find 2010 to be our new and improved 2009. We'll find the end of this year just as controversial and superior as the last had been. It's the movement of time, the pertinence imputed to the present age.

The wind will blow in the same direction today. The television will use the same remote and old, thumbed-through novels will still flip open to the familiar pages of broken binding that they did a month ago. The only thing that will ever look any different, sound any different, or hold any visage of newness is us. We will change. Even today we are another person than who we had been yesterday. If for no other reason, because we know the promise of 2011--that we will see change and we will be affected by it. Change lies within us. Let us mark our years by that.