A twinkling eye . . .

A twinkling eye can mean many things. The one that is twinkling at me right now . . . is the bright eyes of Santa Clause as I sit on his lap, where Mommy just placed me.
            “And what’s your name,” he asks, jolly just as I’ve always imagined him
            I’m so excited to see Santa, but I am also nervous. I say shyly, “Susan.”
            “What would you like for Christmas, Susan?”
            “I want a little brother and a pretty dress to wear on Christmas. That’s it,” I whisper to him.
            Santa’s eye twinkle even more, and I realize his eyes are tearing up. I ask, “What’s wrong, Santa Clause?”
            “Nothing. Nothing is wrong, Susan,” he sniffles. I reach in my pocket where Mom always puts clean tissues for me when it’s winter and hand him one. When I hand it to Santa he smiles, but does not use it. “Thank you. Just a short while ago, a boy younger than you had come to me. His family cannot take care of him any longer. Some relatives are taking care of him for the holidays, but after that . . . You just reminded me so much of him. All he wanted for Christmas was a loving family.”
            My eyes widen, “Do you think he could become my new brother?”
            Santa hesitates when he says, “It is difficult to say. These things are complicated, grown-up matters.”
            “It’s not complicated,” I tell Santa. “He wants a loving home, and my family wants another child. We’d love him and take care of him no matter what!”
           Tears begin to fall from Santa’s eyes, “I wish it were that simple, Susan.”
            “But it is! There’s nothing complicated about love,” I explain to him. I would have thought Santa would have understood how simple love is.

So . . . it’s been a little while

            Hey, ya’ll (if there is anybody out there that does read this . . .). This week has been a bit busy. Maybe I’ll make up for it by writing this weekend as well. Then again, maybe not. I just thought I’d let you know a little of what’s been going on.

            This weekend God really showed up at church. The sermon given was awesome. It was about love and how, as Christians, since we were forgiven, love and forgiveness is all we can rightfully do. If we want to judge a person, we have to take that stone from God. In old times, white and black stones were used for casting votes. A black stone was a no/guilty vote; a white stone was a yes/acquitted vote. If we accept Jesus as our personal savior He gives us a white stone. That means all we have to give to other people is forgiveness and love. Loving somebody does not mean you are approving of the way they live their lives. We have all sinned and fallen short of perfect lives. No, loving means looking past those sins and the things that annoy you, and instead looking for the beauty and gifts that that person has. God created everyone wonderfully. We are all made of gold, it’s just that some of us have mud and dirt covering it up. God washes away that mud and dirt so that we can shine.

            Another thing that is important for us to be able to shine God’s love is for us to be transparent. People have probably always thought that I have been good, well-behaved, and happy. I always pretended to be anyway. The truth is, before I let God overhaul my life, I was afraid, lonely, and feeling like I was not good enough. There are still times when I struggle with these things, but I know that that is not who God created me to be. Perfect Love drives out all fear. In fellowship there is no reason to feel lonely (I have some amazing friends who are so open about everything. I could not be more thankful for them). God sees me as His perfect daughter. He created me for amazing things. I do not have to strive to be good enough. If I am insufficient, God more than makes up for my faults. The same power that rose Jesus from the dead lives in me. All things are possible because I believe and trust in God and His Goodness.

Fall

            I love fall. It’s my favorite season—followed closely by spring, then winter, then summer. I love seasons in general, but I really love when the seasons change. That’s one of the things I love most about living in Colorado: the weather can’t make up its mind. I get tired of it always being one way or another, so the change energizes me. I love the times when it snows and a few days later it’s 70 degrees outside.

            Fall is the best because it’s not too hot or cold, but does have warm and cool days. The trees changing colors is breath taking. The crunch of leaves under my feet too! And once all the leaves have fallen, I love seeing the trees on a cold morning with a light coating of frost so they sparkle. To other people they might look dead, but not to me. Then there’s fall fashion with the rich colors, boots, scarves, and sweaters. I love being able to curl up in the warmth of them. Or just curling up with a good book by the fireplace. And in the fall it’s not too hot for hot chocolate, warm coffee, or hot tea—particularly hot chocolate or coffee with peppermint or cinnamon in it.

            Then there’s all the bad puns about fall. The simple joy of working of a laptop without the heat getting to you. Pumpkin everything! Soups and stews. Being able to bake because it will warm the house up and you get a treat at the end. Holidays approaching, but not at an alarming rate yet. The first snow. Blankets for warmth.

            Happy First Day of Fall!

Tired

            Hey, anyone who reads this blog . . . if there is anyone who does . . . I got caught up in other things today and I’m exhausted, so this will be a short blog about my tiredness (Yay?).

            My head drifts towards my shoulders. My arms pull toward the ground. My shoulders try to follow them. My lower back curves in as if that would give me more support. My legs tell me not to tempt them or they just might give way. My knees echo the call for me to be careful. I can feel the blisters forming on the bottom of my feet. My whole body tells me how sore I’m going to be tomorrow.

            My mind tells me all the things I need to do though. Its only interruptions are the song snippets it sings to me. Why can’t those songs be lullabies? Why can’t my brain be quiet so that I can go to sleep?

            Everything pulls me down, to sleep where I am at. The bed is softer though. Ahh, softness. Good night, you. Sleep tight, you. Wake bright tomorrow, you.

Life as a used college book

            The first person to buy me was a studious English major. She referenced me all the time, took notes, and I was never far away from the Shakespeare plays I explained. She understood I, Shakespeare A-Z, was a vital resource in understanding the Bard’s great words, plots, and thoughts. She wrote in my margins in her loopy and elegant handwriting, underlined words, and starred sections. I would have loved to have lived on her bookshelf till the end of time. But, alas, it could not last. She changed her major to communications and no longer had the time to enjoy a good struggle with a great book. She sold me, and several other books.
            The second person who bought me was a man, and as far as I could tell women were what he went to college to study. I think he only took Shakespeare to use the Bard’s cleverly thought out lines to impress women. And the women were dumb enough to fall for it. I mean, “Sweets for my sweet” is from Hamlet, a tragedy! But he couldn’t memorize more than a handful of words anyway. And he never tapped into my knowledge. Why buy a book for a class if you are not even going to read it?! Needless to say, he sold me at the end of the semester without a thought.
            The third person who bought me was a lazy English major. Yes, she would reference me, but not as much as I would have liked. Mostly it was only for the major essay she had to write that she read me. She would dog ear my pages, use highlighters, and all sorts of degrading things. She kept me after that semester, but all I did was take up room on her overcrowded bookshelf. After a few years of being forgotten, she donated me to a library.
            I am now referenced often. The only problem is that my wear is apparent. My spine is breaking, my pages are stained and bent, and tape holds me together. I am thankful for being a library book, but please take better care of us. Don’t jam us in backpacks, spill coffee on us, or sneeze in us (that is the worst of all). We do have feelings too, after all.

 

I have wanted to do this one for a while. I guess I loved buy used books in college. Not just because they were cheaper. I like the wear of a used book (and I like the feel of a real book. Maybe one day I’ll give in to buying and electronic reader, but I think it would be a sad day for me.). I love reading the notes other people have written in them, looking at what other people thought was important or worth noting. It makes me wonder who that person was. What about you? Do you ever get happy or mad about a book being all marked up?

Of course now I can’t find it, but there’s a short movie about a guy who buys a book and is annoyed at the pages being marked up, but he ends up loving the notes in the end. He finds the woman who owned the book before him and writes her a letter. They become pen pals as he leaves for World War I. In the end, they fall in love (of course). Do any of you know the name of it? It’s like “Book, ________, and  __________” maybe? This is going to bug me now. . . Anyway, it’s good and you should watch it (actually, I think it might be based on a short story. If that is true, you should read it).

Irony

            Let me start by staying, I hate irony. Well, I’m okay with reading irony, but I don’t really want to write a story about irony (that includes a teacher, fuse box, and lab, as per instructions). Like most people, I don’t feel like I have a very good grasp on what irony exactly is and how it differs from other literary devises.
            So can I get by with saying, “A teacher and his class went to a field trip at a battery laboratory, but the trip was in vain because the building’s electricity was out. They would have looked for the fuse box, but their flashlights had no batteries. The workers could not take the batteries from the boxes ready to be sent out not only because they were already bought but also because they were all the wrong size.”? That seems like a pretty ironic story, right? Just say yes to make me feel better about myself.

But if you do want to learn about irony, I really like this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYq2d7iKKhk I find it to be funny and informative.

Team lift for your safety

            So I’ve told you a bit about the retreat I took (one month, close to solitary confinement. When I didn’t shower much and ate slowly). Well, I thought I would write some more about it and one of the lessons I learned.
            Being alone for so long, I really learned what I could do by myself, what I don’t want to do by myself, and what I can’t do by myself. For instance, I loved having a house all to myself. I didn’t have to worry about playing my music to loud or if what I was wearing was immodest, etc. I did learn that I don’t what to live a solitary life though. God created us to have fellowship with each other and close relationships. Every phone call or text I received while on my retreat was familiar human contact and meant so much more to me than usual. I did see people at Church, and, while I was comfortable around them, I didn’t really know them. Never underestimate the people who really know you. The one’s that will tease you and know you can handle it.
            I don’t know why I feel the need to tell this story, but I’m going to tell you about me buying a bookshelf for the house I was staying at for this retreat (Yep. I’m such a nerd that I bought a bookshelf for this house as a thank you . . . ?). It was a large and rather solid bookshelf that had a sticker on it saying “Team lift for your safety”. I got it into the cart then into my car with limited problems. The trick was getting it into the house. I could not take a break while moving it because there was snow on the ground that might have soaked in. It was heavy, but I managed it. I also managed to build the bookshelf by myself without any major problems.
            The sticker didn’t make me feel jipped of a partner to help me. I was a little bit proud of being able to do it by myself even. No, it made me look forward to the day when there will be somebody there to help me. I can get by on my own pretty well, but it is almost always better to have somebody there to help you. If nothing else, they can give you company. A simple task like building a bookshelf can be hilarious with the right person.
            Life in general is better when it is shared. It is important to have a friend(s) or significant other there to hold you accountable. It may be hard if you feel like you are failing them, but if they are true friends they will love you no matter what.
“Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us” Hebrews 12:1

Inheritance Cycle

            After eight years and 2,762 pages (not including re-reads), I have finally finished the Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini!
            *sigh*
            My thoughts (trying not to give too much away)? To be totally honest, a bit unsatisfied. Don’t get me wrong, They are amazing books (The first one, Eragon, did not deserve to be murdered the way the movie did). Paolini has a unique and detailed style of writing perfect for the world he created. I think I might be completely fine with the books if my friend who has been reading what I’ve written hadn’t complemented me on one thing I hadn’t noticed several authors lack. I did not understand some of the character’s motivation or decisions. If you spend so long feverishly searching for something, why would you—after all that work—question it only after you’ve found the answer? And if you are miserable with a decision, explain to the reader fully why there are no other possibilities (more than just it was prophesied).
            It is dissatisfying to finally get the end of such a long series and have  the characters not being totally at peace with their fates. I know that years down the road (if not sooner) they will be at peace, but reassure the reader of that. I want an afterward that explains what parts of their plan for the future failed and succeeded. Not a scene like at the end of the Harry Potter series, but just small notes about whether they found what they wanted. I know it was four long books that made up the series, but what are a few more pages if it will leave the reader with some relief?
            Plus, you could fill another four long books with things Paolini mentions but never satisfyingly resolves. I feel like he could—and perhaps should—write a book of legends from Alagaësia and/or a history. It’s obvious that he put a lot of thought into this land, creating languages and histories and legends. Why not continue to have fun and be creative without having to go too deep.
            Over all, I do like the books. I would suggest at least the first one. Paolini creates interesting characters, paints awe inspiring pictures, and tells a good story. I’m sure over time, I will be more at peace with the ending. Maybe my real disappointment is that finishing a series that has been in my life for so long is like losing a friend. I’m just not quite satisfied with this good-bye—or rather a “see you later” as it often is with good books— right now in my life.

Uninvited Guest

            Mary’s family loves each other a lot. Well, if it’s not love, they tolerate each other a lot—which is sometimes the same thing. One of Mary’s aunts, Aunt Hilda, was particularly one of those people that love was shown by tolerating instead of running away. Aunt Hilda had a very flamboyant personality. She talked loudly, enthusiastically, and a lot.
            About a month after Mary’s wedding to Aaron, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, Aunt Hilda decided to visit them in their new home. Mary and Aaron were sitting outside reading and enjoying the sun when Aunt Hilda rang the doorbell. They invited her to join them outside, but Aunt Hilda said that it was too bright and hot for her outside. They offered her something to drink, but they did not have any of the bottled water that Aunt Hilda insisted on drinking.
            Never the less, Aunt Hilda was supremely excited for she had the rolls of film developed from Mary and Aaron’s wedding and she wanted to show them. Aunt Hilda was old fashioned and would not use those new cameras. Instead, she used her old camera that took poor pictures, and she used it a lot. She had doubles printed so that she could give a set to the newlyweds and keep a set for herself. She had taken three rolls of film during the wedding and reception which may not sound like a lot, but she had to sort the pictures into hers and theirs. Then she had to put them in sequential order and label them. That would have been more easily done if it were easier to tell what they were pictures of.
            Mary was used to her aunt and patient with her. Aaron started out patient, but after an hour of organizing blurry pictures, he needed a break from Aunt Hilda. Aaron excused himself to go to the bathroom. While in the bathroom, he could still hear Aunt Hilda’s loud voice. He knew he would need a longer break if he were going to continue to be nice to here. He decided to organize the towels in the bathroom cabinets. When that was finished, he drummed his fingers together and looked around to see what else he could organize.
            At a point, he realized there was nothing left to organize in the bathroom, but Aunt Hilda’s voice wafting down the hallway still annoyed him. He needed to spend some more time away from her, but what to do? He opened the cabinets once again. There were the organized towels, bathroom supplies, and Mary’s facial kit. Aaron was desperate. He read the directions on the bottles. Aunt Hilda was still in their house, talking at full volume as always. He took a deep breath. There was nothing left to do. Until Aunt Hilda left, he followed the directions on the various bottles.
            Ever since that warm afternoon, Aaron made sure that there were always magazines in the bathroom. Just in case.

What is Patriotism?

            In the book that I’m currently working on (on chapter 7 right now! They may not be long chapters, but I’m still proud of myself. I’ve been working on it since March or April and it’s been a busy year for me), patriotism is kind of a theme (It’s weird to talk about my own writing. . .). Anyway, I thought I would give some thoughts about what patriotism is.
            Patriotism is more than saying, “I love my country” but when your asked why you can only name a few reasons. It goes beyond feeling a connection to where you were born or raised. It’s more than knowing the words in the national anthem or placing your hand on your heart when it’s sung.
            Patriotism is giving something to your country. That might be giving your time in military service; it might be giving your time as a public servant; it might be teaching others about politics, history, or how to register to vote; it might even be helping clean a beach, highway, or national park. Patriotism is about knowing where you stand and how you can help your country.

            Patriotism is more than pride. It is about getting involved and constantly making tomorrow and the future better.

 

            I know this is another short blog, but I don’t know what else to say. I’ll try to be more creative tomorrow. Write less about my thoughts and more about a story.

September 11th

            Eleven years ago today, our lives changed—our world changed. Every day is a new day. We can’t go back to yesterday no matter how much we may want to. I don’t know what else there is to write, everything sounds cliché (no matter how true it is).
            God has better plans for us. Forgiveness is the only path to healing. Love. Take every moment life gives you and live it as best you can. Keep holding on to the good that is in the world. Do what you can to improve the world around you—if you do that, one day you could change the world. Kindness and a smile will make anyone’s day even just a little bit brighter. Love conquers all fear. Tell people that you love them and show them how much you love them with how you treat them. Always have hope.

Alice tried to remember who had given her the key . . .

Alice tried to remember who had given her the key. She had had it for so long, she could not even remember what it was for. Being recently retired, Alice decided that today would be the day she would try to figure it out and remember.

She sighed as she stared at the key. It had hung on her wall for as long as she could remember. Alice pondered when the key had first been hung on the wall. It must have been when she and her late husband had first moved into this house. They were married in 1967, when Alice was 22 and Steve, her husband, was 27. They lived in a small apartment until their first child was born. That was when they bought this house, a house they could raise a family in.

Alice thought about when they first moved in. Finally, she got to the right memory and smiled. The key was the first thing they hung on their house’s new wall. Steve hammered the nail into the wall as Alice tied the red string through the key’s hole. They put the key on the nail together.

“So we’ll always remember,” Steve told her then kissed her forehead.

What was it that that key was supposed to remind her of? She felt frustration. If Steve were still alive, he would have remembered. He had always had the better memory. It was his heart that was weak and ultimately failed him. If only my love were here, Alice thought.

She stared hard at the key. Remember. Remember. The key must have signified something special to the two of them. But it wasn’t the key to their first apartment together. No, she remembered giving that key back to the landlord though they had wanted to keep it. Why would they want to keep that key?

Then Alice remembered, this was the key to the hotel they had stayed at for their wedding night. Keeping the key meant that they were charged extra for the room, but she had forgotten that it was in her purse. Steve told her that it was better that they kept it and paid the fee than returned it.

“This way, we’ll always have the memory. It’s the key to both our hearts,” He had said. Steve had always been romantic and kind in that way.

Alice walked over to where the key hung on the wall. “Oh, Steve, how I miss you,” she said as she touched the key. The wind blew through the open window. Alice closed her eyes. She thought she heard “I love you” in the wind.

Write about something that is difficult for you to talk about.

            I have heard three different generalizations of fear. First, all fear is just fear of death. Second, there is rational and irrational fear. Third, fears boil down to not having enough or not being enough. The last one might not be true about arachnophobia or coulrophobia, but the fears that decide the little things in life—whether to buy that movie or say hi to this person—are usually run by one of those two fears.

            My greatest fear is of not being enough. I spent my first year of college being a pre-music major because I wasn’t talented enough to get into the music program. When I switched my major to English, I realized how much of a masochist I must be because reading isn’t something that is very easy for me. I have never been formally diagnosed with dyslexia, but I have been told I’m probably dyslexic. My ACT Reading score was 19 (though my English score was 26) and my SAT Verbal/Critical Reading score was 420 (Writing was 520). I did survive as an English major though. I graduated college with a 3.45 cumulative GPA.

            Obviously, I’m writing and I’ve read a lot. The thing that is hard for me to talk about is mostly the music. I auditioned as a music major before I had private lessons on my main instrument. I was a product of public education. I just wasn’t prepared for all of the demands of being a music major. Music majors are supposed to practice their main instrument two hours a day. Then there is the secondary instruments, school work, and ear training. What was so hard about changing my major was that I felt like I just hadn’t tried hard enough. Honestly, I could have spent more time in the practice room. But I didn’t, so I obviously didn’t have the same passion for it as the other students did.
            I still do music, a fair amount of it actually, but not as much as I could. I can count on one hand the number of times I have taken out my clarinet and practiced it since becoming an English major. I could probably lead, or at least accompany, worship, but they people probably wouldn’t be able to hear me. And I feel like I’m not as good as those who do. I know worship isn’t about talent, but if I let my lack of talent stand in the way, I obviously don’t have the heart someone who leads worship should have.
            This is probably true about every major: there are those who don’t have to put effort into what they do and still do it well. They have a gift in music, dates, painting, writing, whatever. If you are one of those people, put work into what you do because you could be so much better than you already are. Life isn’t about just skating through things. Life is worth so much more than just something to get though.

Keep your fingers crossed

Write a story using the cliche "Keep your fingers crossed."

            My car has always been kind of a sanctuary to me. I was never that kid or teenager who couldn’t wait to get her driver’s license so she could go to the movies or wherever. Partly because I don’t get out too much. I go to a movie theatre 4-6 times a year. I only go out to eat if I’m meeting someone and they suggest that’s where we meet. It’s not that I don’t get out at all. I go to church things several times a week and I’m usually at the library at least once a week.

            Anyway, my car. People think that my car is clean. They think wrong. My back window has three dead bees: Fred, Raphael, and Winifred-Ingaborg. I am proud to say that I did not name any of them; I made the people I was driving name them. I also have some palms from Palm Sunday two years ago in my car. There’s also a Dove’s chocolate wrapper near my clock. I have it folded so that all you can see are the words, “Live your dreams.” I’m not sure how many years that wrapper has been rolling around by my clock. Towards the end of last week, that wrapper decided to stand up so that I could read it. It has been stuck that way since.

            It feels a bit like if I put that wrapper so that it would be laying flat again, I would be ignoring something meaningful. That wrapper says so much more than “Keep your fingers crossed” or “Hope for the best.” It tells me that I can live right now the way I need to to make those dreams come true. It whispers to me, “Keep going. You can do it. Don’t give up.”

            Actually, before that wrapper decided to stand up, I could have sworn it said something like “Variety is the spice of life.” I was planning on throwing it out, but never got around to it. That little wrapper decided it had something to say, something important enough to stand up for and stand firm.

            It seems like a lot of things around me have been telling me I need to start living my dreams. This goes back to my post about being silent, but there’s a quote from Maya Angelou that says “. . .wear your passion.” I wear mine like a superhero wears his spandex, hidden under ever day clothes. Maybe we’re all a bit like superheroes. We are capable of much more than we let other people see or even what we think. God has given us some really amazing gifts. It’s past time that we use them for His glory.

            Don’t just keep your fingers closed. Go after it.

I said to my head

            The title of this blog is not random. “Write something” actually comes from one of my favorite poems. It’s a short poem by Lorine Niedecker from her book New Goose. I’m not sure why I like Niedecker so much. Her words are simple but I don’t understand them. She’s not like Emily Dickinson who uses common words in weird ways. No, Niedecker is simple, but her words call to something in me that I don’t completely understand or hear. I guess that’s how I feel about most poetry.
            Anyway, I was going to try to be poetic today, but all I can hear my mind telling me this poem of hers:
 
I said to my head, Write something.
It looked me dead in the face.
Look around, dear head, you’ve never read
of the ground that takes you away.
Speed up, speed up, the frosted windsheild’s
                        a fern spray.
 
            Right now, my laptop is very much that frosted windshield. I can’t see my own reflection staring back at me, but I can see the light coming through my window. I wish my window were frosty; I cannot wait for winter. One day, I want to sit at a frosted window and draw designs in it. Frost is so beautiful to me, the way it does look like a fern.
Here’s my poem:

The sun pours in

My little room
The way a child
Over pours milk
 
It consumes my little space
Over powering every corner
With blinding light
 
Though it hurts my eye
I stare at the bright frost
That spreads its wings
Taking its flight
In my imagination
 
It soars, swoops,
Falls, flutters, flips,
Dives and rises
 
The frost bird
Flies to the brilliant sun
Its dazzling wings
Begin to droop
 
My window cries

Write a fairytale

            Once upon a time there was a beautiful but unfriendly born princess. Her name was Helena. Because Helena was cold to others, an enchantress put her in a fortress she could never leave. In this fortress was a magical mirror that allowed her to communicate with the outside world. Anyone who came to the mirror’s twin in the outside world, Helena had to talk to. The only way for Helena to escape the fortress was if someone went to it, knocked down the walls, and rescued her. All of the walls were very thick, but one of them had a small chink in it. That crevice weakened the wall so much that it would easily fall, but it was hidden so well that only one who really searched for it could find it. And the chink only weakened the outside of the thick wall. No matter how Helena pounded on the walls, none of them would come down.
            Helena was surly to all of her visitors though, that they stopped going to the mirror. She was happy about this at first. “All of the visitors have been so boring,” she would say. “They go on and on about stupid and silly things. Not once has anyone said anything that could keep me interested at all.”
            Soon, Helena began to feel alone. She had done everything there was to do in the fortress. Most of those things annoyed her as well. None of the books had a good enough story. None of the art was pretty enough to look at. The stone walls only stared back at her. She became so bored with her life, she would call into the mirror, hoping that someone would hear her and visit with her. But when someone would come to the mirror, she would tire of them quickly, just as before.
            One day a young farmer came to the mirror. His name was Ralf, and he had recently inherited the land he farmed. Upon seeing him, Helena knew right away that he would be more boring than most, but she had to talk to him as part of her curse. She decided she would be meaner to Ralf than she was to most people.
            But Ralf wasn’t what Helena had assumed. After talking with her for a bit, he asked about the painting that was behind her. It was one of Helena’s least favorite paintings in the fortress, but Ralf thought that it was amazing. The way he described it made Helena look at it again and realize that it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was a bit interesting.
            Day after day, Ralf would visit Helena in the mirror. He would tell her funny and exciting stories, show her sketches he had drawn that day, and smile at her with such warmth. Helena began to see her fortress differently. It still trapped her, but it wasn’t so boring or hideous. She wanted to escape the fortress so much though because the outside world was more interesting to her than ever. She wanted to see the mountains that Ralf described. She was sure that she had seen mountains before, but Ralf had a way of making things come alive to her.
            She wanted to tell Ralf about how he could come and rescue her, but she couldn’t. That was another part of the curse. Even though she knew how to break it, she couldn’t tell anyone else. Finally, one day Ralf asked her about where she lived. She told him about the curse and how someone had to break down the wall to rescue her. He decided to try and find her to save her. So he took the mirror with him and traveled until he found the fortress.
            When Ralf finally found the tower, but the wall was already split wide open. He walked through the wall and easily found Helena and led her out of the tower. For every time that Helena had let Ralf into her heart or she let him show her a joy in the world, the chink in the wall grew larger. The wall that enclosed her in the fortress was the wall around her heart. She had the power all along to destroy it, but did not know it and chose to be unfriendly to the world. But once Helena’s heart was exposed, she was free. All it took was Ralf, who was patient, to find her.

Why do you want to be a writer?

            It is always good to know why you want to do whatever it is you want to do or are doing. I think it’s about time that I decide and declare that I want to be a writer. That’s what I want to do with my life and how I want to show God to people. No, not all of my books will mention God, but if I can get people who love one genre to love me and then read other books I write that will be about God, that would be amazing!
            I want to write in every genre because I like to read from most genres. I want to learn about all sorts of things, so I’m going to want to write about them also. I want to go on adventures, see the world, experience so much more than just my small life. I want to show people how big the world is. I want to show people how great God is. I want to show the world how amazing it is to be a child of God’s.
            I could not begin to list all the ideas I have for different books. YA books, kids books, adult books, fantasy books, real world books, humanitarian books, etc. If God has given me these ideas in just 24 years of life, imagine what He can do when I am able to go more places and do more things. One day, I am going to go to Africa and write a whole book about however long I am there. I want to go all over the world, and write about how God loves each part of it and what He is doing there.
            But I don’t think I have been called to be a missionary. It would be too easy for me to keep moving on instead of building strong connections. Besides, I believe God has put me where I am for a reason. I don’t need to go to a foreign country to find people hungry for something more. I just need to go out to any public place for that. I want to live my life as a constant treasure hunt for who God wants to touch. I haven’t been very bold in that area of my life so far, but it is another thing that God has put in my heart.

            That’s another great thing about being a writer. I would have the ability to reach so many people that I might never meet otherwise. When was the last time you were deeply affected by words you read? I want to touch you with my words. I want to tell you how amazing you are and how well equipped you already are to show God’s love to the world. One day, I’d like to meet you face to face, but until I can, hear me say it when I write.

            I believe I have something to say and that it is worth hearing. I believe that so many people have so much more to say than what they do say. Just thinking about becoming an author gives me a boldness that I want more of. It gives me confidence that I am good at one thing, that I can encourage people in a little way, that I might one day make a difference in this world. I don’t feel that very often.
            Maybe I’m not ready to come out and tell those that I do know that I want to be an author. Maybe I won’t have that courage until my first book is about to be published. But I do believe and trust that it will happen one day. Even if it doesn’t, there will be at least one friend who will hear my stories. She’s told me that she has loved it so far. I want to dream big though. I have a hope to hold onto and a new life spoken into me when I write.
            Maybe you have been like me, silent and afraid to dream. Fear has no hold on your life unless you let it. God has such big plans for you. You were made for so much more than to disappear. God has made you beautiful. If you give your life to Him, He will make you full. When you are a child of God’s, you never have to wonder who you are. You are His. He loves you! He has been jealous for you and perusing you all of your life. The happiest moment of my life was when I finally totally gave all of my life to Jesus. He told me that I am more than enough. Every surrender I have given to Him since has been another happy moment. I know that He has good plans for me and will never leave me or forsake me. No matter where you are in your life, you are never too far gone to invite Jesus into your life. You are lovely in His eyes.

 

Oh, and I know I took the weekend off. I think I deserve a few days to myself, don’t I. There will be those days that I’m too busy or tired to free write on this blog. I hope you’ll still read. How many of you have time to read a blog everyday anyway?