Picky Love

"Vincent, why do you love me?"

"Because... I love you!"

"Yes, but why?"

"I just love you... I can't explain it! It's just... love!"

(After saying this, he licked my elbow. The tender moment was over before it had time to blossom ;))

My six-year-old brother is teaching me more about love than I've ever really known. Sometimes it's inexplicable, like in V's experience. Usually unexpected, like a lick on the elbow. Love's hardly ever something we deserve.

It's funny to me that we desire the love of one person, sometimes so badly, that we cannot see past the love we are given by dozens of others. I am overwhelmed with love when I am with my family, friends, mentors, residents, worship band, and staff. I take a step back from my own clouded perspective: I see how richly God has blessed me with overflowing love, to give and to receive.

So why do I focus on the love I don't see? The love I don't receive? The small bits of rejection that shouldn't dictate how I feel on a given day? Why do I feel so insignificant when I find out that someone's "I love you" does not mean the same as mine?

I coach myself, saying, "just give it to God, just give it to God", but sometimes, I just don't. Mostly, I really don't know what that means. How do I "give" something to Him that I cannot even define, that I don't want to touch? I beat myself up for not moving on quick enough, for intentional bad choices. I dwell in what I've done wrong, in why I could be deemed "unloveable".

These little moments of coaching myself are mere cover-ups. They are mental fronts that prevent me from breaking down or appearing not put together. I hate looking like a mess to people. In fact, a huge reason I started this blog was to show people that we are all messy, even people like me who say things like "give it to God" all the time. Although I often give vague, spiritual-sounding advice like that, sometimes I don't know how to apply it in my own life. But who does; life is messy and He knows us better than we know ourselves. He has better things planned for us, better than what we might have cooked up for our own lives.

We've all heard that love is patient and kind. That it doesn't boast, that it endures all things. But I also think love is dynamic. I think it changes as we change. Sometimes love has to take on a different meaning as we enter into new stages of life. Our love for one another might not have a clear definition, but there is One Love has the most constant, ever-present meaning we will ever know.

"Your unfailing love is better than life itself; how I praise You! I will praise You as long as I live, lifting up hands to you in prayer" -Psalm 63:3-4

I've prayed this psalm plenty of times. Sometimes, I say it shouting for joy, overcome with happiness. Other times, I say it through a tear-soaked prayer, the words not really comprehensible. But today, as I say them again, I am reminded of Vincent's explanation of love. It is not something one can understand. But it's better than life! Life! Better than the gilded symbols of "love" that we see on a daily basis. And I will praise Him for His love. I'll praise Him when I don't understand life or why I can't seem to shake things off. I'll praise Him when there's nothing more to say. I believe that in this way, I am giving my heartache to the Lord. He fills me up with His goodness and reminds me that His love is strongest. He has not a picky love, like the kind we see and experience here in this life, but an all-consuming embrace. His love says to just love Him back. I am satisfied by that.

(Just a few people who fill me up with love)

(Austin and Cassie)



















(North Village Staff)

(Devon and Danielle)

(Daddy)

(Kristin)

(Mommy and Celeste)

(Vincent)

December Days

December favorite is my favorite month.

I love how this month is filled with a new kind of wonderment. The Christmas spirit is alive! People are excited to be giving gifts and time to the ones they love. December is different. It smells better, it tastes sweeter, and it calls for sweaters and mittens.

In high school, I promised myself that I would never let a day in December unnoticed. I wouldn't try to simply "get through the week" like I usually would during any other month, I would savor each and every hour of December because it is just so special. I wanted to give a gift everyday, to extend cheer and graciousness to people I never had before. December made me a love-struck, googly-eyed teenager, and I was in love with life.

There is almost a sacredness to life that I re-discover every December; a sacredness that I don't necessarily feel every other day of the year. Why is it that December was (and sometimes, still is) a more important time of the year than any other day? Why is my life worth more in these 31 days? Why can't this joy I feel in December, the joy of giving and serving, spill over into the other months? One of my life verses, Ephesians 5:15-17, talks directly to the issue of valuing time: "Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord’s will is."  Paul understood that time is fleeting and that no day should go un-lived. I reminded of this verse in the times where I am going through the motions just to get to the weekend, when I am defaulting to my routine rather than praising My God in the beautiful fact that I'm alive, that He chose to wake me up today. 

Today, I am alive. And so are you! God is not finished with us-- He has work for us that we have yet to complete. That staggering truth kicks me right out of the silly mindset that one month or one season is more special than any other. The richness and beauty of life does not live within the confines of a fuzzy feeling or a gift exchange, it is the mechanism that allows for these things to happen.

Yes, December still smells and tastes better; and I must remember this wonderful feeling during January, February, and the others. God is present and engaged in every moment. That, my friends, is timeless.

Joy, Uncompromising

I find myself in the midst of a rough transition. Me, standing in the middle of a place that I do not know. Doubt, confusion, and regret beg for my allegiance, telling me I'd be better off playing in their games. 

In times like this, I tend to pray. A lot. My prayers are repetitive and desperate and usually soaked in tears. I pray the moment I open my eyes in the morning, I pray as I get ready, throughout my day...

I pray that God would heal a broken situation, a broken heart. That He would make something beautiful out of something so messy. I pray He takes feelings off my heart that aren't meant to be, and that He may re-focus my attention onto His glory and His Kingdom. 

I pray He makes me better. That He would make me worth loving.

Through these moments of prayer, I encounter the living God. I see Him answering prayer, responding to my defeat by lacing His hands into mine and whispering, "your story is not over yet." In my heart, I hear the voice of my Savior, calling me to trust His goodness. 

It is not because if anything I am or have done that makes me worth loving, worth cherishing, but the light of the Lord within me. And honestly, I've only just recently realized this defining truth. I constantly reprimand myself, thinking, "what's wrong with me," "get ahold of yourself, Becker", and sometimes even worse: "you aren't worth it." I am quickly reminded of these falsehoods through the words and company of family and good friends. They see my crumbling confidence and speak truth into my life. I am eternally grateful for them.

I still don't feel great about where I am. There are days of great progress followed by days of sleeping and Hägen-Daas. And while my mind may understand that everything will be alright, my heart still attempts to make the same connection. Happiness comes in bursts, and through those sparks, I become hopeful. Still, despite the compromised "happiness", I still live in a constant state of joy: Joy that I know my God, joy that I am still alive and living in grace, Joy that He loves me. 

That joy is uncompromisable, ineffable. 

"Those who look to Him for help will be radiant with joy; no shadow of shame will darken their faces. In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened; He saved me from all my troubles." -Psalm 34:5-6 

Profound

I think the reason that I haven't written a blog post in several weeks is because I know I don't have the time to sit down and write something profound. I can't write something impactful and convicting in the 15 minutes of "me time" before going to bed. So I don't write.

What I've since discovered is this: my writing is not necessarily profound because of the content of my stories, it is profound at the grace of the fact that I write at all. The ability to express, the therapy of getting my thoughts on paper, the fellowship of hearing that someone else feels the way I do: how incredible are these things!

I haven't done anything "astounding" today. I just had Mexican food for lunch and I am about to work on a project for my education class. I haven't saved a life or made anyone think.

Yet there's hope in the mundane. I am not a masterpiece due to my own personality, but because God inhabits me.

The smallest actions of mine (and yours) are, in themselves, profound. We wait and wait for the "next big opportunity", the "big promotion" and "the one", but everything leading up to those moments are God-given, life-changing instances. I have become less and less sensitive to this beautiful truth since being in college, forcing myself to go from A to B, from beginning to finish. I have not savored the moments of passing, the casual conversations, the silence of my day's end.

The living, all-mighty God exists in all those moments. In my choosing of either Tamales or Enchiladas and in the baptisms of this Sunday morning. Because He loves us. He doesn't wait on the other side of our messy lives, coaxing us over to Him. He sticks by us, shoulder-to-shoulder, and whispers into our ear, "I'm here, let's get through this".

I sit at my desk, waiting another 6 minutes before I must dash off once again. And I anticipate the moment where I might be given something incredible to say. Yet there it is-- the willingness to wait, to be expendable for the Lord's Will: that is incredible. That is profound.

Our soul waits for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. 

For our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. 

Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.

 -Psalm 22:20-22 (ESV)

DIY Map Nameplates

DIY Map Nameplates

You will need:

-Template of your desired shape

-Map of desired state

-Paper cutter

-Adhesive scrap-booking dots

-Scissors

-Runner tape

-Black, thick poster board

1. Print out a template of whatever symbol you'd like (I used this shape for my all-girl hall).

2. To emphasize my travel/journey theme for my hall, I used map as the material for the doll. (Triple A members get maps for free, so we just went to our local store and asked for 5 maps!)

 3. I tried to choose maps with the most space/coolest designs (states with water, mountains, etc.)

4. Cut out your material by tracing your symbol directly onto the map (for these, the heads are separate little circles.)

 5. Use fairly thick black poster board as the backing so that the doll/shape isn't flimsy. I chose black so that the doll would stand out and not look washed out. (Use runner tape for the most accurate, most unnoticeable adhesion).

6. Cut a little thicker than her shape so she stands out.

 7. Repeat the process for the head.

 8. Find scrapbook paper that matches your theme. We found a set with great colors for maps (neutrals, grays, metalics, tans, etc.) Use a paper cutter so that your halves are exactly straight and beautiful!

 9. For a slightly 3D affect, use adhesive scrap-booking dots so that she looks a little raised. It really adds to the overall piece!

10. To continue with my travel/journey theme, I found these adorable ticket stubs just big enough to write my girls' names on them. So unique and so perfect for my theme!

Overall, I made 40 of these name plates and 

only spent about 30$ on all the supplies.

They are very unique, and I hope that my girls feel special with 

their own personalized nameplate!

                                   

This Is Your Life: an Encounter with Switchfoot

My hands were shaking. No delicate butterflies flew around in my stomach: more like bats wreaking havoc! Drew Shirley noticed me smiling at him and grinned right back at me as he tuned his guitar. "Holy sh.." I said out loud. 

"If you'd like to meet the band Switchfoot, please form a line at the t-shirt booth."

If only I ran this fast in 8th grade track.

Luckily, I had already bought my t-shirt: a cotton tank with the band members silhouettes staring off into a pink and orange sunset. Classic Switch, of course they would do something hipster.

I bounced my knees anxiously as the band members each got closer to me, making their way through the line. My favorite band of all time, walking right towards me. Suddenly I was conscious of my hair, my red face. The two girls in front of me looked quizzical: "which band is this again? One Republic?" Here I am dying of anticipation and over-active bladder while the two girls in front of me have no idea who Switchfoot is. I want to say to them, "excuse me, but this band changed my life. Please leave." But I don't-- I'm too focused on what I will say to the band. Will I chatter? Will I be speechless? 

Drew, the one who smiled at me just minutes before, approached me first. Then Jerome, Chad, and Tim. Finally, Jon Foreman approached me, shaking my hand firmly and asking for my name. His bodyguard takes our picture. I look into his squinted eyes, looking for some truth, the thing that makes him special to me. I asked him to sign my t-shirt, next to the 4 other signatures. I decided to open my mouth. Somehow, the words came out as if I was a good friend of his.

"Jon, I just have to tell you... I'm a songwriter. And your lyrics have set the standard for me. I want to write music the way you do. Music that impacts people, lyrics that say something."

He shook my hand a second time, humbled. 

"Thank you for saying that, Megan. It really means so much. Good luck on your songwriting. Don't give up on it!"

"Thanks, that's really encouraging!"

He touched my shoulder, the way my best friend might after giving me advice. "It was so good talking with you, Megan."

The members of Switchfoot looked like normal people up close. They sounded like guys I might have met in college, just passing by. Since I started listening to them in 2007, they always seemed so far away. They seemed too incredible for me to ever know. Yet there I was today, shaking hands with Jon Foreman as he gave me advice about songwriting. But these were normal guys, in the end. We were on the same level in that moment, both sweaty and excited for a great show. Americans celebrating the 4th.

For the concert, I got as close to the stage as I could, standing at the fence that separated us by only three feet or so. Jon came right in front of me, got up on the sub, and gave me a smile. He looked right into my camera and sang, "this is your life--are you who you wanna be?" I'm not sure if he remembered me when he looked at me. I'm sure after meeting millions of fans, they all start to look the same. I'll hold onto the small glimmer of hope that he meant to look at me while singing those words.

Am I who I want to be? Is simply writing songs that no one will ever hear what I want to do? Is teaching and teaching alone all I want to do with music? What's holding me back from performing? I want to impact people, and I have so much to give through music. 

Maybe it's time for me to listen to Jon and not give up on this big dream of mine. This dream that I could make music that changes peoples lives. 

Abba, Father: create in me what only You can create, something no person or band could make manifest. Show me what you made me for. Know that whether I sing for thousands or only for myself, I sing to You. Thank you for this miracle we call music. Amen.

"This is your life; is it everything you dreamed it would be when the world was younger, and you had everything to lose."

In-Between Time

There is an endless display of possibility— beautiful possibility— sitting here before me. A meticulous pattern of black and white, begging to be explored.  My fingers fit perfectly between each nook. My ear does not know what it wants to hear, it simply desires to be satisfied. I wait a few seconds, my soul prepares for that heaven-bound transfer.

One of my favorite moments of life, hanging in the air of this in-between time. I press downward on the keys.

Music. It is no longer right before me, it is all around me. It heals my past and excites my present; the sound of the piano keys in harmony even creates a sort of foreshadowing to my future. I am in love with every bit of it: the gentle slide of my fingertips on the ivory, the reverberation of the strings inside when the sustain pedal is applied, even the silence of the room after a piece has been played.

For years, I have been taught what sounds correct in music. I am required to reproduce classic arias and minuets because of their “theoretically perfect” composition. “When the bass line goes down, the upper voices ascend, creating contrast and space in the counterpoint.” In Theory I, I learned that part clashing was “unpleasant to the ear”. Still, an intentional, thoughtful clash of parts always sounded quite lovely to me. My final composition sounded ethereal, full of tight, unknown spaces between each part.

I got a C on that composition. Underneath one of my ball-point clash markings was the word “Wrong” written in a judgmental shade of red.

When I think about the way music should sound, I am often deemed “wrong”. What I hear is complete, it is healing. Sometimes, my education teaches me to “take the safe route” because getting too creative could result in an unsatisfactory grade. In this process of thinking rather than learning, I feel something much more personal than the safe, bland counterpoints in my theory books. When I think about that perfect moment between setting my fingers on the keys and playing them, I am free from the standardization of the triad, the arpeggio, and the consonant intervals.

Specifically in the realm of choral music, composers are really thinking. I am delighted to hear pieces that are messier, more dissonant, for they are filled with more authenticity and risk. In the pieces, there is something worth listening to, something worth being vulnerable for.

Following the standard of what is being recycled through the education system does not holistically impact a person. It surely teaches them the basics, what they need to know in order to begin creating; but no class can teach me what that feeling is called when I hear a hundred people come together and sing one solitary pitch— that feeling of wonder, of being totally impressed. Great composers think in that “unique perspective” in order to draw people closer into that feeling of wonder. Hearing the same tune, the same chord structure, over and over only moves listeners into a place of complacency and away from the path of thinking for themselves.

I do not intend to create anything that is not impacting people.

So I live in that in-between time of silence and sound. It is where I think best.

Blooming Innocence

            Vincent twiddles his thumbs politely, as if to imitate our father’s habit. My little brother crosses and uncrosses his legs every minute or so—he is unsure how much time should pass before nonchalantly tossing the other leg on top. “Do boys cross their legs,” I hear him thinking to himself, “or is that just for girls?” Stumped, he leaves his legs to hang, adjusts his seatbelt, and peers out the window. “Meggie Pie, where are we going?”

            Knowing well my inability to make up stories, my older sister pipes up from the passenger’s seat: “We are going to a special place, Vincent. When we get there, we’re going to need your help, honey.” Kristin and I simultaneously unbuckle our seatbelts as the ignition dies. Vincent (whose arms are now long enough to unbuckle his own belt from beneath his car seat) rushes out of the car and onto the sidewalk, hopping about with uncontrollable elation. “A new place,” I hear him thinking again as his eyes excitedly survey the area, “and with my big sisters!” The joy is written on his face.  He takes my hand and gives it a pleasant little kiss. My heart dissolves into my chest every time he does this, and because of him, I am somehow made more innocent, more pure.

            A strident ring pierces the lobby of the flower shop as we enter through the glass door (which Vincent, of course, has offered to hold open for Kristin and me). My nostrils are bewildered by the multitude of floral scents— tulips, daisies, the crisp hint of lilac. At the sight of all the elaborate arrangements, Vincent stretches out his gangly arms perpendicular to the floor and spins, resembling an overjoyed Broadway character. “Flowers!” He exclaims, “who are they for?” Without waiting for an answer, he begins tap-tap-tapping the glass of each refrigerator door, admiring the opulence of it all. “Vince, we are getting flowers for Mommy. We need you to help us decide which ones to buy!” He accepts the challenge by hunching his back and bringing his arms into his chest—like one of his T-Rex figurines— and shuffles across the carpeted floor. The blue-haired clerk glances over at my brother and tries to contain her amusement. Realizing she had spent too much time watching this child, she shakes her head in disapproval at his unsophisticated manner and returns to curling balloon ribbons. Noticing her reaction, I lightly tug on the back of his shirt and ask him to “please stop” while my sister and I peruse the special order books. After a few minutes, I am unnerved that the only sounds in the room are the flipping pages of the book and the tearing noise of the freshly-curled ribbons. I look over my shoulder and see my precious little man staring, with all the tranquility in the world, at one particular arrangement. He speaks without knowing I am watching him. “I want THIS one. THIS one for Mommy.”

            The arrangement he points to was not the seventy dollar collection of lilies in an elegant cube-shaped vase. It was not the hundred dollar arrangement of delicate carnations begetting more carnations. To my deepest chagrin, he points to the most heinous, hideous cluster of five-day-old, yellow and white daisies. An obnoxious yellow smiley face coffee mug served as the vase. Vincent strokes the frosty glass of the refrigerator door and beams with self-assurance— obviously the arrangement with the giant, obtrusive smiley face is the perfect pick to cheer up Mommy.  Kristin and I exchange looks of uneasiness, as if to say, “are YOU going to be the one who tells him ‘no’?”

              I tell him what I can without crushing his giving, thoughtful spirit. I take a knee so that my eyes can meet his on the same level. “Baby, I just don’t know about that one… it’s just, well, maybe Kristin and I better pick out the flowers for Mommy since, um, we’re girls and we, uh, we know what’s nicest for Mommy.” Vincent’s face falls from confused to distraught in a matter of seconds. “So, you’re saying that… that I don’t pick out nice things?” He starts to sniffle as tears begin to collect in the corners of his eyes. My once-dissolved heart now turns to an anchor, sinking to the bottom of my Toms. Vincent covers his blotchy face with his petite hands and Kristin smacks me appropriately in the back of the head, a stinging sensation overpowered only by the weight of my cast-iron heart.  I take him in my arms and kiss his peach fuzz cheek, tasting his salty, teary sorrow. I immediately refute my comment. He nods when I apologize and is just as suddenly filled with the same spinning, shuffling passion as before my careless comment. After putting up a decent fight for the smiley-face arrangement, he eventually gives in to what Kristin and I prefer. As we leave the store with our desired bouquet, he gives my hand another one of his treasured kisses. Finally, my heart can dissolve once more into his childhood.

            Vincent is so quick to forgive in these dissipating moments of childhood. Yet someday, when my Vincent becomes a man, he may even look at his children with impatience, or even embarrassment, when they shuffle about with their arms like dinosaurs, when they insist on the most revolting item in the shop. But for now, he is a child. He knows more of forgiveness and unconditional love than I do. Part of me wishes I had bought the smiley-face arrangement, if only to keep his innocence intact for another day. Still, Vincent blooms with innocence as the rest of my world merely survives— wilting like the flowers in the shop.

           

A Cultured Palate

My body runs on a custom-made fuel composed of items that come in boxes. Cheez-Its, Club Crackers, Pop-Tarts, and any brand of cereal (for I am not one to be close-minded). From an early age, all I was ever fed by my single father was Captain Crunch and the occasional bowl of ravioli. Since my childhood, I never had the chance to enjoy a “cultured palate”, and only recently did I discover this truth. After making the spontaneous decision to spend my first spring break as a college student in Antigua, Guatemala, I thought little of what I might be eating. On the contrary, I thought mostly about how to fund raise for the trip, which t-shirts of mine could afford to get ruined, and making sure my Hepatitis vaccinations were up to date. Food was never the priority on a mission trip, for one is bound to primarily be offered the typical beans and rice delight with a side of diluted orange Gatorade. However, when the eleven of us college students finally arrived at the guest house in Antigua, we were perplexed by what was presented before us; this was not the expected PB&J mission-trip meal to which we had all become accustomed.  

Placed before our eyes lay a seemingly endless buffet of traditional Guatemalan meals, none of which I recognized from my Kellogg’s and Campbell’s upbringing. Breaded, saucy, crumbling, greasy dishes lined the linoleum countertop, only to be proceeded by more plates carried by women pointing and saying, “picante, muy picante!”  Despite my apprehension, I found myself amongst my peers in the food line, plastic ware in hand. My mind wished to choose wisely which items would be appropriate to eat, whispering to my stomach, "Be careful, this is your first day in a foreign country," and, "do you even know what that is?"

The local women came around to each of us, pouring pink liquid into our waxy Dixie cups. I cautiously took my seat, making contact with each of the ten pairs of shifty eyes who also had no idea what was safe to consume. To refuse this feast at the cause of our subconscious American haughtiness would be counterproductive to our ultimate goal of connecting with this small community of locals. After a few seconds of uninterrupted silence and hesitation, I assumed an alpha position and began to excitedly and gracelessly inhale my food.  

A valiant champion arose within me, pushing aside the feeble white-bread-sack-lunch schoolgirl who used to have my name. Red, oily juice rolled from the wrapped-up concoction onto my fingers and down my forearms. I was insatiable, loving everything put before me. I tasted ingredients and recipes in combinations that my system was starkly unaware of how to compute: cinnamon-braised chicken, deep fried balls of dough, orange-flavored rice, all drenched in the freshest salsa verde. Each of my fingers was licked clean, void of any and all left-behind sauces. Each cup contained a different fruity juice, and each mug contained the thickest, richest, sweetest hot chocolate that I have been blessed to experience. My life, truly, was better after that meal. I took a step that I did not even realize I needed to take- a step into an unknown world of food served by the most generous, hospitable people I have ever met. These plates of food, in this shabby guest house in Antigua, revitalized my idea of a meal. I was satisfied. I was, at last, cultured.

Untouchable

*I wrote this essay in September of 2011, shortly after I wrote "Just Stand Up" for my senior English class. I love this essay, for it depicts the beginning of my calling as a music teacher and lover of all things choral. I still get nervous when reading the first few paragraphs! Enjoy!*

Untouchable

            “Next up is number three, Baker.” My voice trembled attempting to speak. “It’s Becker, from Manitou,” I replied, groping for my name card to legitimize my complaint. “Oh,” he responded, uninterested and resigned. I took a step into the room that would hold my future captive.

            “Augmented triad,” he instructed under his breath. I expanded my stomach muscles and began to sing. He looked at me through crystal clear bifocals, his ears tuning in to every fluctuation in my voice. Those spectacles continued to seize me up, determining whether or not I was suited for his choir. The choir. The rules forbid him from offering verbal critique, but this rule proved unnecessary; his eyebrows offered me a glimpse into his mind. One elevated eyebrow meant that my diction seemed spot on or that my intervals were pleasing. Two elevated eyebrows indicated that I probably should never have come into the room.

            My audition for the Colorado 2011 All-State Choir took place on October 10^th, 2010. About five years ago, I promised myself that I would claim a spot in that chorus of four hundred boys and girls whose lives also revolved around vocal music. Once the time had approached, however, I felt an overwhelming feeling of self-doubt. Some of the greatest young singers I had known at the time would return from their All-State audition rejected and defeated. My chances seemed slim, but a voice within my intercostal muscles must have influenced my heart otherwise; on October 10^th, I took my sheet music for “Caro Mio Ben” and my second soprano voice to Wasson High School for a rendezvous with fate.

            The bright, yellow audition card taunted me. Three short weeks after the dreaded audition, the results were delivered, placed directly on the obnoxious, yellow card I had received the night of my audition. Only one number existed in my mind, for it determined my involvement in the greatest possible choir I could partake in. I desperately longed for the number eighty to receive consideration.

            “Every year I’ve been a teacher at Manitou,” Mrs. Astley began, “I’ve always had one student go to All-State. So, Becker, you better represent us next year, okay, honey?”

            My heart sank below the boards of the piano. My chance had come and gone. Never in my life had I felt like such a loser.

            She continued, “Because you’re going to have a ton of fun this year!” My eyes widened as I began to instantly cry with joy, for I had succeed in the one, true goal I had set for myself. The rest of the choir clapped in appreciation, and I quickly covered up my mascara-stained, blotchy face. I soon realized that the man who judged me, the man with the bifocals, he knew I would make a place in the choir from the moment I left his room. Mrs. Astley handed over my audition card; I received a score of eighty-eight. I cried more.

 Between the months of November and February, I religiously rehearsed my choral music, seven pieces consisting of three spirituals, one piece in gibberish, two a capella six-parts, and one

piece in Latin. Stress took control over my mind, for I could not focus on school work, other choral pieces, or even my family. Preparation for All-State destroyed my social life (what little of one I possessed to begin with), caused many arguments with my parents, and demoted my self-esteem. Numerous times I buckled underneath the pressure, convincing myself that I had gotten myself into an uncontrollable mess.

            “Let’s take it from measure forty-seven, Conversion of Saul.” A woman in an evergreen sweater politely pointed out where to commence my singing. The second stage of the audition process proved far less a stressor, although hundreds of students still lined the halls of the Denver Convention Center practicing their scaled and triads. I felt confident, though. My preparation and memorization had paid off, and the second stage breezed by. “Welcome to All-State,” the woman congratulated me, shaking my hand. Beaming like an idiot, I thanked her profusely. I walked out of an audition room for the second time not knowing the future of the circumstance, but gathering some satisfaction in the mere fact that I had taken a step out of my bubble to leap for a goal that seemed untouchable.

            All-State Choir remains in my mind as the matchless, unparalleled experience of my young life. When the ground shook from the massive vibrato of four hundred students, I cried. When the choir sung, “let them look up and see no longer me, but only You,” from “Prayer”, I cried. When our director, Dr. Lee Nelson, shed tears due to our inexplicable harmonies and decrescendos, I cried. I probably lost five pounds in shear water weight that weekend. But I will never forget any moment. Sometimes I feel haunted by the fact that I nearly neglected to audition for the choir, that my fear of failure almost overtook my love for music.

            In the midst of fear of failure and fear of diminished dignity, I took a step off the edge, an action I truly have never done before. My conservative ways perpetually kept me within my comfort zone. Despite the disbelief of my success, I still approached a foreign idea and took control of it, rather than it taking control over me. Had I not gone to All-State, I would not know the capacity of my love for music; because of that weekend, I now strive to complete the educational requirements of a choral conductor. I now have the ability to decipher a piece bit by bit, leaving no extraneous detail behind. I feel more complete as a person; thee hilarious fact is, I feel more “dangerous” now because I deem myself a “closet risk-taker.” Gaining the courage to go after something that seemed uncertain or even impossible altered my life in the most radical way. I reaped the benefits of simply trying, and I learned to touch the untouchable.

           

            

Just Stand Up

*This essay was written for my Senior Grammar class in September of 2011. I found it recently on my computer and decided to post it here, for it is one of my favorite essays I've written. Enjoy!*

Just Stand Up

            “You do know how to swim, yeah?” The gorgeous male lifeguard began pulling the boards off of the rack, undoing ropes and tying new ones. Like most Hawaiians in their early twenties, he had tribal tattoos all over his arms and neck. His skin was coffee colored, perfectly bronze; which made my skin look like paste. He looked over at me, expecting an answer to his question. Embarrassed at my gawking, I fiercely nodded my head in affirmation, hoping he didn't notice my staring. He hands me a heavy board, and begins to pick out a lovely red life jacket. “Just in case, ok? These waters get rough this time of day, and I have a feeling you are a malihini.” Although struggling with the board, I attempted to look put together when I asked, “What’s that mean,” immediately realizing my naivety. He chuckled and replied, “It means newbie.”

            The plastic buckles on my life jacket were broken. I could not decide whether this was merely coincidence or a bad omen. Nevertheless, I took small steps off of the safety of the pavement onto the uncertainty of the sand.  I stood for a moment with the sand between my toes, looking onward toward the horizon. The early afternoon sun beat down upon me, but in comforting way. My sunscreen provided an extra layer of security. “I go home in two weeks,” I told myself, baffled. So without further daydreaming, I shuffled into the tide. “Don’t forget the oar,” the lifeguard shouted from twenty feet behind. “Oh, mahalo,” I shouted back. My own father was already out on the water, rowing away.

            “Paddle right, right, right. Left, left. Evened out. Repeat.” A constant stream of instructions went reeling through my head as I attempted to fight the strong winds blowing against me. Thirty minutes had passed, and I had not yet stood upon my board. Fear captivated  me and made me feel paralyzed. “Just keep going. Catch up with Dad. No sharks ‘round here, right?” The winds fought intently to move my board back to where I had started.

            “You just gotta stand up, girl!” I heard a woman’s voice over my shoulder. She appeared to be rowing in the same direction I was, only she was significantly faster. She was standing. Her brown hair was pulled into a loose bun for concentration. She had no life jacket. “Try that left paddle, but do it backwards! So you can turn around!” I turned around as she commanded; after all, she looked well-versed in the activity. “Now, get on your toes and hop up! You gotta do it quick.” During this lecture, mind you, she did not stop rowing once. She adjusted her grip on the oar, as if presenting to me how I was to hold it during my stand of faith. She smiled and nodded, repeating, “Just stand up, just stand up.” She was out of sight in less than two minutes.

            Adjusting my weight to the balls of my feet, I prepared myself for takeoff. I expected to fall into the Pacific where there just happened to be a school of shark lurking about. I expected to embarrass myself further. I expected I would come right back down.

            I stood up. I stood quickly, like the lady instructed. The waves rolled beneath me, with me, not against me. The wind was now guiding me back, quickly and sufficiently. A gasp of excitement left me when I was able to look at the incomprehensible beauty of Honolulu from my own personal vehicle. The moment only lasted about a minute, though; my father’s board collided with mine and I went down like the Titanic. I swam up to the surface and shared a moment of laughter with my father, a moment I treasure to this day. “You ready to hit the road?” he asked me after we collected our giggles. I took another gaze around me, noticing all the families at the beach, the shave ice stand, and the beautiful Waikiki in the distance. “No,” I replied with a chuckle, “But I have to be.”

            

Be Blessed

There is a man who works in my favorite residential dining hall who teaches me the same life lesson every time I see him.

This life lesson is simple but powerful, and it's got me thinking lately.

Every time I come into the dining hall and whenever I walk out after my meal, this young man says the same thing to me: "have a good day, ma'am, and be blessed."

Now, what so perplexes me about what he says lies within the second half of his response. Every time, without fail, he says "be blessed".

He says this to every student without knowing who they are or what they're planning to do that day. He says this statement without any foreknowledge of the students' faith or what they may be struggling with. He does not need any of that information.

I may be over-thinking this (which, you know, I do from time to time, hence the blog), but I really think his greeting and farewell are a great example of how we should view God's desire to bless us. "Being blessed" requires nothing on our own part, nothing of our own human strength. "Being blessed" is the equivalent of receiving blessing, not working for it. It means to stand with outstretched arms in the presence of our Father and say "Thank You" rather than "what do I need to do to get You to give me stuff?" No, this simple phrase "be blessed" is just another way of saying "look around you! Look at everything He's given you. And He ain't done yet."

This, to me, is just beautiful: God gives me the words of this young man every lunchtime to remind me that He is never far and never unwilling to bless. I am reminded of Ephesians 1:3-4 when I hear these unfailing words:

"All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms because we are united with Christ. Even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes."

So be blessed. Don't try, just open your eyes and see. Just bask in it. It truly is a life-changing realization.

Living Water; Guatemala 2013

This is my thank you letter that I am sending out to all of those that supported my trip to Guatemala. I wanted to put it on the blog just so that anyone can read a little more about our experience there, if they wanted to. Thank you again, everyone!

Jesus replied, “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again. But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.”- John 4:10-14

Dearest friends and family,

            Right now, I’m sitting at my desk in my room at Baylor University. I am surrounded by a mountain of homework and laundry, yet all I want to do is reflect on my trip through this letter. I want to show you just how life-giving this voyage has been for me.

I wanted to write you to say THANK YOU for your support for my trip to Guatemala. The fact that I sent out letters a mere 3 weeks before the departure and received many donations really shows me God’s hand over this trip. However, I am still fund raising this trip, so that’s a bit stressful. But I believe that God will provide. I could not have gone without your help, and I am so thankful for you! My gratitude towards you propels me to share with you the details of my trip.

             As I mentioned in my original letter, I decided to go to Guatemala only a few weeks before the departure date. It was a very difficult decision for me, but I felt God pressing this opportunity on my heart. Despite my lack of preparation, I decided to say “yes” to Him. The other catch was that I would be a driller for the water well. I am not skilled at any sort of manual labor and don’t know a lick of Spanish, yet there I found myself in Guatemala City last Saturday, staring at my surroundings and wondering how God was going to use us.

            We drove from Guatemala City to Antigua. Antigua is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. It is rustic and authentic, the perfect temperature, and so welcoming. I loved getting the chance to walk around the city and get a feel for the attitude of the people. My team was able to bond more in these initial days in the beautiful Antigua. We retreated to the Living Water house for the first night. The next day, we drove to Nueva Conception, the village where we would be drilling. This village was far different from Antigua. Very run down and dirty, it just screamed poverty. Now we knew where we needed to be.

            Then came the drill. We began by mixing cement, digging out a filtration system, and setting up the rig. Each member on the drill team got the chance to man the rig, replace the pipes, clean out the trenches, and log the samples of sediment derived from each dig. This was a tedious and very specific process, but after the first few feet, everyone was able to get the hang of it. I watched the children of the school play off in the distance. I wanted so badly to go and love on them, but as I held pipes and grease in my hands, I knew that what I must be doing was right there at the rig. They needed water more than they needed my hugs.

            Already, I was seeing how different this trip was from Haiti. In Guatemala, my task was much more specific and difficult. I couldn’t always play with the children. I was exhausted from the work I was doing. But, as challenging as the task was for me, God pulled me through it- the work eventually became easier and even secondhand. The Lord showed me how even though my heart was with the children, He would use me in this task to bring glory to His name.

            And oh, how glorious is His name! We hit water at 125 feet, giving way to a powerful aquifer. The next three days gave us time to set the piping and get the clean water running through. Immediately, children began stripping down and showering in the blasts of the clean water! The team was incredulous, at a loss for words. We couldn’t believe we actually built a well.

            Eventually we had time to play with the children and talk with the villagers. These people were kind and giving, always cooking for us and begging for our hands to hold. One of my greatest memories of the trip was when four adolescent girls braided my hair and asked me how many children I had. (In most small villages in Guatemala, girls are married around the age of 16). Getting to experience these cultural differences opens my eyes to how God works for multiple people groups. Even though these people had so little, they loved the Lord with all their heart, soul, and strength (Luke 10:27).

            The entire goal for the week was to hit clean water. Without this water, the cycle of poverty would only continue. Clean water would be the potential catalyst to bring these people out of that devastation. During this week, my ultimate task was to get that well finished so these people could live healthy lives. I couldn’t imagine anything more important, more sustaining and satisfying, than the clean water that would come from that well. As life-giving, pure, refreshing, miraculous, and as satisfying as it was to see that water come out, the living water of the Lord is more. This well will last them for generations, and even after that, will only need minor repairs. Who knows, maybe by then, all of Guatemala will have clean water. Even still, this thing that will give them life in a way they never knew before pales in comparison to living a life through Christ and receiving the grace of the Father. That, my friends, is the truth that this trip engrained in my mind and changes my life every time I think on it. Not only does God save us from ourselves, but He wishes to give us everything. Everything. And I am so thankful that I could be a part of what He wanted to give to these people in Nueva Conception, Guatemala.

            “Real life starts tomorrow”, said one of the team members yesterday at the airport. Yes indeed, our responsibilities and school work must be attended to now as we are abruptly thrown back into American culture. But real life is what we were doing out in Guatemala. Real life is completing the tasks the Lord gives us and testifying to the good news of God’s grace! (Acts 20:24). We are agents; we are given the privilege of spreading that news. We get to take part in the true living water.

            Thank you again for your support: you all are my miracles J 

Prayer Center

I certainly fear the Lord.

We've all heard this phrase; the command to "fear the Lord" is found all over. Psalms and Proverbs are particularly saturated with it:

• "Fear of the LORD is the foundation of true knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and discipline."

            -Proverbs 1:7

• "Fear of the Lord is the foundation of true wisdom. All who obey his commandments will grow in wisdom."

            -Psalm 111:10

• "The secret of the LORD [is] with them that fear him; and he will show them his covenant."                                         -Psalm 25:14

My whole life, I thought I thought this "fear" meant to simply be reverent to the power and majesty of God. In fact, growing up in Sunday school, I was taught that this fear was specifically not that typical don't-turn-off-the-lights kind of fear we are all used to. Sure, since I've become a follower of Christ, I've done my best to be reverent of my God, trying not to provoke or anger Him.

But recently, He's shown me what it really means to fear Him.

For the past few months, during my prayer time, I've felt that God has told me to be a "prayer center". Now, the first few times I heard this, I was confused as to what a "prayer center" meant. After weeks following, I realized that He was calling me into a lifestyle change of being in constant communication with Him. I believe He wanted me to pray not only constantly but with conviction and expectation. Previous to this, I thought I had already been doing that. But it wasn't until this past semester that I really started to see how God was not only answering prayers, but He was being responsive to very specific prayers and situations. Theoretically, I suppose I knew that God knew my every want and desire, but I don't think I knew that by me simply bringing them to Him, in full surrender, that He would be pleased with that. 

Isaiah 36 talks about how God was wished to bless and protect His people because they prayed to Him with that same conviction He was calling me to. He performed ineffable miracles in order to show the love He had for His people. I see the same response from my God today.

The reason this new found prayer life inspired this fear of the Lord: God answered some prayers I never thought would be answered. Some are too personal for me to really display. He very quickly showed me that when I pray with the belief that He can do anything, He makes Himself more glorious to me. 

I fear Him because I can now more clearly see how He really can do anything and will listen to His children. I am more aware of the words I use when I pray, for I know the impact they might have. I see His power more dramatically portrayed now more than ever, and I am straight up scared of what He is capable of. I want the Lord to hear me, but even more, I want to hear Him. He has made so many things known to me by answering prayer. 

To Him be the glory, for He is The Miracle-Worker, Father, Teacher, Comforter.

I am honored to have the opportunity to watch Him move.

Genres

I don’t have a favorite genre of music. 

Whether it be classical, choral, jazz, hip-hop, disco, musical theater, indie-rock, you name it, I love it. 

I can experience the same heavenly, transcendent experience listening to Beyoncé as I do Eric Whitacre. My musical palate is not limited to a certain kind of meter or key signature or even instrumentation and connotation. Whatever I’m listening to, in that moment, becomes my favorite song. 

I'm entranced by the strained, cigarette-stained throat of John Mayer as well as the animated, computed voice of T-Pain. When I put my iPod on shuffle, I close my eyes and let music take me in. I can see Randall Stroope’s cufflinks shimmer in the concert hall as “The Conversion of Saul” commences just as well as I see Michael Jackson’s glove delicately touch the microphone. I hear the Lord clap his mighty, appreciative hands at the soulful skill of Bille Holliday’s “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” and also for Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue”.  

My soul is moved from earth to heaven in these sacred moments. One ‘music’ with succeeding, daughter sects does not exist; music is one, whole, and all-encompassing.

Music is greater than the boxes we put it in. It is more powerful than most realize. So no, I don't have a favorite genre. Music itself is my favorite genre. Each succeeding beat is a new revelation.

A new perspective. A new moment.

Can you hear it?

A Cleanse Like None Other

For the past two days, I've eaten nothing.

Since Monday, all I've consumed has been the Master Cleanse, a drink that consists of distilled water, lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper. This drink is known for it's success during weight loss, and after I found that out, I was sold.

I'm not unlike every other girl, despite my life in Christ; I still feel uncomfortable in my body and wish I was "prettier" and "skinnier". Certainly not all the time, though. Still, I felt this consuming desire to partake in this cleanse in order to lose weight and jump start a healthier diet. I heard from several people that this sort of thing was actually good for the body, so I figured that was a perk to my scheme.

Let me tell you this: worst two days of my life. While drinking this awful-tasting thing, I experienced nausea, fatigue, crabbiness, and obviously, hunger. Never before have I thought of food so much. I guess while preparing for this cleanse I thought that I would be able to handle the unpleasant taste of the drink, but did not foresee being so hungry. The taste was unpleasant, but not unbearable. Although the cayenne pepper did leave a painful aftertaste at times.

I have to digress back a few weeks to make my point firm. For the past several weeks, I find that I'm always consoling young girls and women my age that there is no need for them to be crash dieting, starving themselves, or exercising excessively for weight loss: "You are beautiful right now! Don't base your worth on the number on the scale! Don't put a numerical limit on how God views you!", and so on and so forth. I was preaching an awful lot on self-worth, even writing songs and my last blog post about it! I had young girls approach me profusely with "thank you"'s the past few weeks with how my advice helped them so much in rediscovering their self-confidence. I felt so overjoyed to have been used this way by our Father, the One who loves us no matter our weight, shape, or size.

He loves us far beyond our quantity (or lack there of, in some cases). He loves us even beyond many of our qualities. Unconditional means without condition. I was preaching unconditional love to young girls.

I did not apply this unconditional love, acceptance, beauty, or grace to myself, though.

Not that I didn't think that God loves me no matter what I look like, but I equated my beauty with the number on my scale; I wanted to be thin for me, and unjustly so. I wanted the image, the fantasy, the attention, none of which are justified reasons to go on a crash diet, not for me at least.

I tried to apply a spiritual element to the cleanse, claiming that since this is the Lenten season, I could pray every time I got hungry. But I could not admit this as legitimate for long: How could I give God this "sacrifice" when it was not intended for Him in the first place? It was all for me. For my pride.

I know this was only a 2 day period of not eating. How could I have realized such a profound thing in 2 days, you might be asking. Well, I pray an awful lot. I pray for closeness and wholeness in Christ, and when one prays in that way, God tends to show up. I believe that He convinced me to stop after such a short time because one can only go so long living with Christ beside them before realizing their unwise paths. He spoke to me through friends that were concerned, and even more than that, spoke through friends who straight-up demanded that I stop.

I also figured that this cleanse was something I wouldn't want to tell my good friends or family about, which, for future reference, probably means it's not a wise idea to begin with.

Please don't misunderstand me: I'm not saying that dieting and living a healthy lifestyle are sinful matters. Not at all! I believe that our bodies are temples and that we should care for them properly. But what I was doing was not for health or "cleansing". The only cleansing I can experience with guaranteed effects is the blood of my Savior, who forgives me and welcomes me home every time I come to Him with tears in my eyes.

I suppose "cleansing" is a loaded word. One could go on a cleanse, as in a diet, to rid their body of impurities. One can cleanse themselves externally, to eliminate the obvious physical imperfections. But the cleanse that I needed, the one that actually benefited me these past few days, was a reminder of my Father who cares for me and sees me as more than a body.

He sees you as a child, one that He created like no one else. You are cleansed through Him. That's all we really need.

"She checks out her reflection in the mirror, for some reason, 

she don't see that beauty is in the picture. 

Thinking her image's flawed, He ain't make her like those models. 

Thinks her figure's a mistake, He only making Coke bottles. 

Nah, coke bottles are plastic, mannequins are plastic, 

but you are fantastic."

 -"Beautiful" by PRo