My Weird Crayon Representation of a Sunset That I Drew While Driving Home From Florida

I do believe the title says it all...

Could Be A Photo, A Picture Perfect Moment

We see so many digitally enhanced images these days. I spend so many hours editing and changing and enhancing photos to make the colors just perfect, the shades and hues balanced, the imperfections disappear. Maybe sometimes we forget what things really look like, true, natural, untouched beauty, because nearly every image we see in a book or on the internet has been fixed in some way. But this sunset...it was real.

The setting sun sent shades of purple, orange, pink, and indigo dancing on the rippling waves and shining on the ocean. Waves lapped up on the edge of the beach, gently dragging back into the ocean, leaving a trail of wet sand, the liquid seeping into the earth. The sunset's colors reflecting on the leftover wave, liquid colors like the rainbows pooling up in puddles of oil in a mechanic shop, but pure and clean and beautiful. I jogged along the beach into the sunset, and it was like running on a liquid rainbow. I watched people play in the shallow waves. The water splashing up against their dark figures, black silhouettes against the setting sun. And I ran and ran, along the unending beach, into the mesmerizing pale purple and pink of an ending day.

When I turned to head back the sunset was behind me. But I found a new and different beauty. Different from the light colors of sunset, the sky was a deep indigo with a bright yellow moon slightly shrouded in the darker indigo clouds scattered through the sky. The light from the moon reflected in the ocean, its line of light broken and rippled by the movement of the waves. The beach was dark, the ocean deep green and blue. The city's skyline was visible far down the edge of the beach, lights from the building creating an orangeish glow in the air thick with salt and humidity. The glow surrounded the sky rises and faded into the deep indigo of the night sky. Little flashes of light reminding the still beach and gentle sound of lapping waves that reality still exists, even in the magical calm of nature.

Grapes and Googly Eyes

Small, random things, all fitting together, woven with words and strung together with adventures. Stories. When I was little my dad used to tell stories all the time. After dinner, during car rides, or when we were all just sitting in the living room together as a family, he would tell us stories. They weren't tales from his past. They weren't long-forgotten things he had read in story-books as a child. They weren't fairy tales he was re-telling from a book. They weren't traditional stories past down through the generations. They were just stories. Adventures he made up on the spot. I don't know how he did it, and perhaps he was drawing on past stories or knowledge he had acquired through the years. But to me, they were fantastic. And they were ours, specially told just for us, only to us, never to be heard again, as the plot would almost certainly be forgotten in a few days. We would each get to pick something, or if we were lucky, three somethings, to be in the story. I remember things like grapes and Peter Pan being frequent visitors to our stories. Peter Pan was, and still is, my favorite, so I loved to hear new adventures about him. Sometimes the tales would stretch on too long, and we would have to save Part Two for a different car ride. They were such good times, riding along in our suburban, dad's deep, strong voice filling the car with an adventure we became part of through his words. Sometimes they had morals, admonitions to us children through story, like when my little sister used to steal things from me, so I began to assume whenever anything went missing she was the culprit. The stories were simple, and today I'm sure they would seem silly and childish. But when I was little they were wonderful, sweet, and magical. A memory I will never forget.

Burn It

"'If I can?'" Jesus asked. "Everything is possible for him who believes." 

And the boy's father immediately responded and exclaimed, "I do believe! Help me overcome my unbelief!" **

You know. I really respect this father. I see his response as very humble. When people call me out, as Jesus called the boy's father out, my general response is to, while admitting to my mistake, also make excuse for it. I think my natural response to Jesus' words would have been, "Oh, that's what I meant! I didn't mean you couldn't do it. I just...worded my request badly. Of course you can do anything and everything. I didn't mean to imply you couldn't! My wording was simply poor..." And I probably would have babbled excuses for awhile. 

The father doesn't do that. He owns up to his fault, admits his unbelief. He doesn't say he doesn't believe, but he recognizes that part of him was skeptical. Perhaps it was not even a conscious thing, but there was a bit of him that wanted a safety. If he didn't 100% acknowledge Jesus' power, then if Jesus did not heal the boy, then the father had an escape clause. He could pass it off as, "Well I asked, 'if he could help' and clearly, he could not." But after Jesus called the father out, he admitted his unbelief. And instead of just saying, "Sorry, I had a moment of failure to believe in your awesome, great, omnipotence." He recognizes that he will probably have these bouts of unbelief again, and again, and again. And he asks for help. He asks Jesus to help him overcome his unbelief. He humbles himself by admitting his fault, and then requests help in overcoming that weakness. 

These are good things to take into account, things we should remember to do. When we're called out on a sin, no excuses. Own up, admit to it, take ownership, then apologize or make it right, and accept the forgiveness that accompanies that recognition of sin. 

And remember that we are unbelieving souls. Like the father, we always want a safety net hanging right below us at all times. We want bungee cables tied to our belts to make sure we bounce right back up. We want hard hats and padded knee and elbow guards. We want three kinds of health insurance and extra money saved in the bank. Plan A, B, and C, and then backup plan 1, 2, and 3...just incase Jesus doesn't come through. Or that on the off chance that the .001% of you that has a really hard time believing Jesus really is real was the right part of you. Incase Jesus doesn't come back. Backup plans. 

Pitch 'em. Burn them. Cut the cords, destroy the plans, take the cash out of the bank and spend it on something more worthwhile. Backup plans are for sissies. And in saying that, I'm definitely calling myself a sissy. It's so hard to put 100% and then some into Jesus. Someone I've never seen. Someone I won't see until I die. But though I may not have seen his actual face in person, I've seen his work in the world. I've seen his love played out. I've seen the difference he has made in lives. I've seen the difference he made and makes in my life. I've heard his voice. I've heard others' stories of his love and care and grace and mercy. I've felt his presence in my life, and in others' lives. And I know he's real. 

That doesn't make destruction of Backup Plans time easier, but it must happen. Have a destruction party in your backyard to burn the plans and extra insurance papers. Let the flames flicker high, orange and bright in the dark sky. Let it burn, burn, burn. Then go inside, and remember the father. He believed, but he still had unbelief. And he knew it. And he recognized his need for a savior and his need for belief. So he asked for it. Go inside, leave your backup plans to burn and ask Jesus to help you overcome your disbelief. And he will, oh he will. 

**my wording, from Mark 9.

Serenading You

Close your eyes. Picture someone sitting across from you. He may have a beard, neat and trimmed, but still scruffy. His dark brown hair may be a bit on the long side, nearly touching his shoulders. His skin is naturally darker, but also tanned by the sun. He holds a guitar, strumming it gently with rough, kind, carpenter's hands, a tune to go along with the song he sings. The words flow from his mouth, and you listen. Maybe he has a bit of a hippie vibe. Birkenstock sandals, worn jeans. Peaceful, loving, kind. He sits there, strumming and singing. And you listen, you listen to the words of love, the words of hope, from someone who truly cares. You listen, and believe. And he sings, he sings you a beautiful love song. . .


It's been so long since
You felt like you were loved
So what went wrong
But do you know
There's a place where you belong
Here in My Arms

Chorus:
When you feel like you're alone in your sadness
It seems like no one else in this whole world cares
And you want to get away from the madness
You just call My name and I'll be there
You just call My name and I'll be there

The pain inside
Has erased your hope for love
Soon you will find
That I'll give you all
That your heart could ever want
And so much more

Chorus:
When you feel like you're alone in your sadness
It seems like no one else in this whole world cares
And you want to get away from the madness
You just call My name and I'll be there
You just call My name and I'll be there

You just call My name
You just call My name
Call My name say it now
I want you to never doubt
The love I have for you is so alive
Call My name say it now
I want you to never doubt
The love I have for you is so alive

You just call My name
You just call My name
You just call My name


The love I have for you is so alive
The love I have for you is so alive
You just call My name
You just call My name
You just call My name

And the Ants Come Marching Proudly In

So you know how they say guys with small penises make up for it with big personalities and egos? They have an inferiority complex and overcompensation or something? I kinda have that same issue. Well, not in regards to a small penis (I mean, clearly mine is huge), but I definitely feel the need to overcompensate. See, incase you somehow didn't notice, I'm tiny. Like, tiny. People comment on it all the time. I have a small build and I'm skinny. Just the way I am. But since I don't weigh very much, I'm the one that it's easy to pick up and throw into the pool, or just pick up in general. You know how people sometimes walk along and bump each other accidentally-on-purpose? Well half the time this action results in me either 1. Falling, 2. Stumbling and having to catch my balance, or 3. Nearly falling and the person who bumped me having to grab my arm and rescue me. It's a little awkward. So pretty much I'm small, quiet, and easily pushed over. I don't feel big and strong, but I want to. So maybe I don't really overcompensate, but I try so hard to be big and strong and brave and tough and make up for the fact that I'm really just small and insecure.
And then I have moments like tonight to remind me that, quite frankly, I'm not.
Twice a month, at my pool, we have what's called an inservice. We basically practice our lifeguarding/saving skills and review stuff, just to make sure we're all 150% ready for any and every possible emergency (and don't worry, we're stellar). This month's main theme was endurance. We did an Indian-Run around the lazy river. I was all pumped and ready for it. I run or swim almost every day, do weights, ab workouts, and yoga. I would like to think I'm pretty well in shape and strong. When it came my turn to run to the front of the line...it took me nearly three times around the lazy river. For most people, it only took one to one-and-a-half times. I was out of breath and struggling to get to the front of the line. I looked weak, pathetic, small, and helpless. And I felt all of those things as well.
I don't like to feel hopeless. I don't like to look weak. My dear prideful self wanted to do so well on that Indian-Run. I wanted to look strong and fit. I wanted people to see that I could do anything. I wanted to seem strong. But I didn't. And I had to deal with that. In that moment I felt so small, pathetic, and worthless.
I feel like that often. I don't say that to have a pity party or complain about myself. I admit to that because it is a huge fault. And something I'm realizing, praying through, and trying to change. Because what I've realized is this, the vast majority of the time I allow what others think of me (or what I imagine they are thinking of me) to rule my emotions. I mean yeah, I have tons of faults. And I suck at a lot of things. And the vast majority of the time, I'm not smart, pretty, funny, outgoing, or skilled enough.
But the fact of the matter is, I will always fall short in someone's eyes, because no one is ever perfect. I will never ever be perfect or strong enough. And there's beauty in that. There is beauty in imperfection, and strength in weakness. Every flaw and weakness I have is like a crack in a wall. The wall is full of scratches and chips in the paint, little cracks run like ravines along it. But then someone comes along and patches the wall with mortar, filling in each line and ditch. The wall is made whole and new, stronger and better. That's me. I'm broken and weak. Guess who isn't? And where I am weak, He is strong. Where I fail, He prevails. Where I falter, He presses on. When I fall, He picks me up. When I sin, He forgives me. When I'm not good enough, He is.

Recently I've been forgetting all those very important truths. I've been allowing my weaknesses and imperfections to take over. Rather than focusing on the fact that no matter what, I am loved, I have been focusing on the moments when people have not cared about me, or have left me, or haven't wanted me, or when I haven't been good enough (and yes, that could possibly have maybe had sorta something kinda smallish to do with a boy). And looking at it, I can clearly see how, especially in the last week, I have just been "in a funk." And that funk was pretty self-focused on me being better and stronger in the eyes of the people around me. That is not the way it goes. That's not the way I should live. That shouldn't be my focus.

So the conclusion is simple. I'm flawed. I'm weak. I'm helpless. I'm never going to be super big and strong. I will never be perfect. I will always fall short or mess up. But the wonderful news is this: it doesn't matter, because I'm good enough for my Best Friend.

A Rowdy Room, Therapeutic Theater and a Psychedelic Ceiling

Some people had been in line all day. They had waited hours, some even an entire day, for this moment. The room was chilly, people huddled beneath blankets, cuddling on couches or curled up in the balcony theater-seats. It was a moment they'd all been waiting for...the end had come...Harry Potter 7 part 2. 

Now I wouldn't call myself a die-hard Harry Potter fan. I've been reading the books since they came out so many years ago, so I guess I did grow up on them. I would have been perfectly satisfied with watching the film sometime in the coming week after its release, but my friends had been planning to attend the midnight premiere for nearly a year (since the first half came out at least) and I'm always up for movies, 5 hour energies, and fun times with friends! Plus, I'd never been to the midnight opening of a movie, and I figured the last installation of the famed Harry Potter series was the best time to do it! 

Now I sound like a cynic or hater, only there for the people. Not true in the least. I love the Harry Potter series, movies and books. The books I definitely enjoy more, the movies I like because they're part of the culture and the tradition and the story. Without the books backing them up, though, I don't think I'd enjoy them nearly as much. 

When we were standing in line, right before the doors were about to open, we were all given raffle tickets to fill out for a drawing later. We wrote down our name, email address, and favorite character. I definitely had too many favorites to write them all down, so I chose three. Dobby, Hagrid, and Snape. 

Snape? What? 

Yeah, Snape. 

He's honestly one of my favorite characters. Before the last book came out, after we'd all read about Snape killing Dumbledore at the top of the tower, there was loads of debate. I remember there being two sides, the Snape is Good side and the Snape is Evil side. I was always on the Snape's Good side. Even though all the evidence pointed against him...what with him being a Death Eater and killing Dumbledore and all, I was just sure that he had to be a good guy. As usual, I was right (only joking about the "as usual" part of that sentence). Still, I was thrilled when he turned out to be Dumbledore's spy all the time, thwarting the supposedly un-trickable mind-reading skills of Voldemort. This last movie, and a reminder of the rest of Snape's story, only strengthened my admiration of him as a character. 

Imagine how difficult it must have been to be Snape. He loved Lilly Potter more than anything. But he never got to express that love, or receive it in return. And to add insult to injury, Lilly married James, someone Snape hated. But Snape is so loyal. Despite his clear fascination and appreciation of the Dark Arts, and the Dark Lord himself, Snape never allows anything to overcome his love for Lilly. His undying, loyal love is not broken by Lilly's love for someone else, it is not broken by Voldemort, it is not broken by the struggles and fears and trials of living a double life, never truly fitting in.

No one trusted Snape, except Dumbledore of course. When Snape publicly denounced Voldemort and joined the good side, no one ever truly believed he had ceased to be a Death Eater. So his fellow staff at Hogwarts, the students, and families, didn't trust him. Many said they trusted Dumbledore and therefore concluded that Snape must be good, others said Dumbledore was senile, but none believed Snape. And when Voldemort returned and Snape re-entered the world of Death Eaters, they never fully trusted him either. So no one trusted Snape, but he was the most trustworthy of them all. True, his life was a web of lies and tales and crossing people, but all for good. All to keep Harry safe. All to save the world. All for the love of Lilly Potter. 

Such pure love, willing to sacrifice everything. Snape lived a rather miserable life, but he did it all because he loved Lilly. I find that so admirable, and so inspirational. He didn't look after his own interests in the slightest. And if it weren't for Snape, the story would have had a much darker ending. I also love that Harry recognizes this. Though he and Snape never got along, once Harry realizes the true Snape, he understands all that Snape did in his lifetime, all that he sacrificed. And Harry remembers Snape through a name, the name of one of his children, Albus Severus Potter.