Living with Purpose

I was going to pop on and do a quick recap of my eventful week, but something came to mind during church today and I decided to save the dull recap for another day and ramble for a bit instead. You've been warned.

Okay, where to start....

Well, we had a "guest speaker" in Teen Church today, because our youth pastor is out of town (the "guest speaker" being a man from our church who has some kids in the youth group). The speaker, Mr. Haught, likes audience participation when he preaches, or at least when he preaches to the youth group. He usually asks for a show of hands or input on whatever subject he's preaching on. Today was about serving Christ, and he started by asking some of the kids what they are thinking of doing when they grow up (and on that note, I think I'm finally figuring that out for myself!). A little while later, he asked one of the boys to give his salvation testimony. First "How old were you?" and then "Explain what you did" and then "Why did you do that?". The answer to the last question was, "Because I didn't want to go to Hell."

Bro. Haught agreed to that for his motivation to seek salvation. Thinking about it, it seems when people give their testimony, typically they say they got saved because they feared Hell.

Here's where my thoughts become a little incoherent.

I have a tendency to get distracted and start mentally wandering from the subject at hand when struck by thoughts relating to that subject. (See? Incoherent.)

Let me try that again.

Usually in church services, when something is said in passing that piques my interest, sometimes my mind wanders away from the actual subject in pursuit of that one little idea.

That happened today, and the result of that long mental amble is this blog post.

My mind went back to the day I got saved (March 28th, 2004). I can't say my motivation was a fear of Hell. Hell wasn't anywhere on my mind. I don't even know what started it, just that I had this inconsolable, indefinable fear come over me. I felt restless and nervous and completely undone. The only solution in my young mind was that I needed God.

I didn't get saved to avoid Hell (well, not just to avoid Hell). I got saved because I felt lost and alone and without hope. God was the light in that fearful darkness and I ran to Him. Often still I'm overcome with feelings of hopelessness, but now my heart has a refuge. I turn to God, and I find peace. The only way to truly know peace is through God.

Now my thoughts are a bit jumbled.

The note I scribbled in my notebook during the sermon to define this train of thought was "is it possible to get saved for a purpose outside of not going to Hell?"

I don't know why, but that thought struck me as profound. When a person is witnessing, typically they say that we need God's salvation because it saves us from Hell. And that is one of the reasons. But salvation also brings peace and hope, and it shows us what true love feels like, and it fills that gap in our souls where God belonged before sin came in. Another thing I wrote was "salvation is more than heaven". It's about more than the simple fact of where we spend eternity. It's about how we spend this life.

Okay, I'm going to jump subjects and slowly bring two thoughts together.

Mom spent three weeks in Peru, and then spent a week in Mexico with Dad with only one week between trips. A bunch of people at church teasingly ask how long they'll be home before going to another country. One man suggested with a smile that we put a curfew on them so they don't leave soon.

I passed this comment on to Dad, and he said, "I wonder if they realize that if we aren't going anywhere it means were out of God's will."

This new direction our life as a family is taking has really begun to impact me and define my vision of the future. Like I've said before, this has been a growing year for me in all aspects: mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. (Yeah, not physically. I'm now the shortest in my family.) My dreams have started to change and become more than vague images. They've started to take shape. I still can't see the road that leads to them, but I'm confident that if I keep moving forward like I know I should, I'll eventually get there.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm starting to figure out what exactly I want to do, and my parents' new ministry and helped me determine that. For a while I thought that when I stood up in front of the church at the graduation ceremony next year, I'd be saying something like "I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up." But when the question was posed to me during lunch with a friend last week, I was surprised to learn that I had a ready answer. Still a bit vague, but an answer. I've only ever been able to speculate before now.

All of a sudden it's hit me. In the past few months I've mulled over it subconsciously, and it seems like just this past week or so I was able to clearly say what I want to do. (I know. The suspense is killing you, right?)

However, like giving a description of my current writing project, it's difficult to put into words. Let's see....

Something along the lines of missions support combined with world travel. For a while missions work has been near the top of my "ways to spend my life" list, but I've also developed a passion for world travel, because I want to get to know more about the world I live in than this little corner of it. And then I also want to use my writing abilities in some way. So I have this vision of follow Mom and Dad in visiting, to begin with, the missionaries supported by our church and helping them in their work, learning about the country they live in, and using writing to help those back home get an idea for what they do.

Yeah, like I said, that whole vision of the future is still a big foggy, but I'm getting there.

Here's where those two seemingly unrelated and rather incoherent thoughts are combined.

My dreams used to be very self-centered. I considered every course of life that held some interest for me, yet they all seemed rather empty and vain. Through this year my vision has changed. I can almost look back and trace the change. It's no longer what I want to do for myself, but what I want to do for God. When I consider how He changed my life, how can I go on living as if nothing has changed?

I can just imagine people muttering that I'm wasting my gift using it for missions, or that any of the great young people I know are wasting their talents and dreams giving them to God. But how is it a waste giving my life to God, using the talents He gave me for His work? I hope people stop and wonder why I'm doing it. I want my whole life to be a testimony to the greatness of God, whether I end up across the world helping a missionary (or being a missionary myself) or live my whole life right here writing books or running a cafe or teaching kids how to ride horses. Wherever God takes me, I can have peace knowing I'm giving my all for Him and I'm right where He wants me.

On that note.... While Mom and Dad were gone, I had people frequently come up and ask me how I was doing. I don't know if I looked worse than I felt, or maybe they didn't even mean it like I took it, but a few looked at me seriously and said, "Really?" when I answered that I was doing good. Maybe I was over thinking it or reading into it too much (I tend to do that), but it seemed like they were...disappointed?...that I was feeling perfectly fine even though my parents were both gone in another country. But it didn't bother me. In light of Dad's response to that comment about giving Mom and Dad a curfew, I can agree that I wasn't at all worried because I knew in my heart they were off doing what God has led them to do. Why should I worry? I'm so thankful for the ease of mind God gave me while they were far away doing His work.

So that's almost what was on my mind today. Why is it so easy to form the thought but so difficult to get it out and make sense? Moreover, why does it take so long for me to finally get the thought out? Maybe with some practice (and a more regular blogging schedule!) I'll learn how to share what's on my heart without all of the rambling.

The Curse of an Overactive Imagination

I had started to write this at 10:30 this morning but got distracted and only just came back to write it, at 11:30 at night, when I can barely think. Ah, well. To start, Mom and Dad had returned around 9 last night from their Mexico trip. None of us had gone to be until 11 or so, and I didn't really fall asleep until midnight.

Around 3:30 AM, Mom and I were up for paper routes. As my siblings were joining the youth group at an amusement park for the day, I took the duty of routes.

Wes had taken the car to pick up papers, planning to then drop off Mom's at the house so we could both do it at the same time. But the battery in the car had died, and the jump cables were sitting in our dead van, parked at Muffler Man and waiting to be repaired.. To top it all off, no one knew where any of the van keys had gone.

Why do adventures have to happen so early in the morning?

We headed to Muffler Man, praying all the way.

Thankfully, the van was unlocked and we got the cables and headed to the paper. By the time we arrived, some kind bystander had assisted Wes in restarting the car. We got our papers and headed out on routes.

By 6:15, we were home again, and both went back to bed. I woke around 9:30 after some very weird dream where a guy with a gun was robbing a bunch of people in the store and I saved the day. Or was in the process of it when I woke up. My last dreams every night tend to go something like that.

I woke to the dog barking downstairs. He never barks unless he's upset, and usually when he barks inside it's because someone is teasing him. I knew Mom and Dad weren't up, so I went to investigate (and as I'm leaving my room I hear the text message alert from my phone: Mom asking me to make the dog stop).

Hershey was standing by the front door, half-barking, half-growling. Peeking outside, I saw a brown truck parked outside our neighbor's house. I tell the dog to hush and continue to peer through the translucent glass in the door. Nothing happening. Still, my ridiculous imagination was already going to work running through a hundred different solutions.

Then a bright blue truck streaks by and parks in front of the neighbors on our other side. Hershey promptly moves to the window to whine. A lady gets out and unloads some stuff from her truck. Then minivan pulls up behind her.

In many ways this overactive imagination of mine is a good thing, considering I'm a writer. But it never stops working, and usually in relation to real life it tends toward pessimism. Rather irritating. I'd already witnessed cars driving slowly up and down the street over the last few days and become sufficiently unnerved, and then this.

I'm too embarassed to tell you what was going through my head at this moment.

I plead insanity. My mind was clearly not coherent.

And then the carriage appeared.

Yep.

A literal horse-drawn carriage loaded with ordinary people just rolled right on by.

What would you think after witnessing this display? Probably something sane, like my mother suggested as soon as she appeared to ask why the dog was still being noisy. Me, I want to know where the carriage came from, because it was coming from the dead-end side of the road where guardrails would have prevented it from coming through the park. Mom's totally unfazed.

Turns out the church at the end of the road was having some giant rummage sale and the carriage was part of the event. When I had stepped out of the room to grab something in the kitchen, the carriage had come down the street unnoticed by me and so seemed to magically appear when I returned.

I love my imagination. I love being able to create without any effort. But I am often ashamed of the sort of ideas that pop into my head. It's not wonder I have psychotic dreams. For the sake of my sanity and that of those around me, I pray God shows me how to put this creativity to really good use, or I'm in trouble.

Well, it's late and my mind is again becoming a drowsy mushball, so I'll stop here.

What I Do: Reading and Writing

Today on facebook, Grandma asked Heather what our family was doing for the holiday. To start, Mom and Dad left around 1 this morning, bound for a week-long trip to Mexico. Aside from that, the day was laid out like any normal Monday, with the absence of Bible study tonight. Heather mused about how we would all spend our days. She for one would be at a friend's house, but the rest of us would probably carry on like nothing was different. She gave examples for what the other two would do, and when she got to me, she paused, shrugged, and said, "You'll blog?"

She makes it seem like I do that often. As if.

As a matter of fact, I spent the better part of my day reading. I even started to write something like a review on the book for my post today, but decided against it. I don't want to bore you. But I still will mention it. (It was the only real reason I had for blogging today.)

The book was Around the World in 80 Days. I'd never read it before. Sadly, growing up, I missed all of the classics except Black Stallion, Secret Garden, and Peter Rabbit. (Well, maybe a few more, but not many.) I'm just now enjoying Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, and Pride and Prejudice. Sad, isn't it?

Anyway, 80 Days appeared on our hutch a few days ago. I think it's for the middle school literary class/book club at co-op this year (and why we high school students don't get a book club, I can't discern). There it sat, unnoticed and neglected, until, out of curiosity, I picked it up.

There are days when pretty much all I do is read. I'm not one of those steady readers who can be satisfied with a chapter or two every few days. Like other parts of my life, I read in chunks. I'll devour a book in a day or two, repeat a couple of times, then be satisfied for a month or more. Maybe during that time I'll peruse an old favorite or try to work through a new one without significant progress until I am again hungry for a good story.

The last month or so was one of those lull periods. I just haven't been in the mood for reading. I've been trying to get through Sense and Sensibility for a few months now because I started it during a lull and skipped over it to read some new books during one of my quick-read phases, and haven't been in the mood to pick it back up since then.

I'll stop boring you with my reading habits now. So today was one of those days where I simply read. I started around noon, took a few breaks for laundry and supper, and finished around 6.

One of the things I love about reading is when I come to the end of a good book. I feel happy and fulfilled at the same time as feeling a bit sad, and sometimes a lull follows so I can savor the feeling of enjoying such a great story.

I didn't expect it, but Around the World in 80 Days was one of those stories. I read stories first for the characters and then for the plot. 80 Days had fantastic characters leading an exciting, slightly far-fetched, and adventurous plot, which makes it all the better. I've seen the movie version with Jackie Chan, but it so didn't do the story justice. I was even on the edge of my seat at the end. (Well, "edge of the seat" for me means curled up tight in the corner of the couch, giggling like an idiot with excitement.) When it was all said and done, I felt extremely gratified at having been able to share in such a wonderful adventure.

The first time I can remember feeling like that at the end of a book was actually when I finished the Chronicles of Narnia series (which I didn't ever read until around the release of the first movie in theaters). Then, I was terribly sad. Maybe part of it had to do with the fact that Narnia was gone. (Well, you know, in a sense.) Maybe it was because, though I couldn't quite grasp all of the deeper parts of the stories, I did sense them, and I felt a little lost knowing they were over. I don't know. But I literally felt like moping when I finished The Last Battle. True story.

I love that feeling. And yes, I actually was going somewhere with this.

There are times when I've considered giving up writing. Especially in the last year or a little more, I have seriously though about setting it aside. But I never can do it. Part of it is because writing is a part of me. I can't suppress it, I can't ignore it. No matter what I do, deep down I will always keep on writing. I will always feel the urge to write down that bright idea or that character sketch or that quote.

In many ways, I write for the same reason I read. I do it for the rush of excitement, the turmoil, the breathless moments when I don't know what will happen next, the pure joy I feel when it all comes to a close.

But I also keep on writing for a dream. A dream that one day, one of my stories will touch even one reader in the same way that my favorite books have touched me. I write because I want to pass on that mingling of fulfillment and sorrow when the story comes to a close.

I want to impact people. God gave me the gift of writing like He gave me the desire to impact those I come in contact with. If the contact is through the written word, then I will know I've accomplished something. So I keep writing, because it's what I know to do. And I keep reading so I remember the breathlessness.

That is not the recommended way to prepare rice...

Anyone who knows me fairly well knows I have a poor memory. Perhaps it's more than that, but to make things simple I say it's memory problems. (Also, one of life's ironies: needing to remember to take memory enhancing vitamins. Just saying.)

It might be forgetting to turn of the sprinkler for the garden or misplacing my phone (the most popular). It's not uncommon to see me suddenly jump up, muttering to myself, and dart away, or to hear me pound down the stairs shouting my dismay. (Of course, the latter could be because I just dropped my phone off the roof...)

Today it was rice. I have a bad enough habit with food as it is. I'm almost deaf to timers, and if I get distracted with some interesting book or movie or the like, I zone out everything, even the horrid smell of something burning, which is why it's best I don't leave the kitchen while food is on.

Rice should be easy. Put it in water, boil it, then cover and simmer for a good half hour or more. What's so difficult about that?

Right.

Mom called and asked me to make up a bunch for her, so I pulled out our largest pot and put in 5 or 6 cups of rice and set it on high to boil. Then I wandered away to finish a movie. I got distracted browsing barnesandnoble.com and accessories for books. I didn't take much notice for the burning smell arising from the kitchen. It wasn't until Allenna made a comment that it all came rushing back to me, and the jump-up-and-dart-away-mumbling routine began.

I know what terrible things can happen if rice is left on the heat too long, and I had given the whole huge batch up for lost before I reached the stove. But no! Maybe it wasn't as long as I'd thought. Sure, it was smoking and stinking up the whole kitchen, but the rice wasn't dry yet.

I grabbed the pot and pulled it off the burner, then flicked the switch to turn off the burner itself. Upon further examination I discovered that the only burnt rice was at the bottom. Pretty much all of it was almost perfectly cooked. Yeah! Not too dry, not mushy. Talk about miracles.

Is it weird that I then became weak with relief? I'll be honest, actually forgetting things is only half of what bothers me. What really gets to me are those horrid disapproving looks from the people who witness my memory blunders: shaking heads and severely angled brows and mouths that convey hopelessness better than a single word could. You'd think that alone would perk up my memory.

Now I'm coughing back the stench of burnt rice and laughing at myself. I'm also wondering if enough of this blunders will ever teach me. Or maybe it's time to buck up and down a couple Omega-3 tablets a day. I would prefer fish, but I'd probably burn it half the time....

What I do: Gardening

First: my mother is home! After 3 long weaks, she is back. Yeah, Tuesday was a lesson in patience from the start, between trying to help with a store remodel where the carpent people were late and so having to push back the time from 8 AM to 2 PM to 5 Pm and then having nothing to do to Mom getting stuck in customs and missing the flight that would have her home by 11 AM, having to wait another 12 hours or so at the air port and go through a terminal evacuation we still don't know the cause of and barely getting on the last flight out for the day.
Why all these reminders to be patient? Only, looking back, I don't think it's just that. There's also a little lesson about relying on God. Especially for me, who had this terrible habit of worrying obsessively. If something goes wrong, I panic. If it's suggested that something could go wrong, I'm willing to expect the worst. Granted, I have also learned to pray when I'd rather cry, but that mostly comes out as "Please, please, please!".
So Dad and I spent an hour at the airport waiting for Mom. I had planned to do some people watching, but there weren't really many people to watch, and only a couple were real characters. It was good anyway. After Mom finally arrived, we drove home in the rain with one windshield wiper going crazy and catching the working one and knocking it off its track or something. 'Twas an eventful day, I must say.
(On a side note, Mom brought back for me an awesome pair of royal blue-striped "Peru pants", which I am currently wearing and loving more than I anticipated. I am happy.)
The next thing on the crazy family calendar is another missions trip for Mom and Dad in less than two weeks, and then school starts. And it's my last year! (Yes, pretty much forever. No college for me!) I'm so not ready for school.
Anyway. I did have something non-recapping to do, so I'll get to that.

I like gardening. Call me crazy if you must, but it's true. I like watching things grow, especially when I planted them myself. I like marveling over how such beautiful things can come from such tiny seeds or simple bulbs. I'm not so much a fan of planting as I am of watching, which is why I prefer perennials over annuals. One-time planting, a little watering and pruning, and we're set!
Until this year, I'd never grown any form of food. I don't know what prompted us to decide to start this year. We didn't even get anything in the ground until June. (Hopefully next year we can start from seed like we wanted to but weren't able to because of our crazy summer schedules that begin in April.)
I must say that this year was a learning experience. Most of the vegetables in the garden are things I don't even eat (take our 20+ tomato plants for example). But I loved watching them grow from sprout to mature plant, watching them blossom and start to produce fruit, seeing squash and cucumber and watermelon vines spread out all over the place and sometimes use the tomato trelllises for support. I don't know what to do with the cauliflower, cabbage, and lettuce. I don't know if we'll even get anything from them. But that doesn't really bother me.
We've been getting cukes and squash pretty steadily now since the beginning of the month. I never have been fond of either, but I decided that I might as well learn to enjoy them because it's homegrown goodness right at my fingertips and I felt bad for wasting it. So I chop up a cucumber here or there and toss it in my salad. I'm still not fond of it.
I think the cooling weather has been getting to the garden, though. Most of the squash leaves are browning (if that's even a verb!) and I think we're seeing the last of the cucmbers. It makes me kind of sad.
I don't know where I originally planned to go with this. Maybe spouting off how good it's been for me because it makes me happy to start my day by going out among the plants and marveling over how they grow. Maybe I'll say how this whole experience has been training for me in a number of ways, but has also made me aware of how bad my memory is. I've turned on the sprinkler and gone off to do something for a few minutes, then got preoccupied, and the next thing I know I'm drowing the plants because I left the sprinkler on for too long.
Guess I don't really have a purpose behind this. It's just a new part of my life that I've enjoyed, so why not share? (Well, that and I needed to blog but didn't have much to say. Sorry if I'm boring you. It won't always be like this, I promise.) It's a pretty straightforward, easy summer project with tasty results. Hopefully next year I'll be more prepared for cucmber vines that need support and actually knowing when to harvest plants.
Yup. I've found another hobby. Well, we'll see how I feel about it next spring.

This Beautiful Life

Foreword:

This is not my first blog. I've been blogging since I was 12. (I think. I lost track. Maybe before that, maybe after, I don't know.)

It's pretty pathetic, but I have a bad habit of changing my blog. And I can't just change the title. No. Gotta change the whole thing.

Actually, this is the first blog I've had that's not utterly privatized. And I'm hoping I don't get the urge to change to a new one in a year or so.

For more information about this, check the "About this Blog" page.

I've had this song stuck in my head all year. Well, not the whole song; it's a song I've been piecing together for a long time. A line scribbled here in my sermon notes, another on a computer post-it note, a few in my story notebook. One time I sat down and collected all of the scribbles. There are actually a few songs there waiting to be written. I just can't make sense of most of them.

The one that's most often in my thoughts is about moments. I'm not sure how it started out. Maybe something a preacher said, maybe an idea that just came to me in the middle of one of my deep thinking sessions. Slowly, bit by bit, the words are falling into place. Usually in church. Something will be said that reminds me of this song and I'll write it down, wondering how it will fit.

The idea behind the song is personal. This past year, I've taken time to step back and evaluate my life. Looking back on my 17 years, I feel regret for the time I've wasted in useless, temporal things. My priorities have gradually gotten out of order.

This song has risen out of this struggle to make my life worth something. And not something great by man's measures; something great for God. It's not about living my life for Him. I've come to think of it as living every moment for Him.

(The song isn't finished yet. One day it will come together. One day the words will fall into place. When it's finally done, I'll share it here.)

I've developed a different perspective for looking at life. I'm starting to dig deeper. Rather than the whole picture, I'm looking at every thread. Now I think of the moments. Every moment is another opportunity to do something for God. Every second can be spent in so many ways. We forget about the seconds, the quiet hours, the single moments right in the midst of our crazy lives, and how each one can be a turning point. At each moment we have choices to make. How will we spend this precious life we've been given.

It sounds elementary, but think about this: this is the only life we have. This is it. No second chances. I know I tend to live in a fantasy world. My mind goes high above reality. This isn't a video game where you can pause, or restart, or get another life when you make a mistake. There will be opportunities that come along that you may only get once. We have to be right in the middle of reality, doing what we know is right, so we don't miss them.

This has been a growing year for me. Anyone who read my past blog knows one of the things at the forefront of my mind has been growing up. It's a strange notion, and a scary undertaking. I don't want to mess it up. I'm standing at a crossroads in my life, and the choices I make now are big ones. A hundred paths are laid out before me. I can't see where they will go. They are made up of millions of moments, countless opportunities and choices. How I spend those determines where I will go. How I spend my life is determined on how I live now. What I'm doing, where I'm at.... No matter how much I dream about where I want to go, what I want to do, I'm not going to just wake up one morning and find myself there. This isn't a fairytale. I have to choose wisely and do what's right in every moment if I want to get there. Otherwise I'll look back and not only wonder where my life has gone, but I'll see how all those threads wove together and I'll feel regret for how I wasted my time.

I want to look back and see a beautiful tapestry. Dark and light, color and shadow, pain and joy all weaving together, but strongly, because I was determined to live well in every moment. When I stand on the edge of eternity and look back at my life, I want to know, to see, that I didn't waste it. I want to deserve my "Well done". I want to be found faithful and true.

Sorry if this all seems like babbling. That's kind of how I blog. It's just my thoughts pouring out, my heart on the page for all to see in hopes that it rings true with somebody else. This blog is where I highlight some of those threads for others to share. It's a tangible record of my life, in all the ups and downs. It's a way for me to keep a clear perspective and appreciate this life I have been given. Sometimes I don't know what I want to say, so I have to write to sort out my thoughts. It's a confusing mess, but a beautiful one. Sometimes it might just be a story, or a song, or a moment I want to capture. It all blends together into my life. Every piece is a part of who I am and who I'm growing up to be. I step back and feel...breathless. Thank God for this beautiful life.