A moment

I found a moment today; or rather, a moment found me. Collapsing onto my bed after a hard days work and with Zoe Keating playing in the background, I opened right up to 1 Cor. 9:22. Paul has a way of punching me in the face no matter how many times I read his letters. I am no Paul; and yet I was called to be like one much better; the best; the Perfect One.

I am a woman, and as such, I play the comparison game. But to whom am I comparing myself? Lately, it seems, not to anyone that matters. I will never be that cool girl, you know, the one with beautiful thick dreadlocks and tattoos and piercings; or that serenely beautiful girl; the flawless tall one, graceful and talented. As much confidence and love as I have for myself, for who and how God made me, I still idiotically find myself occasionally playing the comparison game with them, most of the time subconsciously. This time I am conscious of it, and conscious of the fact that I'm comparing myself to an image, an idea, a concept...imperfection; a mist, a vapor. What a distraction. What a blasted waste of time. And for what? What exactly am I afraid of?

Like Paul, I must be all things to all people. That means setting my mind not on foolishness but on Love. Love--which is patient, kind, rejoices with the truth, bears, believes, hopes, endures, doesn't envy or boast, isn't arrogant or rude, doesn't insist on its own way, isn't irritable or resentful, and is...fearless. Fearless. Now that is something to play the comparison game with. Thanks again, God, for using Paul to giving me another moment.

Zoe Keating: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIdgNJ4ufkU

What if

What if I truly loved my neighbor as myself? What if I let my walls crumble? What if I actually listened, even when I didn't feel like it, even when I found the speaker annoying? What if I purposefully, mindfully, remembered? What if I stopped being afraid?

What if we all did?

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

I'm sad to hear today that Gil Scott-Heron has died. Unlike most modern hip-hop and rap, this man actually had things to say worth listening to. No meaningless jibber with the backdrop of clubs, scantily clad women, or fancy cars for him; he would rather make you think. I'm no expert on the man, but here is what he's most known for:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGaRtqrlGy8&feature=player_embedded

Sympathy

I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals —
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting —
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
I know why the caged bird sings!

~Paul Laurence Dunbar

Searching for an open door...

for the love of books

I am one of those who took hold of books at an early age and never let go. I am one who, on rainy days, was found reading with a flashlight under tableclothed kitchen table or makeshift bed-sheet tent. Black words jumping out of white paper illustrated here or there to paint a thousand new words upon the scene...it has always been fascinating. Words so often are inadequate but so relied upon in this world where bare emotions are too exquisite to be allowed flight. And so we unnaturally fumble around like light blinded fools looking for just the right words to express our true unrefined innards. With those words a story is told and a book is born. A book-a glorious thought-inducing collection of words that ripens with time as it becomes age-perfumed and curled-paged. What’s this about “electronic books?” “Electronic imposter” is more like it. Real books have covers, and weight, and pages that can be hand written in or accidentally spilled on; they can sing as the pages are flipped through, and the very best gain an alluring aroma of greatness as they mature with age. It’s late and I’m tired and I’m not sure this will make sense to anyone else, but I can’t sleep so I thought I’d write instead...

midnight

Remember all those years they told us we could do anything as long as we believed and tried our hardest? Remember the day you found out it was a lie? I was much younger, then, and already covered with the dust of travel, unconsciously resolving to be as “wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” The serpent learned nothing comes easy and hard work earns but a dime; an uncorked heart gets poured down the drain; speaking is hushed and dreaming aloud will be silenced. The dove learned to love, accepting its coupling with pain. Still I will dance circles alone in my room these nostalgic nights, when all I can do is wait for the beautifully despondent song of the train delivered by the midnight breeze.

a time for mourning

I despise sitting here helpless as one of my old homes is devastated by earthquakes and tsunamis. Here the slight warmth of early spring and sunny blue skies decorate the day, a thousand worlds away from ripped concrete highways and crumbling walls that now adorn my last home, Mito Japan. Why must I feel something near guilt as people say "I'm so glad you're here and not there"? I want to be there right now, very much so, but even if I was there, what could I do? I will do all I can do, here, now; I will share in the mourning, and I will pray. And I ask you to pray too if you will, particularly for all my babies (my students; I had 700+).