The House Where I Used to Play

A little bit of an intro into this one. This is a short story I wrote recently. It is filled with  motifs, parallelism, quite a few cliff hangers, and layer upon layer of meaning. There are several small details of this story that mean something much deeper than is let on. Also, the house is not the house I wrote about in my previous post. I hope you are left asking questions. Thanks for reading!

I came to the house where I used to play. The door creaked with age as I entered in, exposing the forgotten walls to the chilly outside air. Crossing the threshold, my eyes flitted around the stale room as I took in my surroundings. The once cheerful wallpaper now hung with an eerie disillusionment and abandonment. The once polished wood chairs and tables were covered with dusty, yellowing sheets. The portraits that once held wisdom, strength, and inspiration in their eyes were now only ghosts and shadows of men once great, but now forgotten. The magnitude of the house as it stood before me, now a home only for the dead and creeping, swept over me with such a sorrow I had to brace myself on the mantle place.

As I fought to keep my senses, the memories began to dance before me and the room was filled again with laughter, color, and life. The children ran past with ribbons flying behind them and I realized a game of tag was at hand. I looked to the grimy window sill and saw the cat in the sill and the small rainbows reflected on the wall. The cat lay quietly napping in the sun and I reached out my hand to touch the rainbows. The tabby opened its eyes, made a halfhearted, content mewl, and stretched out its paws before yawning and falling back into a doze.

I heard the call of a warm voice coming from down the hall and followed after the children who had left their game of tag to answer the sweet beckon. The voice, soothing like home, seemed to speak within me as if I had heard it with my heart and responded with my soul. I came to the door of the playroom where I had seen the children disappear into and stood just outside. The warm glow of light shone through the crack and I listened curiously to the hushed giggles coming from inside. Reaching up my hand, I gave the heavy door a push and walked in.

The room was empty. A draft whispered through my hair, chilling my face and creeping down the back of my collar. I shivered as I walked slowly past the toys thrown haphazardly around the room. The stuffed bears and elephants were remnants of treasured days filled with childlike imaginations of pirates and mermaids, heroes and damsels, and tea parties in tall castles. I came to the short, cluttered table where I used to spend hours lost in the waxy magic of crayons and coloring pages. The yellowed pages lying beneath scattered crayons were the Picasso's, van Gogh's, Monet's, and Dali's of my childhood. I reached down and picked up a messy coloring of three lilies scribbled over in light pink. The tickling aspiration of one day being a great artist came to the forefront of my mind as the quiet admiration of the masterpiece filled my heart.

I turned around to the warm, golden light shining forth from the cracked door across the room. The voice called to the children who were now at my feet clambering for crayons on the table. Their heads turned toward the voice and they slowly left behind their creations to follow. I tucked the pink lilies into my purse and walked through the door, hoping to catch up to the warm voice and sleepy children.

I entered the room and saw them kneeling beside their beds with their heads bowed and lips quietly speaking. Their innocent prayers seemed to radiate up from them and fill the room with the sweet smell of myrrh and cinnamon. I had the urge to step beside them and listen. I was drawn to the gentle beauty of the kids, only wanting to hold them close to my heart. I felt again the tickle of a dream come to memory as I clutched my purse strap in an effort to keep from weeping. How I had imagined my faith being like theirs: trusting, simple, carefree, and unrestrained. Faith was such a responsibility, needing to be groomed regularly to keep from growing stale. I wiped a single tear from my cheek and reached out to move near the children. But before I could take the step towards their beds, I heard the voice sing to me from the hallway. I turned my face towards the light for a moment before glancing back at the empty bed frames in the gray, cold room.

The singing filled every room with a quiet intensity that reached crescendo as I neared the kitchen. I stumbled over the tattered rug in the doorway and caught myself on the center counter of the room. The smell of baking bread immediately filled my nose, lifting my spirit and making me realize how hungry I was. As I neared the dining room, an overpowering feeling of love washed over me, making me excited and sad all at once. I paused, placing my hand over my heart and felt tears trying to push themselves down my cheeks. The memory that tickled at the back of my mind was so familiar, but remained in elusive mystery. Forcing collection of my emotions, I entered the dining room.

The singing continued as a soft hum that filled my ears with delight. The voice was everywhere in the room coming from nowhere and having no beginning or end. I looked to the table and saw a warm, steaming loaf of bread laid in the center. There were two plates with napkins and two wine goblets filled with glimmering, crimson liquid. Feeling only welcome, I ripped off a piece of bread and sat at the table.

Dipping the bread in the dark liquid, I placed it on my tongue. With a swooping force the elusive memory came back and the overwhelming sense of loved created a lump in my throat. I saw myself as a child sitting across the table with an immense peace glowing from her face. The voice so tenderly whispered to her and with each word her face only became brighter as my thirst for understanding became greater.

The words! I could not hear the words! I so desperately wanted to hear, but could not find any of my own words to ask. The voice was there before me, but so completely out of my reach and growing more distant. An anguished cry escaped my lips and I laid my head on my arms as the tears streamed from my eyes. The room grew dark and cold again, the smell of bread disappeared, the singing ceased, and for the first time since entering the house I felt extremely alone. With my strength sapped and the cold settling into my bones, it was all I could do to simply sit and cry bitter tears of betrayal, longing, and homesickness.

Slowly my sobs subsided…

Wasted and empty, I stood up from my chair and got down on my knees. Clasping my hands, I did the only thing I could: I prayed. With what words, I cannot recall, but I found them deep within my soul in a dark corner filled with hurt and brokenness. As I spoke, the taste of the wetted bread once again danced on my tongue.

I wish I could say the room then grew bright and warm, that the singing again reached a magnificent crescendo, and in that moment the voice spoke to me the words I had wanted to hear…but I cannot. After tasting the bread again, I rose from my humble position and left. I walked towards the door, grasped onto the mantel place, and paused. I turned around to look one last time at the house where I played and saw the ghostly portraits, the covered furniture, and the grimy window.

But among these, in the middle of the floor, was a shiny, satin, purple…ribbon.

It was in staring at this small piece of ribbon that my heart knew the words the voice had spoken. Like an unsuspecting guest quietly entering into a house, the promise and peace of these words entered my heart.

And so I turned and left the same way I had returned—through the old creaking door.






The Meaning.

To explain the meaning behind this story:

The house is not really a house at all. The house is my own childlike imagination from so long ago. The house once colorful, now desolate is what growing up has done to many of our imaginations. The portraits on the wall are saints who once held inspiration and have grown old and dead in the process of becoming an adult as well.

Each room represents a different part of my/your/our childhood we have lost. The first room where the children are running around playing tag represents the care free fun that has been lost.

The second room represents the dreams we have lost. As children we are not afraid to dream big, as I believed I could be a great, world-renowned artist. Reality and responsibilities have stopped us from holding on to those dreams we thought were entirely possible.

The third room where the children are getting ready for bed represents the childlike faith we have lost touch with. Faith appears to be something we have to groom and keep alive, when we are really called to approach the King as children.

The fourth room is more personal to myself and is the climax of depth and mystery. The fourth room represents love. This room is where people gather to eat, talk, serve one another, and be nourished. The bread and crimson liquid are communion, as this is also where we commune with God and understand His love better. In entering this room and being reminded of the love Christ whispered to us as children, the woman in this story is brought to a point of surrender. The only way we can again hear this whisper is through prayer and humble surrender.

The woman also did not experience any profound acts of God. This is because many of us have never experience this type of intervention. More often than not we simply must get up and walk away with no answers to our questions. However, she did have the taste of communion on her tongue again, as she recalls the importance of this and holds on to this small piece of faith.

Finally, the words she sees being whispered are words that were recently spoken to my own heart as a reminder. The little girl is being told of her worth. The voice is whispering to her truths such as “you are worthy of being loved”, “you are precious”, “you are beautiful”, “you are mine, beloved”, “you are not meant to settle”, “you are worthy of being pursued passionately and purely”. These enter her heart just as she entered the house—“Like an unsuspecting guest quietly entering”.  

Notice there are never any adults. Adults are a source of worry for children and do not exist in their imagination. And the voice is God. He is always there, but never really seen. He is the ultimate mystery, with no beginning or end.

So there you have it. You can read this as a surface level ghost story. Or you can read this as a testimony to yours and my childhood. Or you can read this as story of God’s love. However you read it, I hope you walk away with questions that keep nagging you. 

This House

I write this as I sit in the emptiness of a house I lived in for 12 years of my life. I rest in the vacant living room that would hold our Christmas tree, our growing village, and the pile of gifts from my parents. This room held the sound of Christmas music and classic Claymation Christmas movies on ABC. It held the smell of Christmas cookies coming from the oven, the sound of cats running wild across the room, and the laughter from my sisters when the little tyrants would run into a wall. Now the sound of an empty, creaking house groans into existent. With no soul to be afraid of a ‘bad guy’ in the basement or the call for mom to tuck us in, does this place really make a noise? With no bed to go home to, no tradition to look forward to, and no getting together with old friends to yearn for, is this place home anymore?

It seems silly to find such attachment to a house. It’s a house, no more alive than the stalks of dead sunflowers eerily leaning in the garden outside. It has no more feeling than the dead ladybugs scattered around the carpet by the windowsills. And yet, why does my heart grow sad sitting alone here? Why do I find myself yearning for my junior year of high school when we had this house to go home to and was the last time we as a family were truly happy? If this is just a house as dead as an old lady bug or a frozen sunflower stalk, why do I miss it so much?

The memories this place holds can only be taken with us so far. Some memories go with us, but others stay here. The vibrant memory of 315 Jefferson Ct. at Christmas time can only be relived in this place. And no matter how hard we try to look on the bright side, no matter how much we may regret moving or pine to come back, nothing can fill the void of losing the plans you thought you would have. That may sound incredibly dramatic and ridiculous. But, until you have experienced leaving behind a place where you imagined so much of your future, you cannot understand. This house held dreams of my sisters and I bringing our first boyfriends home for the holidays, spending family dinners around the same table, cooking spaghetti sauce for church, gathering as a family for Christmas Eve, watching the different cousins visit and grow up, seeing our friends after months away at college, and even bringing kids of our own to this place, all have been flipped around, forgotten, and some lost.

I do not has for pity. There is pain found in losing and each circumstance and person brings different pain. Do I miss Hutchinson and the life I had here? Yes. Do I miss the memories this house held and could have held? Yes. Do I believe we can come back and pick up where we left off? No. Our life has moved on elsewhere. Our location has been discovered in a different part of the country and we cannot come back expecting everything to be the same. The last three years of my life have shown me life will never be the same as was it was my junior year of high school. Our family will not hold the same happiness it did then.

As I close the door and walk away from the home I have known nearly all my growing up, I will not look back. There is nothing I can do to relive the days or bring back the same feeling of safety and welcome as I found here. I can only wait for new forms of these to find themselves wherever the wind takes us. Whether it be house number four that we live in now, or number five, six, or seven, we will someday be happy again and someday have new memories to replace the old. I have to believe that.

God bless.

Carissa

His Insignia

To whom it may concern (that's you and everyone else),

I have something very important to tell you. This thing I have to tell you will blow your mind. Are you ready?



You are made in the image of God.



Whoa.

That was intense (and cliche), right? 

Hang on. Before you gloss over this, let me explain. I/you/we are made in the image of God. But this image is not strictly a physical imag. No, this image that we are made in is an all encompassing reflection of an all encompassing Creator. Our mind, body, heart, and soul have been finely and individually crafted in the shadow of the Most High. 

What does this mean?

You know that part of your personality that you really kind of despise, but don't really admit to anyone? The one that is not really bad in anyway, but is just a part of you that is a little too much. (Like getting really, really, really  excited about little things: getting Starbucks, wearing my favorite shirt, eating a perfectly yellow banana, etc., etc. you get the point). Created in the image of God.

How about that part of your body that you think could probably be left out? Say it is the size of your nose, the frizz of your hair, the immense magnitude of your head (yeah, that one is mine), or the lack of a thigh gap? Made in the image of God. 

How about the things about yourself that are good, both innate and learned? Your spiritual gifts, your talents, the things that pull on your heartstrings, your passions, your interests, and your quirks? Made in the image of God. 

You should be getting the picture by now. Every part of who you are has been made in and the image of God. The mercy, patience, strength, generosity, or faith you have been gifted with are all parts of God shining from you. His insignia has been printed on you in special and unique ways unlike any other person on the planet. 

What about weaknesses? The things that really are bad? 

Well what about the weakness? Do you think your failures are beyond God? Do you think the areas of your life you lack in are outside the realm of holiness? These have been made for the image of God. 

We have been given specific weakness that were placed in our lives for reasons we may never know. These weaknesses are not necessarily reflections of Christ, but they lead us to see His reflection better. My weakness of being needy, egotistical, judgmental, and obsessive (all of which are true) are ways in which I better reflect Christ. That Bible verse that just popped into your head totally applies here: "'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.' Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me...for when I am weak, then I am strong." (2 Corinthians 12:9-10). 

Do you see it now? Can you understand how the phrase "made in the image of God" is so much greater than we have ever known? IT'S ABSOLUTELY AMAZING. 

Stretch this beyond yourself. Look at the people around you and see the parts of their personalities they have been given. See the raw talents, the excellent passions, the range of interests, the specific gifts, and the natural beauty of your friends. You can see God's insignia on everyone, for all are made in His image. My roommate's mercy--God. One of my best ginger friend's wisdom--God. One of my best guy friend's competitiveness--God. My sister's wit--God. My mentor's understanding of literature--God. 

Christ is all around us and within all of us. I wish I could take you by the shoulders and shake you until you understood the sheer magnitude of what this means! God is here with us in the smallest, most innocent of ways and it is beautiful. 

Let this rest on your heart. Let it change the way you look at others. Let it glorify Christ in you. 

Merry Christmas my friends. 

God bless.
Carissa

Psalm 22

(I apologize for how long this post is, hang in there with me.) Every morning I read my bible according the plan I am following on bible.com. Today's section came from Psalm 22. In previous years when I have read through the Psalms I have often glossed over them with little to no thought, believing them to be redundant, inapplicable, and repetitive. But the Psalm today struck me as I was able to relate to much of what David wrote about. As David began the Psalm with "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" two things were brought to mind: 1) Jesus' words as He died on the cross and 2) the unspoken words my heart has been asking of late. The remainder of the Psalm continues to parallel with my own thoughts and feelings that I have been trying to sort through lately as well as reminding me of Christ's own suffering and His ultimate victory. Below I have outlined a 'narrative' or 'commentary' of what I understand the Psalm to be saying in light of my current struggling. You can choose to follow along with these or just skip down to the Psalm I posted below. I hope that you are encouraged by the words that follow and are reminded of these truths: God has not forsaken you, your suffering is not in vain, and victory will be seen. God is good and you will make it through this. 

God bless your reading,

Carissa 

Psalm 22

My God, my God, why have you forsaken

                        Me?

            Why are you so far from saving me,

            So far from my cries of anguish?

My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer me,

            By night, but I find no rest.

Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;

            You are the one Israel praises.

In you our ancestors put their trust;

            They trusted and you delivered them.

To you they cried out and were saved;

            In you they trusted and were not put to

                        Shame.

But I am a worm and not a man,

            Scorned by everyone, despised by the

                        People.

All who see me mock me;

            They hurl insults, shaking their heads.

“He trusted in the Lord,” they say,

            “let the Lord rescue him.

Let Him deliver him,

            Since he delights in Him.”

Yet you brought me out of the womb;

            You made me trust in you, even at my mother’s breast.

From birth I was cast on you;

            From my mother’s womb you have

                        Been my God.

Do not be far from me,

            For trouble is near

            And there is no one to help.

Many bulls surround me;

            Strong bulls of Bashan encircle me.

Roaring lions that tear their prey

            Open their mouths wide against me.

I am poured out like water,

            And all my bones are out of joint.

My heart has turned to wax;

            It has melted within me.

My mouth is dried up like a potsherd,

            And my tongue sticks to the roof of my

                        Mouth;

            You lay me in the dust of death.

Dogs surround me,

            A pack of villains encircles me;

            They pierce my hand and my feet.

All my bones are on display;

            People stare and gloat over me.

They divide my clothes among them

            And cast lots for my garment.

But you, Lord, do not be far from me.

            You are my strength; come quickly to

                        Help me.

Deliver me from the sword,

            My precious life from the power of the

                        Dogs.

Rescue me from the mouth of lions;

            Save me from the horns of the wild

                        Oxen.

I will declare your name to my people;

            In the assembly I will praise you.

You who fear the Lord, praise Him!

            All you descendants of

                        Israel!

For He has not despised or scorned

            The suffering of the afflicted one;

He has not hidden his face from him

            But has listened to his cry for help.

From you comes the theme of my praise

                        In the great assembly;

            Before those who fear you I will fulfill

                        My vows.

The poor will eat and be satisfied;

            Those who seek the Lord will praise

                        Him—

            May your hearts live forever!

All the ends of the earth

            Will remember and turn to the Lord,

And all the families of the nations

            Will bow down before Him,

For dominion belongs to the Lord

            And He rules over the nations.

All the rich of the earth will feast and

                        Worship.

            All who go down to the dust will kneel

                        Before Him—

            Those who cannot keep themselves

                        Alive.

Posterity will serve Him;

            Future generations will be told about

                        The Lord.

They will proclaim His righteousness

            Declaring to a people yet unborn:

            He has done it!

Commentary

"I cry out by day, but you do not answer me"-- I fervently pray for God to speak to me, to let me know He is there, but I find no clear answer. 

"Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One"-- Yet I will praise God despite what I am feeling, despite the mystery I have been left in. 

"'He trusted in the Lord,' they say, 'let the Lord rescue him'"-- The words I imagine those around me thinking as I stand here unbeknownst, lost, and lacking in encouragement and love. 

"Yet you brought me out of the womb"--Yet you have given me life for a reason, for a purpose. You have ransomed yourself for my life and loved me from the moment I was born. 

"I am poured out like water"-- I have given all I have to love those around me and to love you, yet I feel so empty. 

"They divide my clothes among them"--Jesus' death is brought to my mind. As the Son of God hung on a cross, the people He came to save stood below Him and gambled for His clothing. While my suffering is not an equivalent to death on a cross, I am comforted to know Jesus knows my suffering all the same. I am reminded of His suffering and am brought back to perspective. 

"Do not be far from me"-- My plea for God to be near and help me through. My only joy, satisifaction, and purpose comes from Him. 

"I will declare your name to my people...from you comes the theme of my praise"-- I will praise the Name of God for His deliverance. God will be the only reason for my praise for He is the only one who worthy of it. 

"All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the Lord"--The hope of the Lord's victory remains. Suffering will not last. Glory will be His. 

"He has done it!" -- Christ has won and I will be okay.

How Deep the Father's Love for Us

Hello all!

Here is a poem. I did not write this, nor could I ever imagine taking credit for something this beautiful. I want you to read this slowly. Pay attention to the words as they roll through your mind and let their weight settle upon your heart. Think about what each line is saying and let the meaning resonate in your soul. It's beautiful and so very....magical. I hope you can understand what I mean. And I hope you can do it without singing.

God Bless your travels,

Carissa

How Deep the Father's Love for Us

How deep the Father's love for us

How vast beyond all measure

That He should give His only Son

To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss

The Father turns His face away

As wounds which mar the Chosen One

Bring many sons to glory

Behold the man upon a cross

My sin upon His shoulders

Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice

Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that held Him there

Until it was accomplished

His dying breath has brought me life

I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything

No gifts, no power, no wisdom

But I will boast in Jesus Christ

His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward? 

I cannot give an answer

But this I know with all my heart

His wounds have paid my ransom

Why should I gain from His reward?

I cannot give an answer

But this I know with all my heart

His wounds have paid my ransom

© Copyright 1995 Thankyou Music (PRS)(admin. worldwide by EMI CMG Publishing excluding Europe which is admin. by kinswaysongs.com).

What I Am.

Before you begin...

This is something I call an "angry poem". It is not directed at anyone or any one circumstance. It is the result of pent up thoughts and frustrations that are hard for me to convey in any other form. This is also something I call "worship". In the instance of my bitterness and frustration, I am able to call for help through this mysterious art form called poetry. My hope is that you are able to find release in the words that will soon follow. We all struggle, we all fall short, but we all have hope and we all have a way to fight through to the bitter end. May your reading be blessed. 

To the King, for His Glory,

God bless,

Carissa 

What I Am.

I am not stupid.

You rest there and presume that my mind is muted,

That all intellectuality is absent from my being.

Because the only logical answer for what I am is senselessness denuded.

You think my eyes are too blind?

Too moronic and witless to see the world around me refined

With a coherent vision of what is inevitably happening?

Then you, my friend, are incredibly malign.

I am not slow.

The pace at which I think is not inconceivably unknown

Nor is it unproductive or dimwittedly simple.

I am not falsely searching or kidding as you stand there bemoaned.

You see me as too large and dead to move one foot in front of the other.

Like a fattened horse, I must plod along as you fight not to usher.

Oh! You are wrong if you dare believe I cannot be quick and steady.

If it is a game you desire, it is humility you will discover.

I am not to be played with.

I am not spineless, amnesic, unnoticing, or unfit.

You look at me and shake your head

For when I want to leave my den and live, you think I kid.

Indoors! Hidden from the corruption of the world!

There my innocence will be safely pearled,

Away from mistaken phrases and molesting faces

You try to protect me, but you can’t stop this doubting as it unfurls.

To those who see me and think they know my depth,

I am fragile, ignorant, and unbroken in breadth.

But how very wrong they are.

For what they see of me is but a shallow breath.

I am smart.

I do not need to be an alchemist by heart

Or need to contain the cunning of a vigilante

To prove to you that my mind is filled with thought, prestige, and wonder assort.

My eyes are neither too blind nor too common.

For I am observant, powerful, and boldly awesome.

I hold the depth of the sky in my heart

In which I never cease to fill with passion, adventure, love, and promise.

I am unabating.

I may not win the damned race that is shaping

But I am not slow.

I ponder, I figure, I move like the wise: knowing before parading.

I am strong.

To the person who thinks they must shelter my eyes in the throng

You have done yourself the injustice.

In sheltering mine, you have been closing yours all along.

I can look upon sorrow,

I can open my heart to the broken both today and tomorrow.

I have been made to help, to heal, to proclaim.

I have been made to stand, to fight, to live, to follow.

Call me what you will.

Stare at me across the table and think my sanity nil.

But I am strong, and I am steady, and I am smart.

And you will be proven wrong beyond fill.

Indescribable

Indescribable:

not describable; too extraordinary for description. Synonyms: overwhelming, indefinable, unutterable. 
 

I intend to be indescribable. I intend to be too extraordinary for description, as Dictionary.com describes it. I have made it my resolution to be overwhelming, indefinable, and unable to be pegged down. However, I do not search out this goal with a self absorbed ego or a mind set on being above the world. I simply desire to be indescribable.
 

Why? 

 

Why this bold statement? Why strive for such a thing that brings immediate disdain?
 

The answer is so simple, yet so complex: Faith.
 

I believe that as Christians we are called to have lives that go against the current of the world. In the realm that we believe in, radical is a compliment, forgiveness is a commandment, love is equal, and death has been overcome--indefinable. We follow the God of the universe who promises His kingdom to the poor in spirit, His fulfillment to those who hunger and thirst, His reward to those who are insulted for His name--overwhelming. We have been redeemed from the dust of the earth by One who is fully God and fully Man, One whose very name saves the dead--unutterable. The Christian faith in itself is entirely too extraordinary for words and as a follower of this faith I want to embody this indescribable definition.
 

To be forgiving, but bold.

To accept, but reject.

To be compassionate and to act.

To listen first and speak last.

To be loving, kind, and gentle.

 I do not think this is an impossible idea. But it is one that requires dedication and sacrifice. Through the dedication of our time and thinking to the presence of God and God in the present, our old selves will fall away. In sacrificing our lives to the will of God, we will be transformed into an ethereal beauty like that of heaven. As we are drawn nearer to Christ we will be overwhelmed with the unutterable and incomprehensible radiance that is the God to whom we claim our identity.

I desire to be indescribable. For the cause of my sweet Jesus, I will remain elusive to the claims the world has on my identity. I do this in hopes that a revolution will be started where we lay aside our worldly personae and gown ourselves in the indefinable glory of Christ. For it is His kingdom that will come and it is His glory that will be won, of this we can be assured.

I leave you with this: The Christian life is in itself more than we can ever imagine, but the God we serve is bigger than even this mystery. He is greater than all words, noises, or songs that we can utter, and it is for His glory that we are called to live indescribable lives.

May you go in the Spirit of the Almighty.

To Where I Would Fly

Some days I simply want to fly. If you ask me to where I would fly, my answer may be different each time.

Some days it would be to Alaska. I like Alaska even though I have never been there before. The idea of open skies, crisp air, and the purest beauty is extremely tantalizing.

Sometimes my answer may be some place where people are starving, where sickness is rampant, where pain is evident--but happiness is pure. A place where I can see that my own problems are small and that my own happiness is hungry. A place where perspective is brought back into focus.

One time it was heaven. Oh how I hungered for heaven, for home. I was tired of the world, tired of my sin, tired of my wandering feet. Heaven seemed to sing to me that day. If I could have grown wings right then, I would have flown to the heavens to be with my precious Jesus.

Yet right now, in this moment, if you were to ask me to where I would fly my answer would be none of these. Today I would fly to oblivion--the quiet place where I can be alone with my thoughts. A place where my mistakes, my sinfulness, my fears cannot follow me because there is no one there to see them and no way to act upon them.

Oblivion.

Like the calmest ocean, a sea where the sky and water have no separation.

Oblivion.

Where there is rest, where there are no emotions screaming to get out, where there is nothing demanding an answer I don't know.

I imagine finding Jesus there, in the form of a lion, walking quietly along the sand.

I imagine hearing trees rustle, water lapping, wind whispering, and...quiet.

Oblivion.

I would only stay for a short while, but those minutes would be worth it.

I would fly as I high as I could go, and then fall, feeling the wind rush past my skin, only to catch myself before I hit the water. Only to fly back up and do it again and again.

Yet I have a feeling this place would only leave me feeling more unsettled, with more questions, more unanswered demands, more roiling emotions. Because questions must be answered and conclusions must be made and people must have emotions that are both beautiful and mysterious.

And because that is the way these things are.

Oblivion, like everything else, grows old.

To the Beautiful

This one goes out to the women who do not believe they are beautiful. To the women who look in the mirror and see everything wrong with their bodies and faces. To the women who hear the words "You are lovely" and consider it mockery. 

You are not alone. 

It is a shameful thing how we cannot see ourselves as worthy. I find it heart jerking to hear incredible women and girls tear themselves apart imperfection by imperfection, until only a hollow shell remains. 

We long to know the satisfaction of a beautiful and slender body, but all the while will be starving our souls. We treat them as pocket change for an idea that no artist has created nor writer has imagined. We wallow in self pity, mourning over such an impossible ideal as beauty.

"Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised" (Proverbs 31:30)

Why is it so crazy for those of us who struggle with weight, self image, and self control to admit to ourselves that we are fearfully and wonderfully made? Why can we not hear the words "Beloved, you are beautiful" and believe them? 

When will our eyes be opened to the knowledge that each chiding, sly, and pessimistic remark or thought about our bodies is an insult towards God? Every single time we call ourselves ugly, fat, worthless, disgusting, stupid, imperfect, and unlovable we are not only labeling ourselves as these, but are labeling the One Most Powerful God of the universe the same. 

We believe that God is perfect, but if God is perfect then He can only create perfection. All God is, was, and is to be is perfection. Which makes us...? You know how the rest goes. You know the answer. Who are to say we believe in God's goodness and yet live in the shadow of hypocrisy as we doubt our own existence? God Does Not Make Junk. God does not mess up. You are not the exception, the mistake. You are perfectly made.

There is a great big Daddy up in heaven looking down at all of us whispering, speaking, calling, crying out "You are my beloved! And this, this is what makes you beautiful". 

Forget the extra pounds. Forget the awkward curves, the frizzy hair, the uneven eyes, the freckles, the pants size, the wrinkles, the scars--forget them. God does not see them and those that matter will not either. The world has never been impressed by beauty for long. Even the seven wonders of the world cannot remain constant by the world's standards! 

But you, my dear sisters, are immaculate. 

Look in the mirror and see the love of Christ reflected back to you. Whisper truth to yourself and allow your heart to believe it.

We are,  you are incredibly, powerfully, indescribably, marvelously, dazzlingly, delicately, exquisitely, radiantly... beautifully... you.

God bless you. Go in peace.

~Carissa 

Here's the Sitch'

Okay. Here's the deal. I want to write SO bad. I don't think you can understand how bad I want to write, but I am afraid you will be disappointed. I can't make each post as good as the last one that I posted. I honestly do not know where that last one came from. It wasn't me who wrote that, because I read that again and again trying to figure out how I came up with it! I sincerely cannot recreate something like that on whim (otherwise you would be hearing from me a lot). I give all credit to the Holy Spirit on that one.

But the problem isn't just that I can't recreate a passionate and intense post, but I don't know what to write about! So if you have any ideas, let me know because I could use them. I have a few ideas of my own, but they are ones that I feel need to be inspired in order to write about. In the mean time until God calls me to speak again, could you bless me with a few ideas on what I could write about? Not just what you would want to read about (however helpful that would be), but simply ideas in general!

I don't want to make this a diary, nor do I want to make it a bible study or lecture.

PLEASE give me your thoughts! Thanks!

Carissa

My Quiet Thoughts

 

 Like the soothing repetition of waves against my skin.

There are moments in my day when I catch myself in my thoughts. The few minutes when the endless confusion of school, work, and faith slip away and only a lulling peace is left to wash over my mind. I atone it something like the feeling of waves moving back and forth across my skin, it soothes the ache and pain of the thinking and the stress with its natural repetition of up and down motions. There is no scholarly intelligence involved, only the caressing of wonder, awe, and curiosity. My mind drifts from island to island as I simply watch the world around me and wonder about the lives of others. I wonder about the future. I wonder about the past, the present, the obvious, the person I want to be, the person I am. I am able to catch a vague image of the woman I want to grow into in these moments. Someone who is gentle in spirit, strong in faith, abundant in love and compassion, and nurturing in hope. Someone who will stand by others when there is no one left to stand and listen. Someone who first chooses Christ and the cross, and allows the redeeming work of Jesus to help everything else fall into place.
But this person that I want to be is slow growing. I wait for her with a necessary patience that some days looks like one who waits for the harvest in the fall and other days like a child on the morning of Christmas Eve. The conflicting nature of sin and holiness rolls over in my mind as I see who I am and who I want to be standing next to each other in my moments of quiet.

Then the world comes into focus again and I realized I missed something. I missed something. This realization is often followed by a string of criticism and reprimand from myself because I know that now I will only have more studying to do, more socializing to mend, more sleep to lose, and more stress to gain.

The world is broken in many, many ways, but I feel that the brokenness I often forget about is the idea that I must be omnipresent in all areas of my life and that to do anything else is a sign of failure. I see the world passing me by and with every blink of my eyes there is another bar that is expected to be reached by my generation. So I run the race they ask of me and put my head down in order to not be bombarded by all the other things I must become in order to be successful.

“Only A’s will be accepted”, so I study harder.

“See that ‘perfect body’? Get that”, so I run faster.

“Look! A happy man and wife-they have it together”, so I search more.

“People having fun? You are alone”, so I force myself to smile.

These things scream at me every day and call out my failure at each misstep. It is in those precious few moments of clarity when there is only God and I that the shallowness of what I am pursuing is brought into perspective and I can’t help but feel broken and lost.

How many of you feel the same way? Do you feel the pressure of the expectations pushing against you grow heavier with each criticism from work and demand of your family? Do you feel obligated to be this perfect image of a man or woman who has it all together and can take on the world?

I believe that we best personify perfection and strength when we are honest about our weakness. When I admit that I am broken and wasted, a window is opened in which a Mighty God on a brilliant white horse can swoop in and rescue His crumbling bride. When I rely on Christ for my identity I can cast aside imperfection, because God tells me I am holy. When I rely on Christ for my strength I can cast aside weakness, because this strength never runs out.

I don’t want to view my life in hindsight seeing that I gave in to the world according to its demands. I don’t want to regret living a shallow life because I pursued the image of having it together. I want myself and those around me to know I am weak.

I sin. I fall short. I forget about God. I run the race of the world.

But I am growing like the harvest: slow and steady, with the patient hope that I will reap what I sow as I grow closer to God with each small gain of light.

You see, I have been in darkness. But now dawn is rising. And with it is the sound of trumpets as the Groom comes for His Bride.

What race will you run? From whom will you be sought after as a bride? To which garden will you sow?

The choice is yours. Time will keep moving. But the window will always be unlocked.

God bless your travels.

 

Carissa