WHY has it BEEN so LONG???

This is what has been going on in my life in the nuttiest of shells:

January 3rd through June 4th, I was a paramom. (Thanks Christine and Allison for the new word!)  That means, "almost a mom but not quite." Like, a paramedic is almost a doctor, and a paraprofessional is almost a professional, and a parachute is... okay, well, regardless. I was a nanny.

Paramomming is one of the best kind of jobs ever. Never have I been so impressed upon by a responsibility. Nannying is NOT babysitting. Two mothers trusted me to love, nurture, and mother their children for five months. How humbling and terrifying is that? I did my absolute best, of course, and I couldn't help but wonder "if I love these children this much" (and I love them A LOT) "then how much more do their parents love them?" It made my three charges that much more precious in my mind--not in the cute sense, mind you, but in the valuable sense. The trust I was given frightened me in such a way that made me accountable to perform the tasks at hand with integrity.

Speaking of trust and accountability, do I need to spell out the application here? I'll give y'all the first few letters. Just like the Joneses and the Cottons trusted me with their children, God trusts us with His. Crazy. Why does He do that? He knows we're fallible. He knows we're going to mess up. I can't even count how many times in a semester I ask Him why He trusts me to love His precious ones.

Speaking of semesters: June 4th through right this very second, I have been preparing to spend a school year as an intern with the campus ministry Chi Alpha that I have been involved in. Speaking of trust, again, I have learned, and relearned, who provides for me--I mean, Who provides for me. My full time job this summer was to find out who God had in mind to support me.  I had to raise a monthly budget for the first time...EVER. Scary stuff right there.  It's intimidating, it's uncomfortable, it's difficult, it's stretching, sifting, growth-stimulation, character-developing, and exciting. It's really exciting. Life is an adventure, right? I mean, that's not really supposed to be a question. This is: Did you know life is an adventure? I think I might have blogged about that before....

Anyway, God really is a Father who provides. He really does have a plan, even when I don't. He really does care about the little things. Sometimes, He even takes me out on surprise dates, just so that I can let my hair down for a bit and relax. I wish I were as attentive to Him as He is to me.  My budget is met. I worked really hard, but I certainly didn't raise it.

I had the meeting this morning, so now it's official. I am an intern, a Campus Missionary In Training, with the SHSU Chi Alpha. I am at the beginning of something, but it also feels like I am at the end of a season which really began in my heart in October. To say the least, I'm stoked. And relieved. And I know that even more work is in front of me, and probably the hardest part of this adventure hasn't even happened yet, which is good, because the story of my life isn't quite done :)

Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

This is a blog I began writing about four months ago at the end of October:

Have I yet mentioned that I am fasting for a year from writing?  No, not this kind of writing. I mean, stories.  There's nothing quite so freeing as getting rid of an idol.  Consequently, I have been made very aware how much of my spare thought time is devoted to thinking of how exactly to write things.  Writing has been and will be a big part of my life.  Also consequently, this blog is my only writing outlet.

My blog posts are very rarely thought out, very quickly written, and very hastily proof-read.  (I say that to hedge your judgement on my abilities because I also have pride issues.  I'm working on them.) My stories, in later years, have been demoted to tools of escape from a hectic or "unsatisfying" life, and that's just not fair.  It's not fair to God, Who should be my first comforter, it's not fair to my talents which He gave me in order that I might perfect them, and it's also not fair to my poor characters whose lives were being so poorly arranged and whose lines were riddled with obscene comma use.

*************

I gave this up at the end of October and plan on revisiting it on my birthday this November. Feel free to hold me accountable :)

A LOT has happened in my life since I began this post. (Please, enjoy that link. i loled tons.)  I graduated, I have a full time nannying job, a boyfriend (holla!), and waaay less time to do silly things like write stories (or journal, or blog)! But the first two paragraphs still stand.  I have since noticed a huge, though subtle, change in my thought life and it has been for the better. The best thing I did was to delete everything off of my computer so that a week later I wouldn't just open a file "on accident".  Oh man did that ever hurt!  But, I figured that the next time I write my attitude about writing will be different and I know that if God wants me to tell a particular tale, he will allow me to recall the facts and to write it even better.  So, I'm not worried, even though I do miss some of my characters--and if that sounds weird to you, I promise that every writer feels the same way.  Check out this poem by Anne Bradstreet. When I first read it I could not believe that a Puritan woman felt so long ago the way I currently feel about writing. It cracked me up and I have felt like we were friends ever since. Anyway, this lady is legit and I am pretty darn sure I will meet her one day.

The Author To Her Book

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth did'st by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print) should mother call. I cast thee by as one unfit for light, The visage was so irksome in my sight, Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could. I washed thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet. In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find. In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam. In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come, And take thy way where yet thou art not known. If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy mother, she alas is poor, Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

Hmms (thoughts) very early on the Eve

I have things to write about tonight (early morning). It's vacation. I'm graduated. I've been robbed. Other things are happening in my life, too, that I might write about later on.

I'm up late and my mind won't shut off because it's not used to this much daily inactivity. I'm up late because I'm home for the holidays and we're all night owls. All of us. It's 2:45 am now and I think I'm still not the only one awake.

So, what do you want to know about, graduation or my house being robbed?

The graduation happened first. It was spectacular. I woke up, still stressed from an insane week of finishing school, walked through frigid winds in too-thin clothing to stand in line for forty-five minutes, and then sat for an hour and a half while a person gave a speech about something and they read off a million names. The most memorable part of the ceremony was...actually not at the ceremony, but waiting to go to the Colosseum. A girl standing opposite me in another line flatly refused to move where they asked her to move and UPD was called. She was apparently adult enough and responsible enough to be in that room, but I and the rest of the people in line with me had serious doubts. Poor girl. I should give her the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe she wasn't just selfish and obstinate. Maybe she was suffering from acute anxieties that caused her to be extremely rude to whomever spoke to her. Maybe...     I've got nothin'.

The best part of my day that day was sitting at my house with some of the people I like best in the world until all hours of the afternoon. The best part of my night was sitting around a fire with some of the people I like best in the world, listening to funny stories and a guitar.

That was last Saturday, but Tuesday was also a day full of adventure. It began with an exciting ride to h-ville with Tamara, then I had tea and an exciting conversation in Subway, and finally it ended with watching Inception and filling out a witness report. I don't even want to talk about the robbery, actually. It's unpleasant. But I will. Things are no longer in my house that used to be there--very special things--and that's disconcerting and sad, to say the least. Or, the way I feel about it (surprisingly), to say the most. It's only disconcerting and sad. And even that is rapidly passing.

The coolest thing about being robbed is realizing that my treasure really isn't here on earth. It's really not. It's not something I just say because that's what followers of Jesus say. How cool is that? It's way cool. I'm glad that I know that now, I'm glad that concept has been tested in me. This was the first time I've ever had something stolen from me and so it's been the first time I've had the chance to examine myself in this way. It's no coincidence, either, that I read that day in Acts about the early church not caring a bit about possessions but selling all they had and giving the money to the Apostles to apportion as there was need. My things were not asked of me. It was not my decision to relinquish them. But if the choice had been put to me, I hope I would have given them joyfully. Instead, I get to give them up in my heart and remember that I have given up my rights in this world; I have no right to "stuff". I get to remember, too, that everything that I truly hold dear cannot be taken from me by any power of hell or any scheme of man, praise the Lord.

These are some of the things going through my mind the last few days. Only some ;)

Just because I'm kind of proud of it, my final Picasso paper:

I didn't take much proofing time, so, if you see errors, don't tell me until at least a week from now because I just turned  this in today and I wouldn't be able to handle it :) Sometimes it still blows my mind that I can speak as much Spanish as this, and other times I reread what I have written and despair that I don't speak it better. C'est la vie.

Laura Craig

SPN 470

Dr. Mallen

12/11/10

Mis sentimientos y pensamientos del magnífico Pablo Picasso

Es la verdad que, cuando una persona empieza a aprender un tema, la información pasa por su propia visión del mundo.  La información que la persona recibe, aunque es la misma información que el reste de la clase recibe, tiene un efecto singular en cada persona porque cada persona juzga la que recibe a través de la red de sus propios opiniones, creencias, y sus sentimientos individuales.  Durante todo el semestre, yo recibía mucha información de Picasso y cada día de clase la información me obligó a pensar en mis creencias personales.  Yo preguntaba día tras día de clase, cada vez aprendía algo nuevo de la vida de Picasso o de sus obras de arte, “¿Cómo coinciden estos sucesos, o ideas, con mis conocimientos?”  Me interesa mucho esta forma de aprender y voy a regresar a esta idea luego. 

He aprendido mucho de Picasso, al final del curso, y he aprendido mucho de mi vida personal a causa de lo que aprendí sobre Picasso, también.  Al principio de la clase, lo que me afectó lo mas fue la conferencia sobre la muerte de la hermana de Picasso y las cuales que su muerte cambió en la vida de Picasso.  Me fijara mucho en dos cosas que la  muerte de Conchita cambió, o que desarrolló, durante mi estudio de la vida de Picasso: su relación con Dios (que afectaba todo, en mi opinión) y sus ideas y miedos de la muerte.  El afecto de la enfermedad de Conchita  empieza a ser evidente en las pinturas de Picasso cerca del tiempo que se muere en el siete de enero.  La pintura de La fillette aux pieds nus (OPP. 95:003), que Picasso empezó a pintar en el enero de 1895,  muestra un gran sensibilidad de la vida de los pobres.  La cara de la muchacha está llena de la sabiduría del mundo que está más de sus años jóvenes.  Es como ella puede ver dentro de los mentes de los espectadores y también como nosotros, como los espectadores, podemos ver el mensaje de su cuerpo “Yo conozco la privación; he sacrificado mi niñez para vivir.” La pintura muestra una idea del mundo que no es pintoresco, es real e imperfecto.  Picasso, de una edad joven, aprendió que el mundo y la vida no son cosas perfectas.  Él pintó la muchacha con los ojos largos y desequilibrados, y con los pies grandes y deformados para ilustrar sus sentimientos de una vida imperfecta, una existencia que no está siempre justa o fácil, y para ilustrar una vida en que los inocentes sufran, como Conchita y como la muchacha en la pintura.

Pienso que uno de los beneficios de la muerte de la hermana de Picasso fue que Picasso descubrió una compasión y una empatía para la humanidad.  Estas le permitieron ver mejor el sufrimiento en el mundo, como la tragedia siempre da a las personas que tienen corazones humildes.  Sin embargo, lo que los beneficios fueron en la mente y vida de Picasso, el impacto de su muerte se rompió más de lo que agregó.  El impacto se creó un miedo de la muerte dentro de Picasso que asediaba por el resto de su vida.  También, Picasso tenía sentimientos de culpabilidad sobre el suceso porque hizo un ofrece a Dios por la vida de su hermana.  Le ofreció a Dios su vida de pintor, la cual era lo más importante a él.  Es interesante que, cuando una persona está enfrente de una situación o consecuencia muy mal, muchas veces se haga un ofrece a Dios, como un sacrificio, a cambio de la que no quiere.  Es interesante, también, que el ofrece que Picasso hiciera no fue algo pequeño, pero fue la cosa más grande e significativo que pudo sacrificar.  No obstante, se parece como él tenía la idea que la muerte de Conchita fue, en parte, por su culpa.  Es posible que su ofrece no fuera tanto sincero como dio a Dios, pero no es posible saber seguramente.

El miedo de Picasso de la muerte se expresaba mucho durante los años del hombre joven con las pinturas de los arlequines.  Los arlequines son los mensajeros de la muerte pero están vivos.  Se llevan costumbres de los payasos, y pintan sus caras, o, también, se llevan las máscaras para ocultar sus caras.  Picasso estaba fascinada por los arlequines y su relación con la muerte, especialmente después su mejor amigo Carles Casagemas se suicidó—la segunda muerte que afectaba mucho a Picasso.  Su pintura Au 'Lapin Agile' (OPP.04:031) representa un arlequín con una mujer que es, probablemente, Germaine, la ultima amante de Casagemas.  Para entender la significancia de la presencia del arlequín con Germaine, es necesario saber la historia de la muerte de Casagemas y la parte Germaine tenía en el suceso.  Ellos estaban amantes, pero las dos personas tenían dificultades con la depresión, el alcohol, y las drogas.  Se especula que Germaine iba a dejar a Casagemas, entonces Casagemas le disparó a ella e inmediatamente después, se suicidó con la misma pistola.  Sin embargo, Germaine no murió y ella y Picasso mantenía una amistad, aunque Picasso estaba muy inquieta sobre la muerte violenta de su amigo.  En la pintura, el arlequín es Picasso.  Es posible que esté el arlequín porque, otra vez en su vida, se sentía responsable, de algún modo, de la muerte de una.  También es posible que, sin la amistad de Picasso, Casagemas hubiera muerto mucho antes porque Picasso cuidaba a Casagemas como era su hermano menor.  De todas maneras, Picasso no se sentía como así y usaba la figura del arlequín para expresar sus emociones.   Él trataba de escapar la muerte en sus obras de arte y aunque ésta es algo de sus colecciones primeras, no es una excepción.  Picasso no tuvo la capaz de salvar su hermana por el sacrificio del arte, entonces trató de salvarse a sí mismo por el uso del arte.  Para él, fue una manera de controlar la muerte y crear una vida que quería. Por ejemplo, un año antes de pintó Au 'Lapin Agile', pintó la famosa La Vie (OPP.03:001), que es algo como una vida alternada con una Casagema vivo y una Germaine embarazada con su hijo.

La idea de crear y manipular estaba muy seductiva a Picasso.  Siempre pintaba las mujeres en su vida en situaciones o con actitudes  que le gustaban—Fernande Olivier con un bebé (Homme, femme, et enfant  OPP.06:129) aunque ella no podía tener hijos y tampoco no quería ser madre o esposa, Olga Khokhlova en el vestido de España y sentando en una actitud recatada aunque en realidad no era de España o de una personalidad recatada (Portrait d'Olga dans un fauteuil OPP.17:008) —y siempre retrataba la muerte, también.  La retrató  muchas veces con los arlequines, pero hay la muerte en caso todos de sus obras porque le encantaba mostrar la tensión entre la vida y la muerte.  Por ejemplo, Course de taureaux: la mort du torero (OPP.33:094) describa el torero, el caballo, y el toro y las tres representan y maneras diferentes la vida y la muerte, y todos están luchando siempre.  En Guernica (OPP.37:001), se puede ver la compasión que tenía para el sufrimiento de la gente y, en este suceso, especialmente para la gente que se muere en la guerra civil de España.  Otra vez Picasso utilizó las figuras del toro y el caballo en Guernica para representar el contraste de la vida y la muerte.

Pienso que la vida de Picasso estaba gobernada del miedo; estaba gobernada del miedo do las cosas que no podían controlar, como la muerte, y del miedo de no vivir la vida que tenía.   Cuando yo estaba aprendiendo de la vida y las obras de Picasso, tenía mucha simpatía con él porque yo sé que es para luchar con un miedo, y también un miedo que nació de los remordimientos de conciencia—un sentido de culpabilidad que permití a romper mi relación con Dios.  Donde no hay Dios, el miedo puede ser el rey sin oposición.  Porque yo veía la vida de Picasso por la red de mis conocimientos y experiencias, identifiqué con él y pienso que he sido capaz de aprender y entender más si no aprendiera así.  La única diferencia entre yo y Picasso es que Picasso no encontró la libertad de sus miedos.

And that is how it's done. You can do that anywhere, at any time.

Adventure, high school essay-style

Introduction

Sometimes the adventure of living is real enough to me that I believe it is an adventure, but most of the time it passes me by and I don't recognize it. Adventures are, more often than not, plodding down a road not knowing what to plan for or what to do except place one foot in front of the other and deal with the mundane things of life. 

Two examples:

• Example #1

Did you know, or ever think about, what it was like to be a sailor?  I am in love with the idea of sailing on a real ship someday.  I grew up reading books like Kidnapped and Treasure Island,  and later The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle. I read a lot other places on ships and what it was like to live on them.  Between daring exploits of plundering or defending plunder, and in between squalls, were calm seas, itty bitty living spaces, and nothing to do for weeks and weeks at a time except to go through the motions of caring for a ship, like swabbing the decks and keeping the rigging in good order for the moments when it would save heir lives.  Times like these were what led captains to worry because tempers would run high and discontent would infect and flourish with lack of distraction.

• Example #2

When Ron, Hermione, and Harry set off on their glamorous quest (I'm going to try not to spoil things for any of you who haven't read/watched these stories, so don't be very afraid), eighty percent of their time was spent sitting around waiting to either figure something out so they could move forward, or waiting for something to happen to push them forward.  They were becalmed. They had nothing to do except go through the motions of everyday living.  Of course, they were always ready for what could happen, but the minutia of life frustrated and angered them.  They couldn't move forward or go backward and it was easy to waver in determination, easy to loose their tempers, and easy to find things to complain about.  And this was their adventure.

Conclusion

This is life.  What stands out in our memories are the exceptionally good or exceptionally hard times.  Those things are what get written down in books.  But the hardest part of life and the most trying times in stories are the moments that don't get much mention.  Days and days of schoolwork or long hours on your shift, week after week of eating nothing but Lembas bread, sleeping in a cold prairie, noisy dorm room, or lonely apartment, and fighting to remember why we do the things we do and who we do them for when it seems like there's no point to anything anyway.  This is just as much a part of the adventure as the climb to Mount Doom or the mission trip you hope to take next summer.  Don't forget it. You'll miss out on good stuff that prepares you for the memorable times.

But I forget all the time, which is why I love epic movies and stories.  Try reading Colossians, or another one of the short books, in one sitting.  Sometimes it helps to forget about the early church context and remember that it's also a personal letter to you, too.  And marching orders.  And the big speech before battle and the debriefing after.  And...a letter, like I already said :)

The end

Some music for your auditory and visual pleasure

"Death In His Grave"
John Mark McMillan

Though the Earth Cried out for blood
Satisfied her hunger was
Her billows calmed on raging seas
for the souls on men she craved

Sun and moon from balcony
Turned their head in disbelief
Their precious Love would taste the sting
disfigured and disdained

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a King
Laid down in grief
But awoke with keys
Of Hell on that day
The first born of the slain
The Man Jesus Christ
Laid death in his grave

So three days in darkness slept
The Morning Sun of righteousness
But rose to shame the throes of death
And over turn his rule

Now daughters and the sons of men
Would pay not their dues again
The debt of blood they owed was rent
When the day rolled a new

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a King
Laid down in grief
But awoke holding keys
To Hell on that day
The first born of the slain
The Man Jesus Christ
Laid death in his grave

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a King
Laid down in grief
But awoke with keys
Of Hell on that day
The first born of the slain
The Man Jesus Christ
Laid death in his grave

He has cheated
Hell and seated
Us above the fall
In desperate places
He paid our wages
One time once and for all