A million magazines in a million hours with a million words for a million readers coming from a million writers and I am just one.
Reflecting on Yo-yos
When I was a freshman in high school, the yo-yo became my salvation. It wasn’t until the second semester that I finally brought the toy to school, but the day I did I became a new person.
I spent the first semester quiet, reserved, scared. I ate lunch with two guys I wasn’t very good friends with. They listened to Metallica, stayed up watching late night HBO and were about as popular as I was, which was the only reason I sat with them. They would take my hat during lunch—in itself a traumatizing moment—and mock me with it. Once they spit a jolly rancher in my hat, leaving a purple stain across the white mesh.
Engaging
In the deepest corner of my underwear drawer, behind the ratty pair your mother tells you to throw away–the laundry day reserve–is a tiny speckled black box. Inside the box is a smaller, black, treasure chest-shaped case that opens like a clam, revealing the pearl of an engagement ring.
It’s a small ring, size 4–it doesn’t even fit on my pinky, with a pebble sized diamond in the middle and smaller diamonds on the side. It was cast in 14 karat white gold, accented with bits of yellow gold. It wasn’t a two month’s salary ring. With my salary it’d be closer to a ten month’s salary ring. But that’s my salary.
Forget Yourself
A thousand voices echo through the hall, rising and falling in a crescendo of worship. Hands are lifted high in praise, voices strain and tears fall. A powerful wave of emotion sweeps through your body as you catch the tiniest glimpse of the meaning of the words you’re singing.
Worship. It isn’t about the right setting, the right song, or the right instrumentation. It’s about forgetting yourself. Forgetting your wants, desires, needs; and focusing on God. It doesn’t matter if the lighting isn’t right. It doesn’t matter if you’d rather sit than stand. It doesn’t matter if the drummer is off beat or the guitars aren’t right. It doesn’t matter if the songs are too slow or too fast. It doesn’t matter if you sing like a hyena. It’s not a concert. It’s praise to God. If you’re worried about everything pleasing you, how can you possibly be pleasing God?
Living is Risking
Sometimes I feel like I need all the answers. I have to have everything settled in my mind before I can act. Otherwise I’ll be stepping forward unsure of myself. Questions, doubts, and fears will reign. But I don’t think that’s always true. If that’s the case then I’ll be waiting forever. I’m beginning to realize that part of life is dealing with those questions, doubts and fears, coming to grips with them, struggling with them. Not simply holding back and trying to answer them. But flying in their face and finding out what the answer is. To do otherwise would be to not really live. There is a time to wait; a time to question, a time to doubt and a time to fear. There is also a time to act. A time to answer. A time to be sure. And a time to be brave. Sometimes life is a risk, and if you’re not willing to risk, then you’re not willing to live.
I Don’t Have a lot to Say
Sometimes just before I go to bed I can’t tell if I’m hungry or if I’m tired. Should I stay up later to eat something, thereby satisfying my hunger and risking the digestion process keeping me awake (although sometimes it has the opposite effect)? Or should I just go to bed, get plenty of rest, and wake up in the morning dying for breakfast?
Some nights I just don’t have a lot to say.
Callused Jesus
Do you ever stop and wonder why Jesus died for us? Who are we that the son of God should give himself up for us? And why does it not affect us that he did give his life for us? Imagine a good friend of yours laying down their life for you. It would change the way you see the world when you wake up in the morning. It would change the way you act, it would change everything. Yet we’ve become callused to it. Callused to love, callused to life, callused to Jesus. We need the Holy Spirit to poke through the thick, dead skin that we might feel again.
It’s Not Bad News
Bad news? Is it bad news? It’s bad news, isn’t it? It’s always bad news when you say it like that.
You can really ruin your day when you let your assumptions go too far. Don’t do that.
It was good news, by the way. Really good news.
$250 to London
If it only cost you $250 to fly to a foreign country would you go for the weekend? That’s what I love about being in college. You can legitimately consider such last minute lunacy. I received an e-mail tonight advertising a round trip flight to London, Paris, Frankfurt, or Amsterdam for $250. The only stipulations were that you had to purchase your tickets before January 30, fly between February 1-29, and stay at least one Saturday night. In two weeks Interim is over and we have a five day weekend. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“So what’d you do over break?”
“I went to London.”
But alas, I don’t have $250 to throw around, and if I did, I need a passport. And good luck getting one in two weeks. Oh well, maybe next time.
Walking
Dreams and memories come and go, rise and fall, shine and fade away. I have so many thoughts, so many desires, so many experiences, but only so much time. It’s always the walk back to my dorm that draws inspiration. And it should. The quiet, peaceful night. The chill of the night air. Every light is out, except for the night owls. A rabbit scampers off. This is what I experience before I sit to write these thoughts. As I walk the feelings of the day fall away, I shed them like a cocoon, and prepare for that blissful sleep, when all will be forgotten until the cloudy haze of tomorrow comes rushing back into my nostrils and my eyes open like almond slivers, wondering what time it is and why I can’t sleep another five minutes.