Love Hurts

There's been a lot on my mind lately. Questions that aren't always answered, thoughts floating around, answers coming slowly out of the fog. A 13 year-old friend of a friend that died in a car accident. A dream that made me re-visit the memories of a family friend's newborn baby going to heaven too soon. Feeling God's overwhelming love. Seeing tragedy in the world, in Japan. Hearing my Aunt's story of two babies saved outside the Planned Parenthood this morning. God's love will conquer. Lord, make beauty out of these ashes.


These are the thoughts that came out of my fingers tonight. I hope they make sense.


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What is our heart? When we’re happy we say our heart is full. When something bad happens, we say our heart hurts. When we get hurt by someone, we say its broken.

Can we break our heart? Part of me is inclined to think when we use that, we really just have mental issues. If we magically had a switch, that turned off our brain or our thought process, would we still end up with pieces? If we convinced ourselves that nothing was really the matter, would our heart still hurt?

Solomon told us to “Keep our heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.” Is he really telling us to guard our mind? Our thoughts? Our feelings? 

The same word used for heart here was commonly used for the feelings. The Strong’s Concordance also describes it as the inner man, mind, will, heart, understanding. The inner part, or the midst of things. I’d say he’s talking about our mind here.

But, I think there’s a part of us, our feelings, our inner part, that’s disconnected from our minds. Sometimes my heart does ache, sometimes even when my mind can’t make sense of things, it hurts.

Honestly, I think broken “hearts” are a part of life. This earth isn’t perfect, and bad things happen. If we are attempting to love imperfect people with a perfect un-ending love, we’re bound to end up with pieces.

God want's our hearts, and we can’t be afraid of being broken. Do you think Jesus’ heart was all in one beautiful piece while He was hanging on the cross for Love?

It hurts to love someone. Jesus knows. I’m not sure any of us could hurt more than He did and has, and does. Sometimes that love breaks us, sometimes it hurts us, sometimes it aches. Sometimes we wonder why? Why does it have to be this way? It’s not fair.

But it’s worth it. It’s the only way. The alternative is a whole heart, but an empty one. You can’t fill something that that doesn’t have an opening. Love is the only way our world, our hearts, our minds can be healed. Love is the only way, even if it hurts.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” {Romans 8:38-39}

Like a Mustard Seed

I need more faith. Not because more faith would make more things happen in my life, mainly because more faith would make life easier.

I tend to worry, and wonder and complain, instead of resting, and trusting while being content. It’s funny how faith is more for us, and not for God. The strength of our faith doesn’t affect the outcome, remember all we have to have is a mustard seed, and that’s not much at all. I remember one time at church Mr. Gillson said, “The outcome of a situation doesn’t rest in how much faith you have, but it rests in how reliable the source of your faith is.”

If I decide to step onto a thin sheet of ice, despite how much I believe that the ice will hold me… it probably won’t. But if I choose to step out, trusting in God, He will always hold me.

Our God never fails us, no matter how much faith we have.

He replied, "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you. {Luke 17:6}

The Dreaded Poetry

A cloudy day, a comfy hoody, business books, and image back-ups. Coffee and pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting. Comfortably achy muscles from yesterday’s workout, conversations with friends, and that little nagging thought in the back of your brain, “mmm, you’d better not put off that poetry too long”.

Such is my day. And it’s a good one, except for the poetry part.

Syllables. I’m not sure if I should admit how hard a time I have with these. I know, I was homeschooled. Wait, thought is only one syllable???

Why did I agree to this? Where is writing poetry going to get me? Maybe I’ll do the response instead. Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea.

I guess if I could write poetry like that I would.

Other thoughts fly through my head: “bring Sarah a business card. Remind the parents sign up starts today. Shoot pictures for tomorrow’s LDPS. Finish the wedding contract. Oh and write something for Red Ink.”

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Black marks on a page

Brings fascinating emotion

And takes me somewhere

Obscure story of

Pain trial triumph hope love

Runs through cluttered thoughts

An adventure of

Living life finding knowledge

Slowly taking shape

Sentences forming

Writing words and syllables

Worlds come into view

People places ideas

My book filling fast with dreams

Final page happy thoughts

Flipping pages cover closed

Peaceful content not for long

More thoughts more marks come.

Grammer and Smarts - My Niagara Response

I wish I could write like Mark Twain. Although he uses enormous words, quite a few you don’t understand and plenty you’ve never heard, he keeps you entertained even if you are a slight bit confused. I laugh at things I’m not sure I understand, and he has my favorite kind of sarcastic humor. The things he said to the supposed Indians, and his last paragraph on his fatal injuries, made me love the essay.

He inspires me to go read the dictionary to expand my vocabulary, and not just the encyclopedias [yes, true story. I used to read through the encyclopedias when I was young]. It makes me want to be smarter, so I can write smarter. He also inspires me to be more humorous in my writing. I aspire to make my readers laugh and relate while reading my writings. 

I miss this quality of writing. In this era of facebooking and texting and emailing, nothing sounds even close to his Niagra ramblings.

“Wht up w u? im gnna b @ concrt”

“hey brb in 2 sec”

“idk wht 2 think”

Although I might be slightly confused, I’m definitely not entertained at the same time. Half the time I pick up a kids book to read to my siblings I wonder what pre-schooler wrote this one. Or when I read someone’s comment on facebook, and I have to go over it three times to understand what they are saying due to lack of punctuation and misspelt words, I have to think, are we really that dumb? Or are we that lazy?

[If I was a conspiracy theorist, I might wonder if it’s a plot to dumb us down, so we don’t realize a few people are planning on taking over the world, but I’m not. Or maybe I am. There are more ridiculous thoughts. ]

I could now get started on about people’s punctuation and grammar, oh and their lack of capitalization [that one really gets me, really guys? It’s that much harder to write “I” instead of “i”?], but the real reason we started this was to like improve our righting so I should proly stop here for i expose my lack of smartness.  ;)

Sports Writing: Softball

{This was fun for me, because I really like sports. I like watching them, playing them, writing about them. Well most of them... I really don't enjoy golf, for multiple reasons that you probably shouldn't ask about, [God must know that, I just got assigned both girls and boys golf for this season. haha] and I *can't* play soccer. I was going to write about football, and the super cool athletes [tongue in cheek here] that have egos bigger than their shoulder pads, but I decided to write about something that was closer to home for me. I'm not sure it'll be much fun for someone who doesn't/hasn't played, but it was fun writing it :) }

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I miss softball. I've played some form of baseball/softball since I was about three (it's very much the family sport) but playing competitively was different.

There was something about putting on the uniform that made you assume your “game face”. Something about knowing that you were prepared as much as you could be, and realizing that you were going to have to try your hardest. There was something about knowing your body could actually do these things. Putting on the uniform pumped yourself up mentally, while you warmed up physically.

Softball is a very mental game. When you get up to the plate, and even in the on deck circle, you start to zone in. By the time the pitcher starts to wind-up it’s like you are the only two on the field. Occasionally, mainly because it was so familiar, I could hear my dad’s voice when I stepped up to the plate, but after that there was nothing besides the battle between you and the pitcher.

Yeah, it takes skill to hit the ball, and more to hit it well, but it also takes concentration and mental toughness. I know. You can smash every ball in the cage, but have a batting average of .000. It was a challenge against myself, and a battle in my mind every time I was at the plate.

When you hit the ball you can hear again, even though all your focus is getting to the next base. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the ball hitting your sweet spot, and you could know without looking that it was a solid hit. * Then you’re on base, the play is over and the next batter at the plate. I loved base running; pushing your limits, playing with the catcher’s mind, sprinting hard, stealing bases, sliding, taking out the catcher while scoring, it was all a blast.

I played both catcher and short stop, two awfully different positions. When I caught, I loved having every aspect of the game in your mind as you crouched behind the plate, eyes on each runner, knowing the count, remembering each batter’s weaknesses. I loved being the leader on the field. Catching was a challenge, and the feeling of playing a good game was immensely satisfying.

Short was completely different but as much of a challenge. I loved not having the responsibility of a bag, but having to know the next play, and exactly where you were going with the ball; fielding fast moving ground balls, and whipping them over to first. I loved being part of a play at second, or turning on a pop-up; being the mouth on in the infield, or covering a base on a bunt. I loved the relationship with the second baseman and deep throws from in the hole.  

In either position, I can remember the feeling of a hard pitch or a screaming line drive in your pocket. The sting of your palm as you closed your glove on the ball and brought your other hand over it. I remember the adrenaline of a play, and the smug feeling of one well done.  

Capping it off were the feelings after a game; exhausted and full of dirt, you might have some bruises or a raspberry from sliding, and your muscles would be aching [and since I couldn’t separate them from softball, your quads would be killing you], but if you knew you’d done your best and left it all on the field, they were all pretty good feelings, even your quads. 

* (There's also nothing quite like the feeling of hitting the ball off your handle, and the vibrating in your palms, and the stress of trying to out run it. But this is about the things I actually miss) 

The Lake

There’s something about Lake Superior that draws me, much like the ocean. It makes me imagine stories of ships and sailors, of ship wrecks and people living along the lake. It makes me stand and think of the God that created it, and how huge He really is.

Visiting during the warmer weather we watch ships coming and going; some large Great Lakes ships, some smaller ones for the ocean. Some are leaving full of iron ore, low in the water, others are coming in empty, riding high.

This weekend I visited the lake with friends, and at this time things are covered in ice. The ice chunks had blown up against the mountain of ice along the shore, created by the breaking waves all winter. Large blocks floated and rolled with the waves, while the smaller ones piled up on each other. The wind was blowing the breaking ice out of the harbor and through the canal. The walls of the lighthouse on the pier were covered with strange designs of ice and the stairs were lost under the ice.  Sheets of it covered the walls of the canal.

During the night the wind blew the ice slabs out and all that was left was the mountain created by the waves. Far out you could vaguely see them on the horizon, along with a thin film of ice that had formed in places. Instead of big rolling waves, like the day before, the water was choppy.

Even though it’s much, much smaller than the ocean, you can’t tell when you’re standing at the shore. It makes you feel small, and insignificant, and makes you think wild thoughts.  Nothing controls the lake, except for the shoreline. And occasionally that’s not enough to governor it.

It’s wild, but at the same time soothing. It’s both predictable, with the waves coming in one after another, and unpredictable, like when it storms. It’s always cold, the temperature changes just 3 degrees over the season, and I think that adds the wild feeling. I sit in awe of the wild and awesome side of the God I serve.

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{Ug. Why won't conclusions write themselves?? I feel like this was a pretty abrupt ending.. but I couldn't figure out how to finish it better... suggestions??}

Mmmmmmm

I want to write... but I just got home from a weekend in Duluth, and four hours of lovely swimming lessons [bites tongue] and ended up editing pictures instead.

But I'm really excited about writing something cool about sports this week! And the funny thing... this is my week off from writing about it for the paper :) haha [I know.. it was my idea]

I also wanted to say that everyone's writing has really motivated me to make mine better. And I just realized that we're half over........ sad day.