Thunderstorm

A face turned skyward, pausing amidst a hurried routine to gaze at the dark, roiling clouds blowing its way. A nose breathing in a wet, earthy smell that speaks of growing things. Then, a flurry of action: laundry hurriedly yanked off the line, windows slammed shut, calling for a dog who's instinct sent him running for cover behind the couch.

The first few drops, pattering onto the roof like a kitten's footsteps while an exhilarating wind whips the trees into a joyous rain dance. An eery, dim light seeping across the landscape as the last few glimmers of sunshine are blocked out by the ever-darkening sky. It is here.

The sound of kitten paws is replaced by a stampede of rhinos as a torrent lets loose from the sky.  It busies itself with soaking the sponge of the soil, filling streams and ponds, wetting parched plants, and surprising those convinced it was too sunny to carry an umbrella this morning. In drips, rivulets,  and impromptu streams, it sets about washing the world.

The lightening, oh the lighting! It splits the heavens into jagged puzzle pieces too fast for the eye to follow, then seals them back together with equal haste - cracks in the celestial ceiling, glimpses into a place we hope to see some day. Following behind are great claps of thunder, rolling together into a cadence to beat any drum line. 

A giddy grin overtaks a face moistened by the downpour, while bare feet gallop through puddles and under overflowing gutters. Indoors, a sudden start as one is caught unaware by a heavenly boom. An arm around a shoulder as two pairs of eyes stare, entranced by the display.

Never has nature revealed more plainly the existence of its Creator. The raw power, the overwhelming sights, the outright cacophony, all speak to something far greater than our earthly worries. Yet hidden in the regal display is a beautifully tender metaphor that makes me smile every time the storm clouds move in: a shower of love. An outburst of affection from our God that is so full it tears the sky. Each roll of thunder a shout to His children. Each flash of lightening a healing touch. Each droplet a tiny kiss.

A love storm.

Kaleidescope

Faith is the kaleidoscope through which you see life.

It colors your views, shapes your decisions, and puts a unique twist on world. The actual contents don't change from when you receive it to when when put it down. The same nuggets of truth are always there - you just may not see them.

As you progress on our journey, the kaleidoscope turns. Whether gradually or in sudden jolts, it rearranges the bits inside into a plethora of pictures: snapshots of wonder and doubt, growth and pain, mountaintops and the lowest of valleys. The pieces you had forgotten, the ones you wrestled with, the ones that left you with no answers, get jostled into a new light or shaken out of the corner. This is when things click into place inside you. Other times, the parts that were once your focus shift out of sight, and you are left with open hands, grasping for something sure and finding only air.

Sometimes, a person or event will move past you and bump you as they move by, unexpectedly changing your view. Perhaps it was a blessing, an angel in disguise shedding light that pulls you out of despair. Perhaps it was intentional, a shove, not a bump, and you were left frantically shaking your kaleidoscope, trying to replace the parts you thought you needed and recover the clear picture you had. No matter how hard you try, the fragments are always tinted by the experience.

So when the kaleidoscope gets turned, when you are shaken, when what you thought was true changes shape, what will you do? Will you throw down the lens of your faith and walk away betrayed?

Or will you pause, think, reassess, and move forward with the same truths in a different light?

*Inspiration credit: yet another awesome youth leader with a good message.

On Spring and Senioritis

Two months. Two months until graduation. Two months of being a Blue Devil. Two months of calculus, chemistry, and ceramics. Two months until I quit being a senior and start being a freshman again. Two months until summer. Two months until I'm free.

Two. Whole. Months. This length of time has never looked so long. Perhaps you have heard tell of a disease which infects the minds of those wanting to move to the next stage in life? One that makes focus difficult, homework look insignificant,  and apathy toward rules abound? Yep, I've got it - got it bad. Aside from the friendships I've found here, field hockey is what I will miss most about high school, and now that that is over for good, I've got nothing holding me down.

I've always been one to look ahead toward things to come. My poor, well-meaning mother has attempted on many occasions to get me to slow down and enjoy the moment. Rushing through the present is one pitfall of being gifted with high energy.

Luckily, spring has shown its face. (Granted, it may be wearing the mask of summer, but it came after winter, so spring it is.) Warm weather is one thing that will slow me down and put a smile on my face. Windows all the way down and the radio cranked up, bare feet cooling off in the creek, a campfire with a circle of friends and good conversation: when any or all of these are involved, I will happily reside wholly in a single day - even with two months to go.

So, here I sit: in shorts, by an open window, letting a warm breeze and the sound of spring peepers sooth my impatience.

Albuquerque -Hannah Martin

If you ask me how long it takes to fall in love with a place,
I would tell you ten seconds.
Just long enough to glance out an airplane window.
Long enough to glimpse the mountains, and the desert stretching endlessly out to meet the sky.
Then the plane jolted suddenly, touching down.

And I knew I was home.
To a place I had never been before.
Home, under an infinite blue sky.
Home, with the mountains and the red sand.


And I was in love...

This poem was written by my sister, the lovely Miss Hannah. She recently spent a year living and volunteering in New Mexico.

Let go. Let God.

Don't worry about solving the world's problems. You can't control those issues. You don't own that outcome.

God does.

Abide in Him in each moment, an He (not you) will make things right.

Be a friend.
Look on the bright side.
Hug.
Lend a hand.
Smile.

And let God take care of changing the world.


An excerpt from the notebook beside my bed: a jumble of prayers poured out in ink and late night epiphanies. 

Global Child

They say it takes a village
to raise a child,
but it's gonna take the whole world
to raise this girl.

She'll love and remember
the ones who run in her blood,
but her family is scattered
across entire continents.

She won't be contained
by men's penciled lines,
not by borders or fences,
not by rivers wide.

For a compass, her heart.
For a path, her dreams.
She'll circle the globe
on the wings of the wind.

She'll scour every mile
and double back again,
searching for answers to
queries words can't ask.

Yes, she'll spend her whole life
loving this entire earth.
Finding warm smiles
and open minds,

until her bones are full
of a planet's wisdom,
and her face crisscrossed
by the laugh lines of many.

So don't be afraid
when your daughter's gaze
settles not on the horizon
but the wonders beyond.

Oh she'll come back
to where it all began,
and on her way
she'll be raised by the world.

Then, some day,
in her little girl's eyes
she'll catch a glimpse of a spark
that won't be quenched.

She'll see tiny hands
dance over maps and globes,
answer questions like
"What's at the end of the road?"

It's then she'll see it takes a village
to raise a child,
but it's gonna take the whole world
to raise this girl.

If I were a shoe...

This essay was in response to a prompt on a scholarship application. It was called a haiku essay - 100 words or less. It was possibly the most challenging, but also the most fun essay I have had to write. So, what kind of shoe would you be?

If I were a shoe, I’d mold to your footprint, because I’d listen to your needs and care for you. Whenever you put me on, you’d be ready for adventure, because I’d rather be active than stagnant. Even so, I can’t guarantee that I wouldn’t smell stagnant - not all of me is rosy.

I’d be covered in dust from far places, but there would also be clean spots to accumulate dirt from the many places I hope to go. If I were a shoe, you’d keep me around for a while, because my best years are yet to come.