Cries Of A Raven

   Waiting.  That's what most of my life has been.

   I wonder if people in general can be divided into two types: the kind who strive and the kind who wait.  It seems you hear more about those who strive, because they're the ones actually getting things done.  

   But how foolish.  Many strive quietly, anonymously, with a calm sense of drive.  And many who strive have learned to be wise enough to know when to wait.  People cannot be divided so evenly between those two things.  Or, if they can, they are probably not fully mature.  

   I'm not really sure where this post is going.  I'm not sure what the point will be, or even if there is a point.  I'm sure there will be in the end.  These posts tend to write themselves.  Or, rather, it seems I pour out my feelings, and then end up reminding myself of the truth.  I just voice all the questions in my heart, and I feel as though I'm expanding in every direction, falling apart, crying out for answers.  And then, I have to remind myself of the only Answer.  It's not a thing, it's a Person.  God is the Answer.  

   It struck me this evening that each Christmas that comes, I'm always longing for something more than what I have.  My desires differ each year.  Perhaps one year I long for more adventure.  Perhaps one year I just want my life to change.  Perhaps one year I wish that I was a different person, or a character in a very different story.  Or maybe I wish for more fun in my life.  Or maybe I wish for more memories.  Well, not just more memories, but for different kinds of memories than the kind I end up making.  And the list goes on.  For some years now the things I've wanted for Christmas are the kinds of things you can't put on a list.  

   I remember those days when I began making my Christmas list as early as I dared, and labored long over it in secret.  Days when I thought that things would make me happy.  Or would satisfy me.

   But now...I wish for things that are very different.  Today, without even realizing I was going to, I commented to a coworker that sometimes I almost wished I believed in Santa Claus.  I suppose it makes sense.  The idea of an easily-swayed grandfather figure with endless resources at his disposal swooping in and making dreams come true is a very appealing one.  It's sort of like a God-figure, only he's a god that you can control.  Well, bargain with, wheedle with, win over.  

   It unmasked very selfish desires in my heart.  It's a lot harder to continually trust in an Everlasting and Untamed King of the Universe than it is to try to be good and plead with a soft-hearted grandpa figure.  

   In the Bible, there is a prophecy about Jesus, saying that He will be called the Wonderful Counselor.  I've always been fascinated by that title.  The Wonderful Counselor.  It's funny, because somewhere else in Scripture, it asks the rhetorical question, "Who has known the mind of the Lord?  Or who has been His counselor?"  No one, of course.  God the Cosmic Ruler of the Sky, takes counsel from no one.  He is the King.  

   And yet you see in Scripture that He advises His creatures.  And through His Son giving His life in payment for mankind's sin, He gives an open invitation:  "Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest."

   One pastor said it like this: "In the Garden of Eden, God told mankind, 'Go away.'  And Jesus tells us, 'Come back.' "  

   Jesus paid the price for all of us.  He absorbed all of God's just anger at our sins.  He paid the debt, and He rose victorious over death itself.  Death was the punishment for sin.  Once He paid the price of all our sin, Death was stripped of its power.  Of its authority.  Jesus, the Conqueror, offers shelter in Himself.  He tells us, "Come back!"  

   God is the King, and it's true that no one can sway Him, control Him.  But He stoops to give us counsel.  And who better to tell us what we must do?  

   Lately, I haven't known how to pray to Him.  My new job has been great, as I knew it would.  And yet, the drama has come.  I knew it would, too.  I thought I was prepared.  I knew that there would be drama wherever I worked.  But I didn't know the drama would be quite so close to home as it is now.  When it came, it was a very different kind of drama than I was expecting.  Understatement of the year.  

   I expected...well, never mind what I expected.  What I didn't expect was to be caught up in a drama going on within my own family and among my close friends.  I didn't expect stories to collide in quite this manner.  It's the kind of drama that is written about in books and seen in movies.  Of jealousy and fascination.  Of fierce fire and cold loneliness.  Of secrets.  Of intrigue.  I had thought this would be familiar ground for me, if anything.  After all, I have spent most of my life with my head and heart in those kinds of stories.  And yet what can I do?  

   What ever am I to do?  Wait?  Just like everything else in my life?  Wait?  Sit tight and let everything blow over, just like I've always done?  I don't hear the cavalry yet.  But what can I do?  Am I to do nothing?  No, I must act in it.  I must play my part, because it is my part.  That's all there is to it.  An actor, perhaps, can drop out if he doesn't like the part he's assigned to.  But in the story of each person's life, you can't just stop because the world doesn't stop.  I must muddle through.  In a mystery, I'm both playing my part, and making my own decisions.  I still have to put on my shoes and my name tag, drive to work, stay there all day every day.  I have to do what needs to be done. 

   It's not that I believe God isn't here.  I know He's here.  What's more, I know He's active in what's going on.  I guess my little comment about Santa Claus shows me that I doubt that He cares.  

  I mean, I know He cares, to some extent.  I'm His child, I know He cares.  And yet, I'm bewildered.  I'm caught up in this story, and I---I'm actually playing a part in it---I can affect or mess up things going on around me, I'm not just watching from the sidelines.  

   But I can't seem to find any motivation to pray.  Because in my heart I'm feeling, "Well, He put me here.  Why should I ask Him to change anything?  He won't, because He's put me here for a reason.  Now all I can do is muddle through and hope I end up doing whatever I'm supposed to do."   

   My heart cries out, silently, a little every day.  A formless, wordless kind of cry.  Some days it's only a hoarse croak of pain.  Sometimes it's a silent kind of scream.  Sometimes its just a moan of helplessness.  I don't know what to do, and I don't know how to pray.  

   I always wanted my life to be a discernible story.  And yet now that I see it, and what's more, now that the risk and the pain is real and tangible, I'm afraid, because I don't know the ending.  I don't know how it will turn out.  Happy, good, or sad.  Happy is the, "Happily ever after," idea.  A Good ending is a strong, satisfying, well-done ending, even if it isn't entirely happy.  I like Good endings.  I don't like sad ones.  Ones that make you wonder if it was even worth it to slog through the story.  And there are bad endings that make you angry at the author.  What was the point of a story that doesn't even resolve?  (Side note, that's the main reason I won't watch horror movies.  There's no ending, that's what makes them scary.  And what makes them pointless.  Plus, I don't like the feeling of being petrified when I'm alone or in the dark.)

   I don't tend to watch movies or read books if I don't think I'll like the story.  Each time I do, I'm putting myself into the author's power.  I don't like to do that unless I think they can be trusted.  I recently finished J.K. Rowling's, "Harry Potter," series.  I had faith in her.  My faith wavered two-thirds of the way through the Deathly Hallows.  I was just not sure how she could possibly work this mess out.  But she did.  And it was masterfully and beautifully done.  Which I saw when I finally worked up the courage to finish the book.  

   C.S. Lewis' "Till We Have Faces," is like that, too.  I have much more trust in C.S. Lewis, due to long experience, but I doubted him in that book.  "There is just no way that this can resolve." I thought to myself.  "There is just no possible way."  And yet---yet it is one of my top favorite works of fiction.  I will say no more.

   I doubted J.R.R. Tolkien in "The Return of the King."  After all the chapters of doom, of shadows, of despair, and after all the weakness and sadness and dark omens, I wondered how it could ever resolve.  How could the ending actually be happy?  I couldn't see it.  And yet I laugh and sometimes cry for joy when I reread that book.  

   I know in my head that the Author of every story is writing mine in His great Work.  I know that everything---somehow---will end in my good, and for the good of all His children.  I know it will be grander than Tolkien's story, more piercing and joyus than Lewis' story, and more human than J.K. Rowling's books.  I know that, and yet I cannot see it.  

   I suppose that to feel this kind of pain is part of what makes me human.  To feel pain, to feel love, to feel doubt.  To be loyal, to trust, and to be afraid.  To go on when you don't think you can.  To risk everything and be willing to lose everything.  To do the right thing even when you aren't sure it is the right thing.  Those are lovely ideas.  But it's so---different somehow when it's your story.  When it's your life.  When you can't skim down the page to peek at what happens.  When you can't ask someone if it actually is going to be all right in the end...

   Or can I?  Ask Someone, I mean.  Obviously I can't skim down the page.  

   Oh, but of course, I can ask.  I can ask, but He won't tell me.  

   But I know that He has promised that it will come right in the end.

   I just have to trust Him.  

   I have to do what I think is right.  To let Him steer me.  And just trust in Him that He will write it better than I ever could.  

   I have been longing for something for five years now.  A desire so poignant and so painful that sometimes I can hardly bear it.  It's like a wound that will not heal.  It won't heal because it was a wound of Hope.  And I cannot and/or will not put it to sleep unless---or until---there is no hope left.  So the wound is a living thing inside me.  Its pain waxes and wanes just like everything else in my life, (C.S. Lewis called it The Law of Undulation.)  But it lives inside me.  It rears its head at the smallest things, and it fills me with pain when I least expect it to.  I have no real reason to hope now.  It was a fool's hope, and all along I knew that this might cost me dearly.  But I made that choice because I wanted to hope.  

   Perhaps the worst of it is that I don't know how it will resolve.  Sure the pain is bad, but if I knew there was no hope, I could go about getting over it.  The wound would heal in time, and it would no longer live inside me.  If it resolves---that is to say, if it blossoms and bursts open in light and beauty, than I will be beside myself with joy, and the pain would leave.  But now---here in the fog and the uncertainty...in the winter, this drowsing hope will not let me rest for long.  Will I have to slay it one day as a dragon, or will it be a sweet bloom of maturity?  I have no idea.  No way of knowing.  Right now in the mist of Now I can only wait.  Yes.  Just wait.  Not pursuing, not scheming.  Not even trying to find out.  Just waiting for who knows how much longer?  And every day I have to get up and firmly put it inside a box and focus on other things.  

   What's more, I'm watching other people go through that now, too.  I'm watching them agonize and cry out in pain.  And what can I do?  Dear friends in the trenches with me.  All of us writhing in our uncertainty and in our pain and in our waiting, and we don't know what's going to happen.  

   I don't know how to pray to God about any of this.  Every request that I could cry out to Him sounds infantile and childish.  But...supposing my every request actually sounds like that anyway?  I can cry out for mercy, for grace, for strength.  But inside my heart a voice keeps saying, "How much longer?  How much longer will I have to deal with this?  When can I know?  I want to know!"  I can cry and pour my heart out to Him on my hands and knees, and I have done so a few times.  But there's no answer.  He is the answer.  

   I can cry out for wisdom, sometimes, for discretion.  I beg Him to show me what I must do.  What the best decision is for right now.  And He does give those things to me.  

   And there are those times when all I can do is cry.  When I have no words, no requests, just pain, pain, pain, filling my heart.  I can't even kick and scream like a spoiled child.  I can only lie limp and still and try to weep silently so no one else will know.  When that happens, the only prayer that I can voice is one word, two words, over and over again: "Help.  Please help."  

   Just like the cry of a raven.  

   And God hears the cries of the ravens.  

   He sees every sparrow.  

   He designs every snowflake.

   He commands where the lightning bolts must fall.

   He calls every star out there in the universe by its Name.  

   He sees every secret.  

   He knows every heart.  Each name.  Each story.

   He knows the pain because He once lived as one of us.  He shared in our grief, our pain, our suffering.  He was a man.  He is Human.  Fully God.  Fully Man.  

   The Bible says He is a sympathetic High Priest.  Not like the priests were to Judas Iscariot, when he came to them, full of remorse over his hideous betrayal.  They said to him, "What is that to us?  Your conscience is your responsibility."  I've always thought that was one of the saddest---and one of the most chilling sentences in the Bible.  

   Just as I know how to pray for someone when I've been through something similar, Jesus knows how to pray for me, because He was a Human on this sin-cursed earth.  He is called a Man of Sorrows...and acquainted with grief.  He knows what it is to grieve.  He knows all about loss, about risk, about terror, and about anguish and death.  He went through it.  He conquered it.  

   And He's promised to be there for me.  To love me unconditionally.  To see me through my life and to---wonder of wonders---welcome me into His joy one day.  

   I have to trust.  I have to hold on.  Perhaps if I just keep looking at Him, I won't be so afraid.     

   "Trust the heart of your Father when the answer goes beyond what you can see.  
   When you don't understand the purpose of His plan
   In the presence of the King
   Bow the knee."  

   Even when there are no words.  Especially when there are no words.

   "Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in His wonderful face
   And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
   In the light of His glory and grace."  

   "Are we weak and heavy-laden? 
   Cumbered with a load of care?  
   Precious Savior, still our refuge,
   Take it to the Lord in prayer.
   Do thy friends despise, forsake thee?
   Take it to the Lord in prayer.
   In His arms He'll take and shield thee,
   Thou wilt find a solace there."  


~Cadenza

Straight From My Heart

   Oh, I just thought it was noteworthy...it's amazing how many places I've been, and the experiences I've had---in my mind, anyway.  Not to say I haven't had an exciting life, exactly.  I just mean I'm way cooler when you consider all the things that I've done in my mind.

   Right, but you wouldn't know.  It's all in my head.

   I like to imagine myself in all kinds of situations, and then I play out scenes just how I would like them to go.  Yes.  I still do that.  I may be in my twenties, but yeah, I still do that.  I would be willing to bet that many people are what you might call, "closet daydreamers."  I'm a daydreamer, and I'm not embarrassed to admit it, but that's kind of frowned on these days.  

   I'm just so much cooler in my mind.  My daydreams over my lifetime would fill a book---a huge book.  And it would probably be more amusing to read than my actual life.  

   I've done things---real things---in my mind.  I've imagined myself standing before a breathless audience in a packed auditorium singing some breathtaking melody.  I've performed with music artists on stage.  I've heroically saved people's lives in the face of crisis.  I've improvised dances with people who relentlessly dragged me into the spotlight.  I've performed in a musical, wowed people with my awesome roles in movies, dazzled people with my wit and charm...you get the idea.  Most of them have the theme of me rising to the occasion, somehow.  For once, actually stepping into a situation and wowing people.  Not watching other people snatch at what they want and hanging back for decency's sake.  For discretion.  For kindness.  For the nobler part of waiting my turn.  

   I don't even know why I'm sharing all this.  I don't have a way to bring it full circle.  I have no nice principle to put everything into perspective.  

   You know, sometimes I get tired of waiting.  I wait for everything in this life.  Every little thing; well, anything I really want.  And it turns out, what I truly want are things that people are not going to give me.  They don't have time.  Or maybe it's not in their power.  Or probably they just don't care.  Or they don't know.  And it doesn't matter, because they'd tell I've got to grab it for myself if I want it.

   But that's not right.  Is it?  

   Heh.  I'm baring my soul on this little blog.  I don't even know why I do.  Well, I guess it's just nice to express myself in a public way that's not too on display for people I know.  

   I wonder what I would see if I looked into the Mirror of Erised.  (For you people who don't know, it's a fictional magic mirror that shows you the deepest desires of your heart.)  

   I think I would see myself being seen.  I would see people dazzled by my abilities, or charmed by my personality, or captivated by my voice.  I would see myself making people laugh, making other people happy.  Lifting drooping spirits and managing to say the right thing in the right way at the right time.  I want to do good in this world...but I also want to be seen.  But that's not wrong...is it?  I've always been a Fun person, with the desire to be noticed in a crowd.  

   It would seem to anyone who knew my life that I've perfected hiding into a fine art.  I hide.  That's what I do.  I'm afraid of what I'll do if I don't.  And I hide because I've been rejected before.  Because all my life, people have told me, essentially, to get the heck out of the limelight.  I never meant any harm.  I just wanted to be---I dunno, noticed. 

   You know, you'd think that if my personality and my strengths are slanted that way then I'd have been encouraged to reach out and be daring.  Or more proactive, if you want a more palatable word.  But I've always been told to shut up.  To stop singing around people.  It's annoying.  Not to dance.  It's undignified.  To stop laughing loudly.  It makes you look stupid.  To sit in the crowd with all their dull silence and not make a sound.  Don't take over, you're being presumptuous.  Let someone else handle it.  Don't ask for things, you don't need them.  

   And yet, astonishingly, people are surprised when they find I'm paralyzed with indecision or with fear.  Gee, how did I ever get that mindset?  So, wait, now you want me to be myself?  Or do you want me to just slog along with all the other despondent adults and just sit in my own little corner until someone needs me to clean up a mess or do them a favor?  

   But you know something I really and truly fear?  

   I've never been a particularly competitive person, but I hate the thought of having a sad excuse of a life to show on Judgement Day.  What have I ever done in this life?  Supposing that I'm only a disappointment to the only One who really matters?  What if...

   What if...

   What if...
  
   What if...      


   Wait a second.  But you're not relying on your works or good life or merits to please God anymore, remember?  You do remember the Gospel, right?  Jesus' perfect life and His perfect sacrifice absorbed ALL of God's anger at my sins.  

   I'm trusting in Jesus for my salvation; for His pleasure, His delight in me.  It's not based on how well I do...though of course I should want to please Him because I love Him.  Not because I'm trying to pay Him back or something.  Because of Jesus, I can dare to hope for His delight in me.  To please Him.  

   It doesn't solve my frustration, but it sure is a relief.  

   
   "Though all my heart should feel condemned
    For want of some sweet token,
    There is One greater than my heart,
    Whose Word cannot be broken.

    In God's unfailing Word I trust,
    Till soul and body sever,
    For though all things should pass away,
    His Word shall stand forever."  

---Martin Luther (I think...)  


A post from the heart of 

~Cadenza

A Week In Doubting Castle

   (*DISCLAIMER* If you're looking for the Krav Maga post, this isn't it.  This one was due a few weeks ago, but I needed to finish and edit this one first.  This is more of a doom and gloom post.  It's also intensely personal; even more so than I usually get.  I'll post my Krav Maga experience post soon, so stay tuned!)  

   I must confess that I have never actually read straight through John Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," myself.  However, due to circumstances which would take too long to explain, I am very familiar with the story.

   That story being, of course, a huge, glorious, fictional allegory of the Christian life written by the English preacher, John Bunyan, during his years of imprisonment.  There are many retellings of the story, put into simpler English, or even written for children, and these I have found very helpful. 

   Far into the story the main character Christian and his fellow pilgrim named Hopeful are walking along the King's road, the straight and narrow path on their way to the Celestial City.  At one point the ground becomes increasingly hard and stony.  But beside the path, just over a little rail fence running alongside the road is By-Path Meadow.  The ground is smooth and green over there, and the Pilgrims stop to consider crossing the fence just so they can walk alongside the path to ease their aching feet.

   While they're discussing it, a fellow meets them whose name is Vain-Confidence.  He greets them and explains that By-Path Meadow is actually a shortcut to a point further along the King's Way and offers to lead them there.  Christian and Hopeful look down the King's Way and see that it does indeed look as if the King's Way does curve along the outward rim of By-Path Meadow.  So they accept his offer and they climb the fence together. 

   Vain-Confidence leads them across the meadow, but the field turns out to be much bigger than it seemed at first.  But Christian and Hopeful keep following Vain-Confidence anyway.  Night comes on and with it a nasty storm, so that as they slog along, they can barely see each other and have to shout to hear one another.  Then suddenly, Vain-Confidence falls into a pit in front of them.  Christian and Hopeful hear him scream as he falls, but they are unable to help him, and they realize Vain-Confidence didn't really know where he was going after all.  Now, lost and drenched from the storm, they lament their foolishness in leaving the King's Way, but it's too dark to see their way back, and there may be more traps that they could trigger if they try.  So they seek shelter on a large rock and fall asleep waiting for morning.

   The gray, cloudy morning comes at last, but before they wake up, they are found by someone they did not expect.  You see, By-Path Meadow is just the beginning of the grounds surrounding the gloomy Doubting Castle, all belonging to the terrible Giant Despair.  Every morning (weather permitting) he patrols his grounds with his massive club, and he is not fond of trespassers.  Old Giant Despair finds Christian and Hopeful, and he drags them into his castle and locks them in the dungeon.  Christian and Hopeful are trapped there for nearly a week.  Giant Despair beats them with his club and feeds them only bits of bread and water.  He tries to get them to renounce their faith in the King and even gives them ways to kill themselves.  Weak and starving, Christian and Hopeful wonder what will become of them.  Bones of many pilgrims lie on the floor of the dungeon around them.

   The thing I love about Pilgrim's Progress is while it is a fantasy and an allegory, it is so wonderfully relatable.  The Christian life is indeed a dangerous journey, and though we don't see the monsters and traps with our physical eyes, the danger is real and so are the temptations.  We meet characters like Vain-Confidence, or Mr. Worldly-Wise Man, or Unbelief, or Mistrust or Timorous from time to time.  Sometimes we find ourselves walking through times that remind us of the Hill of Difficulty, or the Valley of the Shadow.  Sometimes we face Apollyon, or fall into the Slough of Despond, sometimes called The Swamp of Sadness.  There are good places on the road, of course, where the King's servants welcome pilgrims and teach them before sending them on their way. 

   This last week was one of those weeks that feel like a century long.  It was a horrible, awful week.  It might have been the Slough of Despond, but this felt more like an spiritual attack.  It was sadness, certainly, but it was also a crushing sense of despair and abandonment.  It was just like being locked up in Doubting Castle. 

   Without going into too much detail, let's just say I had a lot on my mind.  Coming back from a missions trip to China during the last few weeks of June, questions and conflicting ideas about my job, frustrated desires, and confusing emotions were the circumstances themselves.  But pervading it all was this anxiety and feeling of hopelessness.  Even now as I type this out, this feeling of anxiety is coming on me again.  My heart flutters strangely and I'm feeling squeamish with nausea---and my food settled just fine a few hours ago.  (I've just put on some "uplifting" music to help me ;)

   All this week I've felt overwhelmed by my personal failings.  The Lord used my trip to China to expose a lot of sin in me.  Being forced to stare at that ugliness in the face always tempts me to despair.  I keep seeing how many times---how absurdly many times---I blow it.  I'm such a selfish person.  It seems I only do things from selfish motives.  I'm aware of it, but just being aware of that doesn't necessarily help to make it better.  But it makes me afraid to take any action.  I'm so afraid of doing things for the wrong reason that I won't do anything at all.  Then when the shame and guilt comes over me, I withdraw even more, trying to figure out what would be the best thing to do, and it feeds off itself into a vicious cycle.  I told someone recently that it didn't seem to matter how often I confessed my sins to God, I kept falling into them again; that it didn't seem to make any difference. 

   I've had this nanny job for a while, in fact, I've been going through cleaning houses and nannying children jobs ever since I quit my job at the clinic three years ago.  And while I am passionate---to a certain extent---about those things, well, what I mean is, I want to be a wife and mother more than anything else in the world.  I've never wanted to be the best at any career or even to be a "successful," individual.  I chose not to go to college because I saw no reason to invest in those things.  And, while I didn't exactly expect God to just have a husband pop up as soon as I'd been out of high school a few years, I thought that I'd invest in actively preparing myself to be a wife and mom until that time came.  So I've been content with cleaning and nannying jobs, with traveling, and with the little comforts that I could afford being a single girl.

   But this week, I wondered, "But what if I don't get married for another five or ten years?  Do I really want to keep doing these jobs---indefinitely?"  'Cause I'm not going to lie to you, nannying is a tough job.  It is hard, and maybe I shouldn't get so emotionally involved in my work. 

   Like I said, the circumstances don't sound all that bad.  It just sounds like another problem to be solved in a logical, methodical manner.  But steeped in these issues is this whole feeling of, "But I want to be married!  Being single is great, but to be married and to have a family of my own is all I've ever wanted!  But what if I don't get married?  Should I start looking for a career?  But what could I do?  What would I want to do?  Does that mean I'd have to go to college?" 

   Everyone tells me that I need to "chase my dreams."  That's a nice phrase.  Sounds so lovely, so exciting...too bad it goes against everything I've trained myself to live by.  Perhaps because ambition has had so little appeal to me, I've taken the warnings that I've heard all my life against "vain ambition" a little too much to heart.  Or...perhaps I was always struggling so hard with schoolwork that I convinced myself that I am not capable of higher education, and so convinced myself that I wanted nothing to do with it.  Perhaps all this time I've been building walls around myself, basing them on good ideas such as, "I don't want to be part of this world's scrabbling for the upper hand," and that I should "beware of vain ambition," and that my duty---my allegiance---belonged first and foremost to my home, to be handed over to my husband when I married.  Why invest so much time and money in an education that I wouldn't use anyway?  Why try to provide for myself instead of just trusting God to provide for me---probably with a husband?  And surely since being a wife and mom is all I want to be, won't He honor that and provide me with a husband soon?

   And yet, I know ladies who could say the same about their desires, and yet Mr. Right hasn't come along yet, so they are busy helping people while they wait.

   I never wanted to be one of those single girls.  I guess in my pride and naivety I assumed that I'd never have to face up to that.  Or maybe some perverse part of me was just hoping it would happen so that I could prove all the Worldly-Wise people, er, well-meaning but discouraging people wrong.

   The point is, I don't know what's going to happen to me.  I'm trying to wait patiently, but it's hard.  It's so, so hard.  What if the Lord really will ask me to go out and pursue my dreams?  I know you may not believe me, but I'd rather scrub scummy floors with a toothbrush than drag out all of my old dreams that I locked away long ago. 

   Because that's what I did.  Years ago I was convinced that my dreams were childish and wrong.  I thought that I needed to outgrow them.  All of them.  I thought it would please God.  I thought that it would please my parents and best prepare me for my life ahead. 

   So I did.  One by one, I folded them and locked them somewhere deep inside me and tried to forget them, tried to settle for better or smaller dreams.  It hurt.  More than anyone ever knew.  It hurt trying to forget them.  It hurt to try to change myself into someone else.  But I did. 

   Years later, however, after I graduated, I was revealed for what I was; a dispirited, spineless creature, set adrift on a sea of uncertainty and insecurity.  Everyone who saw it was dismayed, including me.  Wasn't that a nasty surprise!  I'd sacrificed everything for what I thought was right, and it turns out it wasn't what anybody wanted!  Few things that have hurt me as much as that did.  But I shoved it deep inside me so no one could see.  And I guess ever since then I've just tried to move on, stay busy. 

   What people don't realize is that when they urge me to "chase my dreams," they're asking me to unearth my old dreams that I've hammered down into memories, and bring them to the light of day, unleashing all the pain with them.  That's why I'd rather scrub tile with a toothbrush than talk about my dreams, let alone pursue them.  Dreams are for other people. 

   Reflections like these have been haunting me all this week.  I've been locked in Doubting Castle, beaten mercilessly by Giant Despair.

   I am incapable of doing anything with right motives.  When I try to do what's right, I fail.  I've drawn so many lines around myself that I must not cross that I've built myself into a little box.  A cage.  And though I dream of freedom, it stays out of my reach.  I cried out to God all this week, but He felt so far away.  And why should He listen?  He's disappointed in me, He's punishing me, He's sick of me, just like I am, and just like everyone else. 

   And...Oh, God, whatever am I to do?  

   You see what Satan does?  He took my past regrets and wove them into my present struggles with sin and into my fears of the future.  Just reading over it now, I can see that I'm borrowing trouble from next year at least, and Jesus says in Matthew 6 not to worry about tomorrow. 

   When I think back to after graduation, I also must remember that while I had no clue what to do, God directed my steps.  It was the autumn after I graduated that He provided that wonderful job for me at the clinic.  He's provided me with jobs like stepping stones.  As soon as I was ready to move on, the next one came up.  And when they stopped showing up, that was right before the opportunity to go to India came up.  After India, He provided jobs and fun times, too.  And friends.  And opportunities.  And I have certainly learned much from my time as a nanny.  I can't just discount all that.

   But most importantly, I've seen how He has provided for me.  My life may be radically different from everything I could have expected, but when I look back, it's perfectly clear that He has a plan in mind.  Each step has prepared me for the next ones.  He's not going to abandon me.  And just because I don't feel Him near me doesn't mean He isn't.  

   So I've been in Doubting Castle all this week.  Feeling depressed and anxious and weighed down by sin and worries.  But as you can probably guess, Christian and Hopeful don't die in Doubting Castle.  Many pilgrims had, but they still had many miles to go on the King's Way.  

   I reminded myself of the rest of the story one day as I was sitting on the floor of my messy room, leaning against the side of my bed, without even the energy to get up and function normally.  
 
   Christian and Hopeful were lying in the dungeon, sore from the beatings that Giant Despair gave them.  And every day the Giant would speak with them and advise them to kill themselves.  He gave them poison, a knife, and a rope, any of which could end their sufferings.  One day, Giant Despair takes them out into his courtyard and shows them the bones of all the pilgrims he has destroyed.  And of course he beats them with his cudgel until they can hardly move.

   Christian is sorely tempted to end his life, but his friend Hopeful reminds him that this would not please the King.  He encourages him by recalling all that they've been through, and how the King provided for them every time.  He reminds Christian of his courage against Apollyon, and of his strength in Vanity Fair, and in the Valley of the Shadow.  Hopeful urges him not to give up, that Giant Despair doesn't control everything.  The King does!  They spend the night in earnest prayer together.  Just before dawn, Christian remembers that all along he has had in his jacket a key called Promise.  He is sure it will work against any lock in Doubting Castle.  So he pulls it out and tries the cell door.  It comes open, and they hurry through.  They find their way into the castle-yard, but as they try the Key of Promise against the main gate, they find the iron lock to be so old and strong and rusty that it takes all their strength to turn.  But the Key does open it at length.  They fling themselves against the gates and push, and the gates make such a creaking screech that Giant Despair hears it and wakes up!  He snatches up his cudgel and starts to rush after them, but when he gets outside, a strange fit comes over him that paralyzes his arms and legs.  Because, you see, sunshiny weather often brings these fits upon him.  He cannot overtake them, and Christian and Hopeful make it safely back to the King's Way.  

   If you are familiar with the story of Pilgrim's Progress, you may remember that one of the first troubles Christian fell into was the Slough of Despond.  That time the King sent one of His servants, whose name was Help, to pull Christian out.  Help tells us that the King has placed stones in the swamp that you can step on to get across.  Those are the promises of God.  Sometimes the weather and the swamp cover up the stones, but they are there.  It's interesting that the way out of the slough and Doubting Castle are the same; you have to trust in God's promises, no matter what things appear to be like.

   This week God sent quite a few Helps that have given me the right perspective.  But I have to remember God's promises in His Word.  That means I have to let go of my perspective and trust God's.  So very easily said, and so very hard to do!  And yet, it's good to think that even though I can get myself locked up in Doubting Castle, God doesn't leave me there.  He has given me the key.  I don't have to stay in there, it's not like He's punishing me or keeping me in there Himself.  

   It's not like thinking of the story in Pilgrim's Progress makes all my anxiety go away, you know.  But the thing is, it made me remember that I don't need to worry about tomorrow, let alone next week, next year, the rest of my life.  There's no need to borrow that trouble, since God's got everything mapped out already, and He's promised to get me there.  

   I'm trying to think of a way to close this without sounding too annoyingly preachy.  It really needs a better closure, but no matter what my intentions are, it'll come out in little cliched Christian phrases that either you've heard before or won't understand, and I see no need for that now.  Congratulations for getting through this post!  Till next time, then!

~Cadenza

Thoughts On Strings

   Hey there.  I suppose the scattered few of you who still check this blog every once in a while may have been wondering where I've been.  Well, put frankly, I fell again into the trap of thinking, "Oh, I really need to get my act together before I make another post." 

   Behold the result.  Months gone by with no post.  I really need to accept the reality that if I wait for my life to be great before I post, then I am never going to post.

   Undoubtedly, these last several weeks have been rather difficult for me, and for lots of reasons.  For one thing, I have a new job!  I'm working for a family that goes to our church.  I do housework, basically.  They have five--that's right, five--little boys, all under the age of seven.  So, you know, it amounts to running loads of laundry, ironing, cleaning their kitchen, fixing lunch, etc.  All the things that a mom does every single day for no pay at all.  It's a good job for me now, and I'm so thankful for it, because this job is paying for me to go on a short-term missions trip to China this June!  But I'm not going to lie--it is demanding.  I come home in the middle of the afternoon feeling exhausted or sometimes completely drained.  I just keep hoping that the experience of all this will help me one day when, Lord willing, I have a home of my own.

   That's one of the main reasons I've been kind of missing in action.  The other big one is something that's been going on at our church.  As you know, I'm active in my church's music ministry.  And our music minister is moving away.  Next week.

   His announcement was a few weeks ago, and it was completely out of the blue.  I hold no ill-will of any kind towards him or his family; this is the right thing for them at this time.  But I am going to miss them so very much.  

   Today was the first time that it really sank in, and this is their last Sunday with us.  Easter Sunday.

   I haven't known them for very long, but in the last few months, I have come to love this whole precious family.  Mr. E is a gifted conductor, and I have heard the quality of sound he was able to bring out of our choir.  His eager smile when he conducted was contagious, and he knew just how to communicate what our voices needed to do.  Mrs. K is always so refreshing to be around.  She has this bracing sense about her that had a very healthy affect on me.  Being around her always woke me up when I found I'd fallen into a self-pitying state of mind.  Just talking with her made me want to do something, and it made me feel I was capable to do the next thing.  

   Another thing I loved about them was how open they were to everyone.  Mr. E and Mrs. K were always wanting input, always inviting others to share their thoughts, always willing to listen.  Their home was always open.  They shared themselves and their two sons with anyone and everyone.  I felt so at home in their living room, and I was beginning to understand the delight of knowing you could actually drop in anytime.  I've never actually experienced that before. 

   Mrs. K really has a heart for single ladies, which is what I am at this stage of my life.  She treated me like an adult from the very beginning, and she liked to organize activities for the single girls in the church.  That was so precious to me.  As a single, I struggle sometimes with where I fit into this church.  Being around her made it clearer, even easier.  

   And I saw a similar kind of openness in the way Mr. E led the worship ministry.  He was so gracious to everyone.  He listened attentively to what anyone had to say, and he welcomed interaction.  I'm not trying to imply that I've never seen that in any of our pastors before; on the contrary I have, and often.  But I have to say that Mr. E and Mrs. K are especially gifted in that area.  

   Like I said, it really hit me today that they are leaving, and I don't know when I'll see them again.  

   Recently I read that being in your twenties has a lot of this.  Experiencing friends going different ways, and life--actual life--starts crowding into all of your time.  

   I am not the same anymore.  I was forced into that ugly realization this Friday when I found out I had the time wrong for when I needed to be at church to rehearse.  I was horribly rushed to get there, and I felt scatterbrained and mad at myself up until it was time to sing.

   As I drove there, (absolutely NOT speeding, of course.  *Ahem.*)  I kept thinking, "What is wrong with me?  I used to know every rehearsal time off the top of my head.  I used to memorize every song I sang in the choir.  When my parents forgot what anthem we were going to sing next, they asked me and I was always correct.  I always just knew.  What has happened to me over these years?"

   Then it occurred to me.  "Oh.  But...that was back when I was in ninth grade.  I was fourteen and homeschooled.  I maybe had a one-day-a-week job, and I did play in another orchestra, but Mother always drove me those places.  Church was my special sphere, and I could invest lots of time and thought and practice into choir and orchestra.  But today, I'm twenty-two.  I've been working for seven hours today, and I had errands to run in my own car.  I drive myself and occasionally other people places.  I have a lot more on my plate than I ever did in high school.  More responsibility.  More spheres that I inhabit.  It's actually quite natural that I can't remember everything as well.  I have a lot more to think about.  I am not the same person I was then."  

   It was a weird realization.  Relieving in one way, disconcerting in another.  

   But boy, ain't it the truth.  

   Today happens to be the twentieth of April, and that's a special anniversary to me.  It was the day that our team from the choir and orchestra left for our England tour in 2007.  Ten days of touring by day and concerts by night---and my first experience of England with people that I love.  Including our previous music minister and his wife.

   I thought of them a lot today.  So many things in the service reminded me of them.  Next week we're singing "Lord of Life," a special resurrection hymn set to Holst's tune from "Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity."  That has a special significance to me.  So did the songs that were sung today, "Mercy Refused," followed directly by, "Easter Song."  

   I think about their family a lot, but today I missed them so much that my heart ached.  

   One of the hardest things in this life is saying goodbye to friends.  It happens all the time, and for a myriad of reasons.  Often they're not gone for the rest of your life, but the uncertainty is hard.  And every time it happens, I find myself wondering what even worse is still in store.  It makes me wonder who I'll be saying goodbye to next.  And when I become friends with someone--anyone--it wrings my heart to say goodbye.

   This morning, in fact, I practiced in the empty choir room.  When I finished practicing the anthems we were singing that morning, I began to play by ear a melody that was set to an old John Newton hymn:

   "For mercies, countless as the sands
   Which daily I receive
   From Jesus, my Redeemer's hands,
   My soul, what can you give?

   Alas!  From such a heart as mine
   What can I bring Him forth?
   My best is stained and dyed with sin,
   My all is nothing worth.

   Yet this acknowledgement I'll make,
   For all He has bestowed,
   Salvation's sacred cup I'll take
   And call upon my God.

   The best returns from one like me,
   So wretched and so poor,
   Is from His gifts to take a plea,
   And ask Him still for more.

   I cannot serve Him as I ought,
   No works have I to boast,
   And yet would I glory in the thought,
   Of all God's children, I'll owe Him the most." 


   As my fingers found the notes on the strings, some of the emotions--and memories--and thoughts found their way into them.  I'm still not sure if the people in the youth room, which is directly above the choir room, could hear my practicing, but I decided I didn't care.

   Much of my life feels like practicing in the empty choir room.  I don't really know if anyone's listening, and conflicted parts of me want to be heard and don't want to be heard.  I know God listens though.  And I know that nothing is in vain if played--or practiced--or done--for Him.  I just keep hoping He's listening, and that maybe--maybe He will find delight in it...even though I cannot serve Him as I ought to. 

   Hey, I don't really know who reads this blog.  The world has plenty of other blogs written about the angst of yet another young adult struggling in life.  But if you do read this blog, feel free to leave comments.  I really would like to hear from any of you.  I make myself quite vulnerable on this little blog, and I know it's obscure and not exactly great-looking or cool, or anything.  I get it.  But if you do, feel free to comment, I guess.  And if you do read it, don't forget to check on it every once in a while.  I'm not consistent, obviously, but I do really like blogging.  Sooner or later I will come back to it! 

   Wow, congratulations for making it this far!  I'll post again soon.


~Cadenza
 

Missing Summer (and Kristin Howard!)

   I never thought I'd write those words!  I've always hated summer before.  That was before last summer when I actually went swimming a lot and did a lot of interesting things instead of only shriveling up in all the heat and humidity.

   Maybe I don't miss the heat, but I do miss the warmth, let's say it like that.  The temperature has fluctuated recently...oddly enough giving us a few really mild days.  Saturday night I was driving in the late afternoon, and as I came up a big hill the sun was getting ready to set.  It was huge and golden, and I had to shield my eyes to make sure I was still driving in my lane.  I had my windows slightly down, and the air was mild and surprisingly warm.

   The sunset made me take in my breath.  A few huge dark clouds were close to the sun, and it made a dramatic contrast; the blinding golden light and then a straight line of a dark purple wall of cloud, towering up to a vast height before the light shone over it.  It was strange and beautiful. 

   I took in my breath sharply when I saw the sunset, but I quickly began to breathe deeply.  I promise I could smell a whiff of summer.  It was as if the gracious spirit of Summer herself were in the air that evening.  I smelled the sunshine, a taste of exuberance, and the tantalizing promise of eternal youth in the air.  Not in a rush of intoxicating desire, just a gentle reminder, a pleasant memory.  Or perhaps it was a memory of a memory.

   I suppose you could say it was spring I was smelling.  Oh, no.  It was summer, I'm certain of that.  Each has its own scent, its own yearnings, and its fantastic promises.  

   I mentioned before that they never actually deliver on those promises.  But they entice me every year, and each time I fall under their enchantment.  They make me sick with longing, "with a sickness that is better than health," as C.S. Lewis tells us in his autobiography, "Surprised By Joy." 

   Oh, dear.  I'm re-hashing an earlier post, aren't I?  Right.  Let's change the subject. 

   Uh-oh.  I don't believe I've told you, but I did make it to 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo!  It was quite a feeling of triumph when I finished the word count in the morning of November the 30th.  I didn't even have to stay up until midnight!  Of course, the story isn't finished yet.  When I first began NaNo, I kept the pace slow, fearing that I'd run out of plot before the word mark.  I'm really, really bad at plots, y'all.  That was what I was most worried about.  In school when I had to write a story in 7 days I'd done okay.  I'd been forced to make up a short plot and stick to it.  It wasn't always easy, but it fell together in the end. 

   Most of my writing is journaling.  If something's happened to me that I want to record, I can make a good story out of it.  But this novel was--well, pretty much me as the main character, but in a set of circumstances that I'd never been in.  Well, no, the circumstances weren't really what was difficult; it was the outcome of those events that needed to change.  The character was me, and she kept wanting to disappear in the crowd and stay away from all the action.  I had planned to give her two best friends, but I was dismayed how one of them faded into the background, while the other one took on the life that she's had in my imagination for years.  Oh, yes.  I know her well.  I invented her long ago, and she's a strong character.  I intended for the other friend to have her share of the limelight, but she stayed elusive, while the stronger girl was always around.  The stronger had to practically drag my main character into the plot, which was most exasperating.  The plot wouldn't move without her there!  She had to be there for anything to happen, and I was trying to keep this realistic.  She can't be around all the time!

   Thankfully the main characters do actually have personalities of their own.  I was glad of that, even though my heroine didn't.  I had to sort of cheat in order to keep her interesting.  I could dive into her mind and into her past to keep her three-dimensional.  I think it'll be okay in the end, though I still haven't worked out the rest of the plot. 

   Yeah, you read that right.  I haven't finished the rest of the plot.  I TOLD you I was bad with plotlines!  I'm always scared I'll come up with something cliché or unrealistic.  And I hate the idea of accidently "stealing," plot ideas from other stories.  In the light of all the trillions of stories and novels out there, it's virtually impossible to not "steal" something, don't you agree?  Of course, if I were more confident in what I wanted to say and was more enthusiastic about getting it across, I guess I wouldn't care what people thought and just plow ahead anyway. 

   I know I shouldn't be concerned about that and just say what I want to say, but---it's hard.  The main character is me in circumstances that are familiar to me, (hey, they say write about what you know, right?  At any rate once you're starting out!) but the outcome had to be different.  I'm not telling MY story, I'm telling Kristin Howard's story.  If it *coughcoughSTRONGLYcough* resembles my life, well, cut me some slack.  The whole of my silly story is sort of how I wish I could have been.  What I wish had happened to me when I was in high school--the friends I wish I'd made, the risks I wish I'd taken, and the things I wish I'd learned---which have NOTHING to do with school, mind you! 

   My clumsiness with dialogue and interactions between characters runs a close second to my deficiency for original plot ideas.  I love dialogue in stories.  It's so fun to read, and you get a glimpse into each character's personality if it's well-written.  Dialogue makes stories jump off the pages at you.  It's what makes a story come alive.  Learning their styles of speech and their catch-phrases and listening to their subjects makes you feel like you're meeting a new person.  I love reading aloud to people, and dialogue is one of the things I enjoy most in it.  I have a limited range of voices that I can do, but I work at it. 

   I understand dialogue to some degree and how it's supposed to work.  But it's extremely difficult to write original dialogue between my characters!  I try to make them speak in complete sentences, using real nouns and verbs and prepositional phrases.  But when I write it down and read over it, it looks stiff and stupid.  I keep thinking, "People don't talk like that!  I mean, I talk like that, but I'm kind of a freak that way." 

   OK, seriously, people.  All November, I made a point to eagerly listen to the dialogue going on around me daily, especially when I was out in public.  Conversation always flowed around me in glib rivers, but I couldn't always follow it.  When people talk about things that I know nothing about, I can't follow very well.  I don't understand the words and phrases they use, and those pile up to make long disjointed sentences. 

   People do talk to each other, seemingly.  They jabber on and on about who knows what, and there is never a pause.  They seem to be communicating, but I'm often just puzzled by it. 

   It's not just strangers, either.  Even if they're people I know, I have to have some measure of understanding of the subject, or I can't follow along at all.  Now, I know, people see each other at work or in different spheres of activities, and each has its own lingo.  If you're not there for those things, you won't know.  I understand that.  Maybe I just need to woman up and accept it; just settle for splitting hairs about their grammar (which is dreadfully neglected by people these days, by the way,) or something like that.  Live and let live.

   Yeah.  It was like that all in High School.  My mother always advised me to listen when other girls were speaking so that I could ask good questions about them.  I tried to.  Man, oh, man did I try!  I hovered on the outskirts of forming circles of chattering girls listening intently.  I heard constant jabbering and ceaseless laughter, but it was hard to figure out what the subject was.  It was all a rush of names and phrases and narratives that I knew nothing about.  There was no clear line where one girl's speech ended and another began; it all just bounced around from girl to girl, overlapping and confusing.  They all seemed to be agreeing, and it evidently was all frightfully funny; but to poor little bewildered me listening with all my might and main, they might as well have speaking another dialect of English.  When I was lucky enough to hear an actual noun I clung to it, and if I heard more, I tried to piece them together, but to no avail.  I couldn't tell what they were saying.  Eventually one of two things happened in such a situation.  Either my brain gave up and I moved away to try my luck with another circle, or the tall girls around me were joined by more tall girls, and they crowded together, literally shutting me out. 

   Is it just me, or do people seem to jabber a lot?  What are they talking about?  What is the point of what they're saying?  Is there any point?  And people talk so quickly, trying to cram in as many words as possible before the other person interrupts them.  Sentences rarely even are finished.  They just hang there while the other person starts plowing ahead with their own.  Not to mention all the filler words.  Good GRACIOUS!  How much of the so-called conversation around us is comprised of phrases like, "You know," "Yeah, yeah.." "Oh, I KNOW!" "I was like," etc.?  The finished result?  Something like this one side of a conversation:

   "Oh, I know!  I told her...I told her!  I was like, 'I don't have time to be messing around with stupid people on the phone, when I've got, like, sixty other things I can be doing,' do you know what I mean?  I was like, you know, I was like freaking out, and you know they can't do anything about it either, you know?" 

   Oh, my gosh.  Sometimes I just want to get in people's faces and say, "Stop!  Just stop talking for a second.  Now use words to say what you want to say.  Take some time to think about it if you need to, I'm listening." 

   Trying to make my characters talk in complete sentences looked bizarre when typed out.  It's hard enough trying to engage people around me in meaningful conversation.  Maybe if I was better at that it would come more naturally in my story. 

   Honestly, the main reason that I'm so weak in that area is because by the time I'm writing something down in my journal I can't remember the actual words of the real interaction.  I may remember pieces of it, but I can never remember all the filler and all the empty comments that were batted around that led to the good part.  Dialogue races by me in real life, and I'm lucky if I can just keep in the conversation.  It always has frustrated me that a good story may have led up to an important dialogue with someone, and I end up lamely patching the interaction up in my journal by telling the gist because I simply have no way to quote the real words. 

   I need to get back to working on my novel.  I miss my characters. 

   Hope you enjoyed this little ramble!  It's time for me to hit the sack. 

~Cadenza

Thoughts on Beauty

   One night a few weeks ago I stood in front of the bathroom sink and looked in the mirror.  I had put on makeup that day, and I thought that I looked nice.  It's a quirk of mine that if I take the trouble to put on makeup that day I'm always reluctant to take it off at night. 

   But it was late in the evening.  It was time to take it off.  With a sigh, I lathered up the soap on my fingertips and scrubbed at my eyes. 

   The other odd thing is that once I actually plunge the suds against my eyelids, I wonder why I put it off before.  Warm water, bubbles, scrubbing.  The stiffness and sparkly and smudges let go.  It feels good. 

   Once I felt that it was all off, I rinsed with more warm water.  First my hands, then my eyes.  I felt it all run off my face.

   Then I looked up into the mirror.

   A feeling of mild shock.  The girl in the mirror was the same I'd seen earlier, but she looked totally different.  The pleasure of the rinse had brought a little smile to the corners of my mouth and my eyes looked relieved and happy.  Some of the facial makeup had come up as well, so the girl in the mirror had her naturally rosy cheeks blooming unashamedly under the faint line of freckles on her cheekbones.

   It surprised me because I had thought that I had looked so nice in my makeup, but this look left it far behind.  The expression on my face was one that no camera has ever captured before.  That unaffected, unguarded little smile of unconcerned pleasure. 

   My heart lifted within me for one fleeting moment.  It was one of those rare moments that in a rush of surprise, I suddenly see myself when I didn't expect to.  One of those moments where I knew for sure that I actually am beautiful.  Knew---not arguing with myself, not even hoping---just knowing, objectively, honestly; feeling certain deep down inside that I actually do have a beauty all my own. 

   Of course the moment I became aware of it, it diminished.  The rush of surprise and delight faded, but it left behind the memory of certainty. 

   On a side note here, I've been reading an excellent book by John and Stasi Eldredge called "Captivating."  The tagline is, "Unveiling the mystery of a woman's soul."  I'm not going to give a review on it, but I will say that reading it is like a breath of fresh air.  I read John Eldredge's book, "Wild At Heart," a few months ago, and I was impressed, but still a little uncertain about some of the finer points.  But as I'm reading this revised and expanded edition of "Captivating," my suspicions have come to nothing.  They're right.  They're spot-on.  Every woman needs to know the things they are saying in this book.  It's full of truth that we as women both in our culture as well as in the church have left behind.  Check it out, you won't regret it. 

   My little revelation was not the first I've ever had.  But it made me think about makeup and the role it's played in my life.

   When I was a little girl, people always said I had such rosy cheeks, and they were right.  They're pretty hard to miss.  I have all of this natural pink all over them, not just up on the cheekbones where ladies apply blush.  I always liked that about my face; in an innocent way I was proud of them.  Most of the adults drew attention to them in a complimentary way, and of course I appreciated that. 

   But when I became a teen, they started to work against me.  People saw my rosy face and immediately made the assumption that I was younger than I was.  Their attitude toward me was this infuriating sweetness instead of actually weighing my words and thoughts seriously.  All the time I could tell they were thinking, "Aww, isn't she so cute??" and I could tell they thought my serious conversation was "cute," too, the way we listen to a small child's earnest words. 

   The rule in our house about makeup was you had to be sixteen.  I guess you could say I lucked out on that one.  Mother saw that I needed a bit of concealer and some foundation so that I could look more my age.  She told me that I always looked flushed, as if I'd just been running, and we all know running is entirely inappropriate for a fourteen year old.  I thought that was rather unfair.  I never ran in public by that time, but it still looked as though I had been.  Guilt by circumstantial evidence, apparently.  She further reasoned what I'd already noticed; that people perceived rosy cheeks as a little girl thing that I needed to grow out of.   

   In stories, the oldest girl is always the rebellious one who is pushing all the parental rules to the limit and straining at every leash, especially with wanting makeup before she's sixteen.  I am the oldest daughter, but that's not the way I was.  I was rather reluctant toward makeup.  I didn't like the idea of covering up something that I always thought was kind of a gift.  But over all I was fairly neutral to the idea, and once I started wearing concealer and foundation I began to like it.  It did make me look my age and it didn't take away the color.  It merely evened and smoothed it out.  It made me feel more grown up, and I liked that.   

   When I turned sixteen, I was given eye makeup, and so it began.  At first I didn't like it at all.  I thought it made me look like someone else.  It made me look stiff and formal and uncomfortable.  It made me look too dressed up, and Mother was encouraging me to wear it every time I stepped out the door.  Smudging color on my eyelid made me look bizarre.  I hated how mascara made my lashes look spidery.  I saw no reason to draw lines around my eyes.  It made me look like a painted doll.  With all my makeup on, I looked like I was wearing a mask. 

   It took time to get used to it, and now of course I enjoy it.  My idea of successful makeup application is having enough on to accentuate my features while looking like I'm not wearing any at all.  I look at pictures of Emma Watson online, and I love her image.  Classy, sweet, sophisticated.  Mysterious, alluring, natural, all of them at once. 

   I think of makeup as a persona.  I guess I've always felt that way about it in the back of my mind.  I look young for my age.  If I am not dolled up before I leave the house, people are going to see me as younger than I am.  They are not going to take me seriously unless I have an image of a woman.  I'm in my twenties now, so to be perceived as younger would be bad.  Right?  I guess so. 

   Like I said, I enjoy dressing up and looking like a woman.  It's like going onstage whenever I go out into the world.  I am a woman, so there's no shame in looking the part.  I enjoy it. 

   And yet a professional woman is only part of who I am.  At the end of the day, makeup is only a mask.  There are times, like the other night, when I look at myself without makeup, and I actually question why I even wear it.  This is who I am.  This is how God formed me.  Why do I have to cover up my pretty rosy cheeks?  Why do I have to accentuate my eyes and lips when they were handcrafted by God Himself?  My different smiles and expressions are much more important than any color I could put on them myself.

   I miss those days when rosy cheeks were a thing of beauty.  When I was a teenager, they stopped becoming a beautiful thing and became something to ashamed of---looking younger than I was.  Now as an adult, I'm sorry to say I've bought into that shame a little, seldom leaving the house without just a trace of foundation to smooth it out.  I see and hear about all these products to stop "rosacea," like it's this horrible defect, or something to get rid of, or at least to "control."

   When I was a teenager, I began blushing easily.  I was self-conscious and tried very hard to be proper and do the right thing.  A bit of teasing, and my face started heating up like a microwave, my cheeks first, then spreading all over my face.  People could see it immediately, and they laughed at me, making me blush even more.  Sure it was embarrassing, and yeah, I took myself a little too seriously back then, but actually I'm kind of glad that I blush easily.  In the Bible, and sometimes in other (older!) books, it's a sign of modesty or transparency.  Today it's nothing more than an indicator of who's-got-a-crush-on-who, but I think the old meaning still holds.  When I see a girl who blushes easily, I appreciate that in her.  If she's shy or transparent, then she probably is sweet and kind, not brash and flippant like many young girls. 

   I just miss those days when beauty was something that I knew I had and never had to feel ashamed of.  I like freckles and rosy cheeks.  It looks fresh, healthy, vibrant.  I liked it when people appreciated my natural beauty, and I didn't have to mask myself to be understood or listened to.  When I didn't have to look jaded and shrewd and guarded and---striving all the time. 

   I long to be a woman, yes.  But I want to be one of those women with dancing eyes who walks with a careless, breezy grace.  I want to be transparent as well as wise and discerning.  I want my hair to be loose as well as tastefully styled.  Windblown, unpretentious, with a mystery about her.  Deep, perceiving eyes as well as a ready smile and a playful sense of humor.  A sense of ethereal other-worldliness and freedom about her, like the wind. 

   A woman at peace.  A woman confident in God's love, unafraid to love deeply and to pour herself into others. 
  
   That's the kind of beauty I want to have.

~Cadenza