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

Shepherds

   I had an odd thought today about the Christmas story.  I was listening to a song that a friend of mine has written about the shepherds who were the first to hear about Jesus the night He was born.  We all know the story; we've heard the Scriptures many times before.  There were some shepherds out in the fields watching their sheep the night that Jesus was born.  An angel of the LORD suddenly appears in front of them, and the Scripture says they were terrified.

   In our culture, and especially around Christmas time, we see angels depicted for us as a man with wings and a cute little halo hovering over his head.  They usually have a very human sort of expression on their face, a nice smile.  Or, what's worse, they are depicted as beautiful females with long curly hair and mouths open in song.  I don't think that's anything like what the shepherds saw. 

   Angels are unlike anything we run across visually in this fallen world.  They are unfallen creatures who stand before the living God singing and crying out praises to Him ceaselessly.  They have a white-hot passion for the glory of God.  They are powerful creatures.  Have you ever noticed that whenever they show up in the Bible, the natural response is terror?  Their very appearance is so overwhelming that the humans who see them are tempted to worship them.  Let's not kid ourselves.  If a messenger from the throne room of Heaven suddenly appeared in front of us in a blaze of light, we'd all fall down and drop our eyes. 

   We know the story.  The angel first tells them not to be afraid, and tells them that the long-awaited Messiah and Savior of Israel is finally born, and he tells them where they can find Him.  And it goes on to say that a multitude of God's angels suddenly appear with the first angel crying out praises to God together in one voice.  Praising God for His favor and kindness toward men.  He's sending one who will pay the price for their sins and reconcile them to their Creator again.  I don't really know what that was like to witness that, but it must have been breathtaking. 

   I love the shepherds' response.  The angels suddenly vanish all at once, and the normal, quiet dark of the night closes around them again.  They probably stare at one another's faces, awestruck, silently asking each other, "Did you see that?!" 

   They immediately say to each other, "The Messiah!  The One Israel has been waiting for is actually here!  We've got to find Him!  Let's go!  Let's go now!  The LORD actually told us about this!  I'm not waiting another minute, we're going to Bethlehem!!" 

   Oh, what I would give to be able to eavesdrop in on that conversation!  I can just imagine them hurriedly putting out the fire and gathering their things together.  "We can leave the sheep alone for a while.  Yeah, they're our livelihood but this is the Messiah we're talking about!  I bet if God told us to go find Him than He'll keep an eye on our sheep for us!" 

   And then they go "with haste," to Bethlehem.  I wonder how far it was and how many doors they had to bang on in the middle of the night.  People probably thought they were crazy.

   "What in the world do you want?!"

   "Please, sir, was there a child born here tonight?" 

   "What?  No!  Of course not!  What are you talking about?"

   "It's the Messiah!  He's born!  He's here, somewhere!  In Bethlehem!  You'll never believe what happened tonight!  We've seen messengers of the Lord and they told us to look for a child laying in a manger."

   "Well, you won't find your child in a manger here, now if you'll excuse me--!"  *slam* 

   "Who was that, dear?  Is there trouble?"

   "Oh, it's unbelievable.  Those ridiculous shepherds have gone completely crazy!" 


   They keep searching until they find Him.  It says they "spread the word," everywhere, so I guess that means they told every innkeeper what had happened, and by the next day the rumors were flying.  They found Him that night, and they worshiped Him.  They went back to their fields singing and praising God and talking excitedly all the way.  For so many years there has been no revelation from the Lord.  No prophet, no Man of God, no judge to rule the people.  They've been crushed under the Roman Empire, and now, as every one in the nation is wondering in the back of their minds if God has forgotten them, all of a sudden He's here!  He's come!  The Savior has come, even though they probably didn't understand what kind of Savior He was going to be.  

   Someone once told me that the shepherds of that day and age were known for their dishonesty.  They were the low-life, the riff-raff, and they weren't even allowed to testify in a court of law!  These were not the nice, God-fearing people that I tend to picture them being.  Not to mention they lived outside with sheep.  Dirty, smelly, sketchy people. 

   I'd never thought of the word "sketchy" to describe them until today.  Dirty, smelly, dishonest, yes.  But when I thought "sketchy characters," to myself, something clicked. 

   God and His angels are rejoicing in Heaven.  The Incarnation has actually taken place.  The Prophet, Priest, and King is now on the earth on His rescue mission.  It's almost as if the news is so good, He didn't want to keep it to Himself. 

   The heavenly messenger is sent, and not to the king's court.  Not to the Pharisees and the Scribes and the council.  Not even to the High Priest of Israel.  He was sent to the outcasts, the low-life, the dishonest, dirty, smelly shepherds. 

   That's because Jesus wasn't sent to save the self-sufficient, self-satisfied, "nice" people.  He was sent to save those who know that they're bad and need help.  Praise the Lord that He opens the eyes of the self-satisfied and shows them their need of Him!  Else, I wouldn't be writing this now. 

   And here's another thought: the shepherds responded rightly.  They ran to see.  When they saw, they worshipped, they praised God, and then they went out and told everyone who would listen all that they had seen, whether they would believe it or not.  How many of us can say that today? 

   I thought it was ironic that as I was shopping today, I turned off my radio playing cheery Christmas music about cozy, happy family scenes, immediately to walk into a crowded store where there were no smiles to be seen.  Decorations, sure.  Music, sure.  Light, sure.  Even a few, "Happy Holidays to ya,"---spoken in a tired voice.  Everyone's tired.  Everyone's rushed, everyone is zoned out.  So much to do, and so little time.  That's not the way Christmas is supposed to be!  

   I thought of the Roman Census that was decreed when Mary was almost ready to have the baby.  Not a good time to attempt a long, dusty, dangerous journey.  And everyone was forced to return to their city, and many of them were poor and didn't have much money for a long journey.  Imagine the hassle, the inconvenience, and of course the dangers on the road.  Robbers, wild animals, fatigue.  You couldn't just pull off the road and grab something to eat.  Everybody was stressed out, worried, fatigued then, just like---in an imperfect sort of analogy,---like everyone is today when Christmas draws near. 

   When they get there, none of the inns have any vacancy, and her precious little baby is born on a cold, nasty stable floor.  The King of the Universe lies in a feeding trough, while the busy, unhappy, bustling world goes on like usual outside.  

   I couldn't help but see the connection.  There's no cheer.  Everyone is always so busy.  And in first-world countries, everybody is grumpy at Christmas time.  Or just tired out buying the latest electronics for the "not-yet-tweenagers," at home, and the coolest new toys for the little ones, and the really big gifts for the discontented teenagers with the long wish lists.  I think our priorities are sadly---ridiculously---messed-up.  We're so consumed with our materialism and discontent.  It's awful.  It grieves my heart.  Some people that I know don't even have enough clothes to keep out the cold this time of year.  They're busy too...busy trying to keep their children warm, trying to stretch their food and money and small resources.  I think we, in L.M. Montgomery's words, "have too much Christmas."  The real spirit of Christmas is in giving, not receiving.  The joy of giving exceeds what we get.  Yeah, I know.  Sounds cliché.  But ever give it a try?  I mean, Christ Himself said it was more blessed to give than to receive. 

   Do we have room in our hearts for Christ this Christmas?  Or are we too busy?  Or too stressed with things that really don't matter so much?  Or, like me, are we just too distracted by our own clamoring needs that we don't take the time to rest in Jesus and enjoy His deliverance over our sins?   

   The "riff-raff" of the shepherds puts us to shame.  They praised God with breathless wonder and spread the good news to everyone.  

   And then there were the learned in their ivory towers, watching the skies.  They knew by the stars that something huge and incredible and good was coming into their lifetime.  They watched the Star appear, and they saw it rise, and they knew a King---a very great and special King---had been born.  They were so convinced that they prepared kingly gifts, and took horse and rode all the way across the desert to Israel, and into Herod's throne room to seek the Child.  A journey of two years or so. 

   These are the "pagans" outside of the fold of Israel!  But they studied the skies, and they so they knew when the Great King was born, and they had faith to seek Him, though they lived countries away.  When they found Him, they rejoiced and worshiped the Child.  They gave Him gold, because they knew He was a Great King.  They gave Him incense, because they had some measure of understanding of His Divinity.  And myrrh.  A spice used to embalm the dead.  Symbolizing sorrow, death, and love.  Somehow they knew that this Child was God and King, and yet that He would know man's sorrow, and share in his pain.  

   When Herod heard the Magi's news, he was disturbed, and you know about his cunning and his slaughter of the innocents. 

   When Herod asked the chief priests and the scribes, they could quote the Scripture glibly and tell exactly where He was to be born.  But none of them went to go see and to adore the Child.  They didn't bring extravagant gifts and thank God for sending them a Deliverer. 

   Let us not forget to seek Him.  He came to us first.  He came to pay our ransom, and He took all of the Father's wrath that was intended for our crimes, sins, and breaking of His laws.  Let us not be too busy or too greedy to give our hearts to the One who came to save us. 

   Give Him your heart this Christmas. 

~Cadenza
    

NaNoWriMo

   Hey, everyone! 

   Just thought I should let you know that this November I am participating in National Novel Writing Month; aka NaNoWriMo. 

   So, I'm going to write a novel this month, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to blog for the next four weeks or so. 

   Of course, I'm nervous about the whole thing.  I can journal for hours on end, but I haven't really tried to write a real story before.  I'm supposed to start typing at midnight tonight, and I still don't really know what the plotline of my story will be. 

   Yeah.  So.  Wish me luck.  And prayers would definitely be welcome! 

   Happy November!

~Cadenza

Tired

   I'm tired, and I'm not sure why.  Technically I got more hours of sleep last night than I usually get in two or three nights put together.  And then I just napped for most of the afternoon.  What is going on with me?

   You may be asking the same thing.  I haven't posted in forever, and I know it.  I just decided I wanted to post today without waiting to be inspired or happy or whatever. 

   These last few weeks have been hard on me.  I've taken a few nanny jobs, and everything was going fairly well until last week.  I came home and had an all-out meltdown.

   Sometimes being single and counter-cultural feels like being on a ship adrift out on the ocean.  Sometimes it's stormy, sometimes I feel becalmed.  Both are horrible.  There are always questions hounding me; the same questions that have been hounding me since high school.  I still don't know how to answer them.  Some days I'm trying to steer my ship in a heavy fog.  I don't know where I'm going, I don't know if I'm about to run aground or run up against rocks.  And on days that I have visibility, I only see sky and water in every direction. 

   What am I supposed to be doing?  I mean, obviously I have to scrub the deck, fix meals, adjust the sails, and whatever.  But where am I supposed to be going?  I have a chart, but it's just suggestions.  I don't know what my mission is.  I'm not on some dramatic Hollywood quest in search of a lost treasure.  I'm just---here. 

   Gee, I wish I was on some quest!  Sometimes I think it'd be easier if life were a bit more like the movies.  Because then there'd be purpose and adventure and an amazing score playing while I just happen to catch that rope that's conveniently hanging down and swing myself over onto...but that's not how it works.  I'm coming home from bedlam which I call nannying, straight onto a becalmed ship.  Sure, I can mess around with my belongings in my cabin, or I can read interesting books, but on the inside, I'm miserable and lonely and scared.

   I want my readers to see me on days like this as well as on the days that I'm chattering about the weather.  Last night I was so tired I could barely function.  Today I'm in the fog.  Maybe I should be screaming and panicking, or maybe I should be madly rushing around filling my time with activities.  When I feel like this, it's like nothing matters.  Why bother?  The stupid sails will just need to be adjusted later.  That ridiculous kitchen will always have to be cleaned.  Get some other crew member to scrub that deck, they're the ones tracking all over it anyway.

   Sometimes when I tell people about what I'm feeling, they get all in my face and start trying to fix me.  I've even seen people get to the point of anger with me as they pound "solutions," in my face.  I probably don't see how they'll help anything, and what are they expecting me to do?  Start jumping up and down and saying, "Oh goody-goody-gumdrops!!"

   I suspect I've struggled with depression (off and on) for a long time now.  I don't mean I've been diagnosed by a doctor, I'm just thinking about most of my life, starting in my young teen years.  My natural response to trouble is to run, to hide.  I've been running from things for most of my life.  I know in my brain that if you face things, most of what makes them scary turns out to be shadows.  I know that running doesn't solve anything.  I know it in my head, but everyone knows it's hard to follow your head knowledge when your heart is pounding, adrenaline rushing, and sweat trickling down your back.  But running isn't doing me any good.  It's only bottling up anger and resentment inside of me.  I've kept my problems so well-hidden that when people find out, it's a battle not to just blow up in anger. 

   But, if you think about it, what's one thing about a ship that I failed to mention?  The compass.  When a ship gets surrounded by fog, you trust the instruments.  You follow the map; you use the compass to steer the ship, no matter how you feel.  And in a howling storm, when the ship is falling apart and about to sink, what's the one thing all sailors do?  They cry out to God.  In moments like that it's crystal clear to us that there must be a God, and He's the last thing to fall on. 

   What I forget is that the God who controls the wind and the waves is my heavenly Father.  Gee, have I forgotten to preach the Gospel to myself?  He loves me, and He steers me because ever since He made me His child, I'm on His adventure. 

   I may not know which port to steer for, but I have a Compass that tells me which way to steer my intentions, my thoughts, my loves, and of course my actions.  I can think I'm "choosing" a destination, but He has already mapped out my course and is going to make sure I get there.

   I'd like to share a song that's grown dear to me over the past few years.

  "Jesus, Savior, pilot me over life's tempestuous sea
   Unknown waves before me roll, hiding rock and treacherous shoal.
   Chart and compass come from Thee,
   Jesus, Savior, pilot me. 
   Wondrous Sovereign of the sea,
   Jesus, Savior, pilot me.

   Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to Thy bosom fly,
   While the nearer waters roll, while the tempest still is high.
   May I hear Him say to me, "Fear not, I will pilot thee."
   Gracious Sovereign of the sea,
   Jesus, Savior, pilot me." 


   That's my prayer for this week.

~Cadenza

A Spoonful of Memories

   Not ready for a post about England.  Getting there, but not yet. 

   The movie "Mary Poppins" has been on my mind recently.  Last time I saw it was as I was flying with my friends on my way to India.  D. had the movie on his ipad and the kiddos were watching it with earphones.  Eventually one of them fell asleep, so like the considerate person I am, I pounced to take out the earphones and to place mine in the Y-clip.  I hadn't watched that movie in ages, and I really, really wanted to see it again.

   I grew up with Mary Poppins.  This will reveal my age when I say that I grew up watching it on VHS.  Not that old, but not exactly born yesterday.  When I say that I grew up with it, I don't mean that it was my favorite.  As I watched it that night on the plane, I had the strange experience of knowing nearly every line of it, yet feeling as if I were seeing it for the first time.  It was one of those movies that was a significant part of my childhood, yet I never understood any of it. 

   As bizarre as it may sound, I think that I understand the movie, "Inception," better than I understand "Mary Poppins."  Perhaps even more bizarre, (sounding) I have this idea that if I write a blog post about it, it'll help me think it through and understand it.  That's because that's what I usually do in my journals.  I turn it over in my mind, and as I write, clarity comes.  So that's what I'm going to do.

   As a child, I couldn't understand most of the conversations between the characters.  All I could really gather was the feel of the story.  They were just images, and not much of it made any sense.  Some things stuck with me, but I'll get to that later.

   Honestly, I didn't like the movie for a very long time.  One reason was because the story line made no sense to me.  Another reason was because I didn't like the grownups in the story, excepting Mary Poppins and Bert, and perhaps the absurd Uncle Albert.  I'm getting ahead of myself again.  I should start at the beginning.

   Watching it on the plane, I had a chance to understand the story.  We are ushered to a prim house on the streets of London that appears to be a normal household.  But as we come inside, we find it is a house full of trouble.  George Banks, the father of the house, is a successful man who works at the bank.  His head is full of money and numbers and pride in his accomplishments.  He does love his wife, but he is somewhat cold and a little distant from her.  Toward his children he is very cold and very distant.  He has no time for them; they don't really fit in with the his agenda and the life that he is living, so he pays no attention to them at all unless they have done something wrong.

   Then we have Mrs. Winifred Banks, the mother.  As a child, I didn't have anything against her, except a vague feeling that she didn't feel like a "mommy."  But again, perhaps that's because in that culture, a nanny always took care of the children.  Watching it this time I saw and appreciated her like I never have before.  She does not work, nor does she take care of her children.  Her husband is at work all the time, so she has her own agenda and her own way that she spends her time.  She is working with other women to earn votes and rights for women, and she is very taken up with it!  Not wrong, in and of itself, of course.  I also noticed that not only does she love Mr. Banks, she respects and supports him.  She wants him to take leadership, and she builds him up and follows his lead.  I like that about her.    

   The children, Jane and Michael, are about 7 and 5, I should think.  They are not getting attention or discipline from their parents, and so, being normal children, this encourages them to be mischievous and wild, which is trying to their nannies.  The children don't like how cross their nannies always are with them.  They want to be loved and listened to.  And they're not getting that from anyone. 

   Several nannies have recently left the house in a huff, and then the servants are cross because they have to take care of the children instead of doing their own work. 

   The story begins with Mr. Banks writing an advertisement for a new nanny; requesting someone brisk, sharp, and no-nonsense.  The children come with an advertisement of their own that they've written for a nanny that they would like to have.  Someone kind, pretty, and fun.  Mr. Banks dismisses them coldly off to bed and tears up their letter in disgust and throws it in the fireplace.  The pieces of the letter fly away, and while many nannies gather in a "queue," outside the Banks' house, a strong wind blows them all away and ushers in the perfect nanny:  Mary Poppins.  She's so brisk that she whisks herself into the new position, and the children have their new nanny.  She gives them her undivided attention when they speak, but she is dignified and must be obeyed.  Yet she's fun and cheerful, and she plays games, sings songs, and takes them on adventures.

   It was from Mary Poppins that I first heard that every job can be fun.  You can make it fun if your attitude is cheerful.  One of my favorite scenes to watch as a child was when the children are tidying up the nursery.  For years afterwards I would hum the song and snap my fingers at work, and then quickly do it, pretending it was doing itself. 

   We meet Bert, a chimney-sweep, who is poor but happy.  He lives his life working at what he likes to do, and he finds joy in every day.  As a child, I loved his character and wanted to be like him.  The image of him dancing away in the rain after the "jolly holiday," always moved me deeply as a child.  His little song that he always sings was both cheerful and melancholy.  I felt both emotions when I heard it, and though I couldn't understand why, I always longed to run after him and go with him wherever he went.  It was as if his life was full of adventure that no one else could share, and I wanted to be like that.   

   With Mary Poppins in the house, every thing runs smoothly.  The children are happy and well-behaved, and that makes Mrs. Banks happy.  The servants are chipper because they no longer have to watch the children.  But Mr. Banks is still only concerned with his job and agenda to care about why everyone is so happy.  He stalks off to work. 

   I suppose Mary Poppins knows that Mr. Banks is not spending enough time with his children, so she suggests that he take them to his bank and show him what he does every day.  Mr. Banks likes the idea, and the children are glad to go anywhere with their father. 

   What makes me think that is something she says to the children as she's putting them to bed.  She says, "Sometimes someone we love, through no fault of his own can't see past the end of his nose.  Sometimes a little thing can be quite important."  She shows them her snowglobe of St. Paul's Cathedral, with the shapes of little birds flying about it, and begins to sing the song, "Feed the Birds."

   This is where the movie began to confuse me as a child.  Before I could always sort of follow along, but here things stopped making sense.  The song, with its haunting melody and melancholy words troubled me.  I couldn't understand what was so important about feeding wild birds, who could find food on their own.  But today I wonder if the birds were actually the only important thing about it.  The little old woman, with her ragged hat and torn clothing, apparently made her living selling bags of crumbs.  And only tuppence a bag meant that she didn't make very much money.  Having been in England recently, I think of all the people selling things on the streets, or even begging.  Most people, including myself, hurry past and often don't want to even make eye-contact.  There are several reasons for that, but the old woman in the story needs help.  She's working for her money, but she's relying on the time and kindness of other people.  She is important, but many people are just so used to seeing her that they don't bother.  Many of us, I think, go through life hardly looking past the end of our noses; our lives, our agendas, our wants.  Perhaps what Mary Poppins was trying to impress on the children was that they should look out for people who are in need, and should take time to help them.  It was veiled carefully in a haunting melody and bittersweet words, and it made an impression on the children. 

   The next day on the way to the bank, Michael brings along tuppence so that he can feed the birds.  They ask their father if they can.  Mr. Banks sees no use in wasting time and money on birds, and he decides that with that tuppence, Michael can open an account of his own once they get to the bank.  So he forbids feeding the birds, and hurries them on.

   When I watched the movie as a child, the scenes at the bank scared me.  All the tall old men bustling about in their black suits and with their creaky voices frightened me.  The bank itself was so huge, cold, and colorless.  I hated it.  It made a very strong impression on me.  When my father took me to open my first savings account at the bank, he couldn't understand why I was so nervous.  I didn't want to admit that the reason my stomach was in knots was because of the impression of banks I'd gotten from Mary Poppins.  That one that I first opened my account in is dreary inside; all brown and black, with all those cameras and jail-like bars between you and the tellers.  To this day, I dislike going to banks.      

   It got worse, nightmarish.  To an adult, it is amusing to see all those old men singing a song about the wisdom of investing money from an early age, but to a child it is scary.  The ridiculous song with all its long words sounds so impressive, but all I or the children in the movie could understand of it is that all these people wanted Michael's money.  They don't understand why they want it; their father didn't explain it to them beforehand.  They are intimidating and their eyes are wide and urgent.  Their father is only trying to help, but he's only applying more pressure, and the children feel they have no protection.  Plus, they are remembering what Mary Poppins told them about feeding the birds, newly stamped on their minds as something important.  As the song comes to its climax, the men close in on the children until they are backed against the wall.  Michael reluctantly opens his hand with the tuppence in it, and the president of the bank snatches it away.  Michael's nerve breaks, and his stubbornness kicks in and he demands his money back in a shout.  He rushes forward and begins to struggle with the old man, and loyal Jane jumps to his side.  All the old men and Mr. Banks try to interfere, resulting only in confusion.

   The confusion turns to chaos when the people hear the shouts of, "Give me back my money!" and panic, each demanding all of their money, and a run begins.  Adults are running everywhere and crowding into the doors.  Money spills, the music races, the police arrive and are trying to control the mob, and then in the midst of all the confusion, Michael retrieves his money, and he and Jane run wildly out of the bank and get lost in the alleys.  They run into Bert and he manages to calm them down and find out why they're running away. 

   (This is a very long post...I promise that when I talk about another movie I won't do it like this.)

   As Bert sits them down and talks to them, his conversation never made much sense to me as a child.  I sensed it was important, but I didn't know why or how.  Watching it now, so many years later, I was impressed at how Bert speaks to them.  He defends their father, and shows them that while they have lots of people to look out for them, Mr. Banks has no one looking after him.  He just presses on with his job and doesn't complain.  He tells them that every father needs help from his children, and that their father loves them very much.  Then he takes them home.

   The Romp on the rooftop I will summarize by saying that it is one of the most delightful scenes Disney ever made.  I love Romps in stories.  The whole dance is such an expression of childlike joy, wild and yet structured.  Everyone in the household joins in, except the shocked Mr. Banks.  At a whistle from Bert, they all tip their hats to Mr. Banks and disappear into the night. 

   Mr. Banks receives a call, summoning him to the bank at 9 o'clock, undoubtedly to be fired.  Bert, who stayed behind to gather his brushes, talks with Mr. Banks, reminding him of his responsibility to be there for his children, and pointing out that they won't be children for long.  He gives him a cheery goodnight, and leaves.  Mr. Banks is still mulling that over when the children come and apologize for the trouble at the bank, and Michael gives him the tuppence. 

   As Mr. Banks walks towards the bank, he stops at the steps of St. Paul's and looks toward where the bird woman sits during the day.  I wonder what goes through his mind right there.  I wonder if he was thinking that if he had taken a bit of time for his children---and so for the bird woman---and so for the birds---he wouldn't be on his way to be fired from his job. 

   That whole scene of Mr. Banks being discharged was another frightening scene to me as a child.  I was always afraid they were going to kill him or something.  And I still have no idea why Mr. Banks starts giggling hysterically in the middle of it all and says "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," when he can't think of anything to say.  I'm completely guessing here,...maybe he saw how ridiculous the whole thing was?  A bank failing because of a mere two pence?  They smack a hole in his hat, tear a bit from the flower on his suit and turn his umbrella inside out and are being so deadly serious about it!  They can't do anything else to him, and for once he can't think of anything to say, so he says Mary Poppins' word for that situation.  Maybe he feels all the pressure from his job off his shoulders?  I have no idea!! 

   And then everything begins to resolve.  He mends the children's kite and goes out with them to fly it, and he is actually rehired into the bank by Mr. Dawes Jr., who, with all the rest of the bank men, are out flying kites, too! 

   Mary Poppins knows that the family is happy now, so she quietly leaves, and Bert waves goodbye to her from the ground. 

   Hmm, so now, I feel that most of it makes sense.  Now I'm dying to see it again!  It's such a good, strong movie, even if it is a little strange.  I always enjoyed the score, the songs, and the dances.  Much of that element of colorful make-believe and of adventure helped to make me who I am today.  It helped me begin to understand that adults can be joyful and young at heart.  That's something that I've always clung to.  I will never be too old for a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine of life go down. 

   Congratulations if you've made it this far!  Again, I promise my next movie review won't be so detailed or so rambling.  I hope you enjoyed it.  Every kid should watch Mary Poppins.


~Cadenza