I published my song, “Autumn Hero” on Bandcamp recently, and shared it on Facebook. However, I haven’t shared it with my readers here, yet. Most of you are familiar with my writing endeavors, but perhaps don’t know a whole lot about my music. I just finished making a lyric video for my new song, and thought you all might like to hear it. This song was actually sitting around in the “what-do-I-do-with-this” corner of my universe for at least a year, if not two, but didn’t start production until about two months ago. Despite the long wait, here it is.
I just recovered from a two-hour long, very prayerful panic attack. Last night we finished recording and mixing the final version of my newest single, “Autumn Hero.” Last week I promised my Facebook followers (i.e. friends and family) that I would release the unmastered single this Friday (tomorrow), and the mastered version would be on the full album. When I went to make sure I could upload an Mp3 file to Bandcamp, I discovered that, in fact, I can’t. I only had the option of three other file types. I prayed about it, and downloaded the song my producer had sent me to my computer. Then I texted him and asked if it was complicated to convert an Mp3 to a WAV file. I still haven’t heard back.
For some reason, I also couldn’t figure out how to save the file to a particular place. Nonetheless, I had it on my computer, and I just kept it open while I tried to figure other things out. I do eventually have to get the whole album mastered, and I thought that, though I might have to disappoint my followers, I could at least try and figure out who I used to master my first album, and see how quickly they could master and convert this one song. I prayed about this, too, and the idea came into my head to look at the release date of my first album on my Bandcamp page. It was released on September sixteenth, 2014, so I looked back in my emails, but I couldn’t find the files for the album that had been sent.
Finally I reverted to the idea that just maybe there might be a way to convert the file myself. I prayed about it again, and I found a YouTube video that explained a fairly simple, albeit imperfect way to do it with iTunes. I don’t have iTunes on my computer, but my dad does. Thus my insanely convoluted solution was to forward the Mp3 to my dad, who could upload it to his iTunes, convert it by following the video I also included in my email, and email the converted version back to me so I can upload it to Bandcamp.
I know God is behind this project. Last night we ran into a technological problem at the studio. We figured out how to solve it incredibly quickly because I remembered to ask for help. Two weeks before that, we were nearly finished with “Autumn Hero,” when an entirely new song came to my mind in what must have been two minutes. I did not write that song. We’ve already started working on it, and I’m super excited. The new song is called, “Heart Of Love.” The funny thing is, it’s hard to sing, and I could modify the melody slightly to make it easier, but I just know I have to sing it how it was given to me.
Yesterday the people working on our car got us a rental. Our piece of junk is in our driveway at the moment because they’re waiting to get an expert mechanic in from I-forget-where. Having the rental is such a blessing, though. I was able to easily get to the studio last night, and we recorded harmony, as well as a potential guitar solo down on my song Autumn Hero. We also got quite a lot of mixing done. For those who don’t know, mixing is where you take each individually recorded piece of a song and get the “levels” or volume of each instrument or voice part right, as well as putting any effects on things.
It’s really awesome that Ken, my producer, happens to be Christian because we pray at the beginning of each session, and we always end up going on ten minute long God-is-awesome tangents. The title of the album that Autumn Hero will be on is, A Song To Sing In The Dark. It’s meant to be a musical declaration that there is always hope because the God of the universe, who is infinite and omnipotent triumphed over darkness, chaos, and death.
So why do I mention the rental car? It has tie-down straps to hold my wheelchair in place. Our regular car does not. I got in a bit of an argument with my mom yesterday because it takes a minute to tie my chair down. I am impatient, and I know that. I realized something else, though. The straps make me feel like I’m on a leash like a dog. They’re a bit of a blow to my pride. I still say that the rental, and even the straps are a blessing because I evidently need to work on humility, as well as patience.
This week we had to be out of the house on Tuesday and for a few hours yesterday because we were having some work done. We’re going up to Maine on Saturday, and we’ll be staying over for the first time. By no means is the house anywhere near permanent livable conditions, so it will basically be like camping. Between working on music, and simply being stuck out of our MA house quite a bit this week, though, I haven’t got much work done on my book. I was hoping to work on Saturday to make up some lost time. I can obviously bring my laptop to Maine, but we’re going to have company, which means I might not get a whole lot done. I think this is another chance to let God work on me. To be perfectly honest, I do think camping out in the house will be fun.
I could have worked on my book today, but I ended up spending the whole day managing my online music stuff. It took much longer than I thought it would. It was a productive day, though, and I think it was worth the time. What I do, I do for God, not for profit. If profit comes in the end, then that’s a plus. Any creative endeavor is a bit of a dangerous business, though, because it can naturally feed a person’s pride. The other day, I was working on my book, and I had writer’s block. At the end of the day, I gave up, then an idea came to me, and I knew it was from God. I thanked Him, and I later realized that he hadn’t helped me earlier because, though I had asked for help already, I hadn’t really admitted that I couldn’t do what I was doing without His help. I’m good at writing because He gave me that talent.
The other night my guitar and I had an appointment at the studio where I recorded my first album, after a three year hiatus. My guitar had been staring me down for those three years while I’ve been writing my book, and the musician in me decided she had finally had enough. Thus, I got my guitar, and at eight o’clock last Wednesday night, I picked up my guitar, and headed to the studio.
My new project is called, “A Song To Sing In The Dark.” My first album, “Replace These Empty Spaces,” featured personal songs about a myriad of experiences and ideas. My new project, while also very personal, is ultimately a worship album. We’re going through a dark time right now, and we need songs to sing in the dark. I’ve been holding off on doing this because I wanted to finish my book, but I need to write these songs for me, and also so that the rest of the world can hear that there’s at least one kid who’s not afraid of the dark.
I also decided to start on this project for two other reasons, however. The first is that, I took lessons from, and worked on my first album with the guy who owns the studio, and I’ve missed him. I’ve been dying to stop into the studio and say, “hi,” but I never know when he’s going to be working. The other reason is that, I’ve had songwriter’s block for the majority of the three years I’ve been working on my book, but I knew that working with my friend would help me alleviate that. I’m not always good at being my own boss, and lately, I’ve been finding a lot of excuses to take the day off or hang out with company. I think having an extra project to keep me busy and keep me motivated will also keep me focused.
We’ve already got a decent head-start on three of the songs. One is written and composed for the most part, and another is at least partly composed, but I have to finished writing the lyrics. The third, I’m going to sing acapapella. I want to do thirteen songs total, and right now, I have ten ideas at least loosely figured out. I’ll be headed back over there tomorrow, and I’m hoping we can start recording some stuff.
Yesterday we had a pretty good thunderstorm near our house. I am twenty five, but there is still a five-year-old part of me that gets excited about thunder. My dad and I just finished watching all of what has been released of the series “Vikings.” A line that sticks out to me is when one of the main characters, Rollo, who is a viking warrior who marries a French princess, is explaining to his wife, “When you hear thunder, it’s just thunder, but when I hear thunder, I still hear Thor striking his hammer.”
Something I remembered as I watched the rain come down through my bedroom/office window yesterday was when God reveals himself to the prophet Elijah. 1 Kings 19-11-12 says, in effect, that God did not reveal himself in a great wind, or an earthquake or in a fire, but in a “still small voice.” This seems counter intuitive, but then I reflect on all the times it has seemed that God has spoken to me. As a kid, I was always looking for God in the thunder and lightning that I still love to this day. I don’t usually find him there, though.
I found myself reflecting, too on the idea the vikings had that, if there was thunder, then Thor was striking his hammer. That was just a given. The idea resonates with me. To me, as both a Christian and a fantasy writer, the idea that thunder is just thunder doesn’t quite cut it. When I hear thunder, I hear the sound of God’s glory. I can listen to a thousand worship songs, and don’t get me wrong, I love worship music. In fact, I think my favorite song is, “How Great Thou Art.” Those songs don’t compare to the thrill and joy I get when I hear thunder. I think that’s why the five-year-old in me will never grow up. What I mean is, God doesn’t necessarily speak through the thunder, but he can use it to remind people how awesome he is.
God’s glory is so obvious in his Creation that it’s easy to take it for granted. It’s evident in the sound of thunder, and the downpour falling on the roof. It’s evident in the flash of lighting, and in the dark, mighty clouds. It’s evident, too in the silence after the storm. Beyond that, though it’s evident in even the simplest things–the foods we eat, the things we smell, the colors we see, the softness of a pet’s fur or feathers–all of it.
Imagine how the world would be different if God hadn’t bothered to make color, or given us the ability to see color. Similarly, imagine if the world had been made without sound, or if humans didn’t hear sound for some reason. I acknowledge that some people don’t have the gift of sight, or of hearing. I would like to reflect on that, too.
I have been gifted with language. I have had a good education, and one thing I can confidently say I’m good at is writing, and I’m a moderately good speaker. On the other hand, I suffer from epilepsy. Epilepsy is a weird disorder, and comes in many forms. People experience it in different ways. In my case, I generally lose the ability to use and comprehend language, and in the worst cases, I lose awareness of my surroundings, but don’t exactly black out. Though it has no monetary value, language is something I personally value very highly, and it genuinely terrifies me when I lose the ability to communicate, even momentarily.
As part of my devotions every day, I read something from scripture. Sometimes I’ll just pick something out at random, sometimes I’ll use the daily Mass readings, and sometimes God will give me something to reflect on. Today I felt I needed to spend some time to reflect on the reading from today’s Morning Prayer (from the Liturgy of the Hours). It was from the book of Job. He poses the question, “If we take happiness from God’s hand, must we not take sorrow, too?” To be clear, God doesn’t want people to suffer, and he doesn’t impose suffering on people. He does allow people to suffer, and that’s hard to understand.
My dad has told me that when I’m having a seizure, or what I call “brain fuzz,” even though I don’t know I’m doing it, I sometimes repeat the word, “No” over and over. Something, maybe in my subconscious, is protesting, and I love that. I often know ahead of time when I’m going to have “brain fuzz.” My prayer used to be, “God, take this away.” When it became clear that He wasn’t going to, I changed it to, “Please let this one pass, but if you don’t, just stay with me.” Sometimes I think that, “No” is His way of saying with me that “this is not okay.”
In a way, I can appreciate what my brain fuzz does to me. I can appreciate how scary it is and how alone it makes me feel because I know that Jesus was alone through His Passion. This is very obvious when He says from the cross, “My God, my God, why have You abandoned me?” When I lose the ability even to think words, I am sometimes tempted to feel that I have been abandoned. I believe, however, that that subconscious “No!” is His way of being with me, even if I don’t understand it. This is my choice, and in this way, I choose to view even my epilepsy, and in particular, that, “No!” as a gift.
How does any of that have to do with thunder or glory? Sometimes I reflect on things Jesus said or did, either in Scripture or in revelation to Saints, and though I love Him, He is intimidating. During the storm yesterday, I thought about how I find thunder exciting and comforting at the same time. God doesn’t need to use words to reveal Himself to us. I hear His glory in the thunder because, as the five-year-old part of me might say, He is big, and I am small, He is God, and I am not, and even when my epilepsy takes my language–my treasure–from me, He gives me that rebellious, glorious, “NO!”
Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!
I would like to preface this by saying that until this story’s conclusion, it is almost entirely fictional, and is written from the perspective of someone who says almost nothing in scripture and who there is only minimal historical background on. I wanted to write a story about the Penitent Thief who, in the Catholic Church, is known as Saint Dismas. He is a saint because he repented of his sins and, right before he died, Christ granted him salvation and promised him Paradise. I felt like he deserved a story, fictional or not, for a few reasons.
I hadn’t given Dismas much thought until a priest came to a church one town over from where I live. He brought with him a bunch of relics. These are objects considered sacred by the Catholic Church for various reasons; usually because they have some miracle associated with them. My dad and I went to Mass, and after Mass, we were allowed to go into a room connected to the main part of the church and look at, and even pick up some of the relics. One thing I remembered as I went in was that the priest had said to expect one of the saints to connect with us in some way. I went looking for something from Saint Faustina because I know things about her and I think she’s fantastic. I couldn’t even tell you what her relic was.
When I came across Saint Dismas’ relic, I felt a real connection. It just felt like he understood me somehow. His relic was an actual piece of the cross he was crucified on. I’ve done cursory research about him, and all that’s known is that he seamed to be a loner, and robbed, and even killed people that happened to cross his path. On Good Friday, though, he recognized that Jesus was innocent and he was not. More importantly, he was willing to acknowledge it publicly, and ask for forgiveness. What really compelled me to write this story, though was something I came across just a few nights ago. He was the only person who spoke up in Jesus’ defense. People mourned him, and his Mother and Saint John followed him to the cross, but even they were silent. It was a condemned criminal who actually said, out loud, that Jesus was innocent.
So without further ado, here is my rendition of how he got there.
He had a rough start. That’s no excuse for the things he did. Still, his life was not easy. Dismas was the son of a very poor farmer. His family managed, barely, until he was about thirteen, but then his father got sick. He did not suffer long. That was his only consolation. Death took him quickly, and he was followed soon after by two of his sons. It was just Dismas, his mother, and a young sister now. Dismas knew it was his duty to take care of his family, but he was young and had no real skills. He was afraid and felt he had only one option.
He waited until everyone had gone to bed one night, then left the house in a hurry. There was a small village nearby. That was where he would do it. Near the town was the house of a carpenter, and next to the house was a shed where he kept his tools. Dismas would test his ability here before he did anything drastic. He pulled out a knife he had brought with him, and picked the lock on the shed, a bit noisily, but with relative ease. He would get better at this over time. He crept into the shed and, though it was dark, took what he could find. He left in a hurry, leaving the door unlocked behind him, and making far too much noise as he ran back to his house, cursing every mistake he made. He hid what he had stolen under a pile of hey, and quietly made his way back to bed.
The following day, Dismas and his family worked the fields as best they could, but with just the three of them, they didn’t get much done. Plus his sister was still quite young, and was easily distracted and slow. That night was uneventful, but Dismas got up much earlier the next day, took the stolen things into the market as quickly as he could, and returned to his farm. His mother and sister had already started work, and his mother was suspicious. She asked where he had gone, and in the end, he told her the truth. She was indignant. How could he do such a thing? Instead of feeling shame, however, Dismas was angry. What other options did they have? His mother made him promise not to steal again, and for a while, he did not.
Dismas worked as hard as he could, and perhaps harder, to keep his family afloat, but eventually there was nothing for it. Their only options were theft or slavery. Dismas could not allow his mother to make that choice. He would not see his mother become a slave, and he would not let his sister be used, which was all too likely. Once again, he waited until his loved ones had gone to bed. Then he took a knife, and silently killed them both. Neither had time to react. He was precise. In fact, his own precision surprised him. Between sobs he said to each, “I’m sorry. I love you.”
His heart felt like led as he gathered some provisions and headed for the desert. He was homeless now, and would likely have to remain homeless. The first few times he robbed, he felt a bit guilty, but the feeling subsided, or at least became numb over time, especially as he became better at what he did. The first few times he killed, it hurt; it deeply hurt, but his heart darkened, and something strange seamed to grow in him, as though it fed on the blood. He both loved and hated the monster, and increasingly so as he realized that it was his only friend.
What he didn’t know, was that his reputation was growing. When it finally did come to his attention, it seamed that he was out of practice. He wasn’t used to having to evade people. He wasn’t used to people looking for him. Usually people were just trying to survive out here. Finally he realized that the smart thing to do would be to sneak back to a town in the middle of the night, strategically sell what he had on him, and disguise himself. Maybe he could just wait this out.
For some time, his plan worked–mostly. He was occasionally recognized and he was forced to move around quite a lot. This ultimately forced him to be more violent, and his reputation continued to grow. He tried to justify it all to himself, saying that it was all in self defense, but really, no one could justify the things he did. It was hopeless. There was no going back–not that there was anything to go back to. The memory of the night he had killed his family was fresh in his mind nearly twenty five years after the blood had been spilled.
Finally he decided to head for Jerusalem. He had heard talk of this zealot called Jesus. Some people called him a prophet. Others called him a heretic. Some said he was just crazy. What was important to Dismas was that this guy was causing mayhem, and he could use that mayhem to cover his own tracks. What was even more advantageous was that it was nearing the Passover, and the city was totally crowded. He could easily hide here. For several weeks he did so, and he heard a lot about the antics of this Jesus guy. He sounded weird, and kind of interesting, if nothing else. Then he apparently went berserk in the temple, why Dismas didn’t know, nor did he care. The authorities were on high alert after that, though, and Dismas knew he had to get out.
It was too late, though. More guards were brought in after that to keep the peace until the Passover was over, and Dismas could not hide. He had to do whatever it took to escape. There were people everywhere, and he spent several days simply getting lost, and occasionally doing what he did best–killing, stealing, or inciting violence among others. On Thursday, he was imprisoned and simply left to rot. Despite his own reputation, the authorities were more interested in this weird zealot. Dismas didn’t understand religious people. His family had not exactly been devout.
Almost before dawn the next morning he was wrenched from sleep and dragged to Pilate. This was it. He was doomed. He was surprised to see the crowd there. Then he realized that the zealot had been caught, along with another criminal. He and the other criminal were almost immediately sentenced to death. No surprise there. Then they were forced to watch this lengthy trial against Jesus. It was downright weird. Pilate pronounced him innocent three times, but because of the crowd, he was sentenced to death anyway. What was weirder still was that the crowd wanted some murderer called Barabbas released instead.
Then the three of them were taken away to endure everything these people had to throw at them–or hit them with. They shouted insults, and he shouted back. When the three of them were sent to be beaten by the Roman soldiers, he did everything he could to fight back, despite having his hands and feet bound. Yet eventually he noticed that, not only was Jesus putting up with it without a fight, he seamed to be asking for all they could hit him with. They were more than willing to hit him with it, and it felt to Dismas as though that monster inside of him was changing. It was as though the monster could see something that he himself could not.
He, Jesus and the other criminal, whose name he had learned was Gestas, were then led away, but not before some soldiers made a crown of thorns, placed it on Jesus’ head and mocked him as a crazy man and as a false king. Dismas and Gestas even joined in, though, for some reason, this made Dismas feel slightly uncomfortable. Then crosses were laid on the three of them, and they were told to march. Jesus had said nothing through this whole ordeal, and as the three of them marched toward Calvary, he noticed that people wept for the guy. No one wept for him. No one would.
When they reached the place where they would die, the three of them were nailed to their crosses. There was, of course screaming, but Dismas was astonished at the words that came from Jesus’ mouth: “Forgive them, Father. They don’t know what they’re doing.” The monster hated those words. The monster, Dismas realized slowly, and between waves of agony, was afraid of those words. The crowd and even Gestas continued to mock Jesus, who hung there, with his eyes fixed on heaven, and occasionally turning back towards a man and an older woman at the foot of the cross.
Slowly, it dawned on him. It was making him angry that Gestas was mocking this man who was dying. Gestas said through labored breaths, “If you are the son of God… get us down!” Dismas shot back, “Do you not fear God…? Jesus… remember me… when you come into your kingdom.” It was desperate, yes, but Jesus was who he said he was. Dismas knew that none of them were getting out of this, and he knew that he deserved to rot. All he could ask was that this King–the King of the Universe–remember him. If he couldn’t ask forgiveness from any of the people he had wronged, he could at least ask Jesus. In fact, Jesus had been beaten the worst of the three of them. He was bleeding and dying quickly, but he said, “Truly I tell you… today you’ll be with me in Paradise.” With that the monster died.
Dismas wanted to say, “Thank you.” He wanted to say, “I love you.” It had been years since any semblance of love had come anywhere near his heart, but Jesus had loved him. He had forgiven the unforgivable. Dismas could barely breath, and Jesus died before he could say anything, so he waited. Eventually the crowd dissipated and he was left alone with nothing but the sound of his own dying breaths. He was almost relieved to see soldiers coming.
I’ve been trying for days to write something interesting and profound. I’m obviously trying too hard. This is just a life update because I can’t think of anything else to write.
For various reasons my sleep schedule has been messed up this week. I’ve been trying to get back on track, so far with minimal success. I also haven’t got a lot of work done on my book, though I’m almost done with one of my longer stories, and I really need to finish this one because I’ve come up with a magic system, and I’m using this story as an experiment to see if it works. I find it often helps to figure things out as I go along. It often complicates things, but the project is reasonably organized right now.
It’s been super warm out the past couple of days, which is most excellent. I’ve had terrible cabin fever. Because it’s New England, it basically went from winter to summer in a matter of days. It does that around here. I was just waiting for it. This winter was long. There wasn’t a whole lot of snow, but it was cold for a very long time. My idea of cold is anything below sixty degrees, though.
I’m currently rereading the Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini. I just started the second book. I’m completely addicted. I had read the first book twice, but this is just my second time reading the whole series. It’s partly because of my addiction that I’ve been staying up way too late. I pretty much don’t watch Netflix or anything anymore. Instead I do this. I realized that I love fantasy so much because it takes my mind off the real world. I think too much.
We had a minor setback on the development of hour house in Maine. They guy who was digging the hole for the foundation did some kind of calculation wrong and had to redo it, but apparently it wasn’t a huge deal. Stuff like that is annoying, though. I really have no idea when we’ll be able to at least camp up there. Even if the house isn’t totally finished, it would be good to just have a place to stay when we visit family and such.
We recently learned that both of the priests at my church will be leaving at some point. They’re being reassigned by the diocese. One of them is going to be working full time at a Catholic school in town, and the other is moving to another town. I’m bummed because I like these guys a lot. They’re my friends. Plus, getting used to someone new will just be odd for a little while. I’m still hopeful, though. I was nervous when the priest we have now was assigned to our parish, and it turned out great.
Speaking of Catholic stuff, my cousin was confirmed last weekend. I was, and I guess really still am his sponsor. I don’t want to be too much of a pest, but I want to try and keep him connected to the faith. After I was confirmed, “church stuff” sort dropped off the face of the earth for a while, and I fared the worse for it. I would have been spared a lot of pain had I actually known Jesus back then. My cousin seems more receptive to it than I was at the time, though, so that’s a good thing.
I just finished another mosaic. I’m kind of obsessed with doing them now. I’m not sure what my next one will be. I’m going to wait for inspiration. The one I finished was harder than my others because I was using materials I wasn’t used to. I’m happy with how it turned out, though. Mostly my ideas have been inspired by religious concepts, but I might try and make a mosaic visual of one of the Realms from my book. That might be hard to do because the Realms are kind of an abstract concept in themselves, plus there are a lot of them.
So as you can see, I’m still pretty boring.
Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!
Within the past week, I’ve got up to 320 followers. I don’t care that other people on here have been blogging for a lot longer than me and have a lot more than that. The fact that anyone is remotely interested in my insane babbling is pretty cool. I figured this would be a good time for a regular, plain old life update.
I’ve figured out how I’m going to complete my book. I’m currently working on a story that’s causing me a little trouble in terms of pacing, and I also have to deal with a language barrier between two different cultures. The book should be finished by the end of this year. I’ve also started working on a magic system, as well as the beginning of a plan for a second book, so I’m really hoping this one sells. Prayers are always appreciated.
I’m going to Maine tomorrow night with my mom. We’re meeting my godmother at a church near her because a priest is coming whose ministry it is to bring relics of the Church to show people all over the world. I don’t know exactly what he’ll be bringing, but one of the things I know for sure will be there is a piece of the True Cross–the cross that Jesus died on. Apparently miracles have been associated with this stuff, so I’m pretty excited. I’m a total nerd for this kind of stuff, and quite frankly, the history alone is super cool.
My brother will be getting his Bachelor’s in biochemical engineering in May. He’ll start classes for his Master’s shortly after that this summer. I’ve tried to understand what he actually wants to do after school at least six times, and it confuses my brain, so I’m sticking to the writing. Regardless, my brother’s super smart and I’m proud of him. I don’t think designing a universe is ultimately less complicated than what he’ll be doing, but he’s certainly much more focused than me. As far as I understand, he’ll be designing plants to mass-produce medicines and such. It sounds boring to me, but I mentally live in fantasy land, so what do I know?
We’ve made some progress on our house in Maine. it’s currently resting six feet off the ground on some pillars, and we’ve got some workers to come and pour a foundation for it. This project is both hilarious and disturbing to me. I still think my parents are insane. Once the foundation is done, our builder (Mom’s cousin) is going to build a new floor over it. Then we’ll drop the house back down–not literally. Then he’ll get to work busting it up and building new stuff where old stuff has to be replaced. I really hope I get to do a little demolition, even just some small stuff. I admit I have a taste for breaking things. Maybe that’s why I like making mosaics.
I’ve finished three so far. One was of a coiled ball python on a rounded piece of wood. I gave that to my friend for her birthday, I think a year ago since she has a pet snake. My second was my abstract interpretation of the moment of creation, when God said, “Let there be light.” The one I just finished was another abstract conveying the emotions of the scene when Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. The one I’m about to start is based on some song lyrics I wrote that are also sort of a prayer. “…There is beauty in black and blue/ Walk far enough and you’ll wear down your shoes/ But you’ll find good in the places you go/ And you’ll find truth somewhere along the road” I’m going to put the Lazarus one in my bedroom in Maine, so that’s stashed away for when we actually start moving in. I’m going to sell the one I’m about to start. I’ll probably start working on it this weekend.
I haven’t had normal work or sleep hours this week. I’ve had stuff going on during the day, which has meant I’ve had to stay up pretty late (eleven PM to two AM kind of thing) and write crazy stuff. We had to take my bird to the vet today to get his claws taken care of. Right now he’s kind of at his most aggressive because he can fly and up until today, he had little demon claws. The worst is that he likes to get into bed with me and snuggle in the morning, but having a bird with demon claws climbing on your face is not fun. I tell him on a daily basis that I’m going to cook him, but I think he knows by now that this is an idle threat. He’s too cute to eat, anyway. We’ll be taking him back in June for a regular check-up and to get his wings done. For such a small animal he’s kind of high maintenance. The trouble is he tricked me into liking him from the get go.
Anyway, that’s pretty much it. God is cool, my brother’s a nerd, writing is fun, but hard, mosaics are cool, breaking stuff is fun, we currently own a floating house, and my bird is evil, but too cute to eat.
Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!
We don’t like weakness. We especially don’t like our own weaknesses. We pray that God will take them away, and sometimes he does, but a lot of times, he says “I have something better in mind.” Saint Paul begged God to take away the thorn in his side, whatever that might have been, and God told him, “My grace is enough.” So often we find ourselves asking God, “Can’t you just make this easier?” Maybe when we don’t get a clear response it’s because his answer is the same in the twenty-first century as it was in the first.
God chooses the weak and the messy. Think about his twelve apostles. They weren’t perfect by any standards. Ten abandoned him when he needed them most. One sold him out altogether. Only one stood by him at the cross (and there’s a theory that this may have been Lazarus, and not John the apostle). Later, he chased down Saul, a nasty persecutor of Christians, and asked him–didn’t make him, but asked him–to be his apostle to the Gentiles. If it weren’t for Saint Paul, we wouldn’t have most of the New Testament. He consistently chooses the least likely people to do his work.
He consistently chooses the uneducated, the humble, the simple, the sorrowful, the weak, to show the world that his ways are not our ways. That actually kind of freaks me out. What does that actually mean for me? I want to be a saint. I don’t say that lightly. I really do. That means really figuring out my weaknesses. I know what some of them are, and I don’t like them. The fact of the matter is, though that saints embrace their weaknesses. Jesus embraced human weakness. The fact that God decided to take on a human body that could get sick, and feel sorrow, and get hurt, and die, is insane. Still, he embraced that human weakness out of love.
Not many people know this about me, but I flipped upside-down before I was born. My mom was carrying me around so my head was upright. They were going to have to do surgery, but somehow I “miraculously” flipped back around so I could come out naturally. When I was about a year old, around the time I should have been learning to walk, I wasn’t, so a tiny piece of muscle was taken from my leg, and they figured out that I have MD. I wasn’t supposed to live passed the age of five. In fact, the likelihood of my even existing were very slim. Both of my parents somehow had the same defective gene that meant my body would be “weird.”
At times I have celebrated it, and at times, I have resented it. Had my body been “normal,” I probably would have played sports. I probably would have had very different friends and different interests. I also probably wouldn’t have figured out how to play guitar upside-down. I probably wouldn’t paint abstract pictures or make abstract mosaics. I probably wouldn’t have become an author, and I probably wouldn’t have come very close to God. I probably would have gone to a secular school half way across the country to get away from the boring suburban town I live in, and I may have lost my faith altogether. Instead, I went to Gordon, a small Christian school within driving distance of my house, so my mom could get me to my classes and then home. It was there that I learned that, not only does God notice my existence, but he loves me. It was also there that I learned nearly everything I know about writing. God’s love, reading, time, and failures have taught me the rest.
Yesterday’s post was about trust. I wrote about how God chooses to trust untrustworthy people. He’s made it quite clear to me that he loves me. Trusting someone with your love is a pretty big deal. Both of the priests at my church know that I think God is calling me to religious life. I asked one of them: “Why does God choose who he does? I mean, why would he choose me? There’s nothing special about me.” He effectively said, “I don’t know.” I know my weaknesses. I also know my strengths. I have physical weaknesses and I’m a sinner. I also deal with a few leftover insecurities from when I was a kid, but I know how to manage that stuff. I’m not just a writer; I’m a good writer, and I know that. I’m loyal. I know how to prioritize, and how to manage my time, even though I fail to do this as I should sometimes. The point is, I’m human, and so are you. For the remainder of Holy Week, this is my advice, from one messy human to the next: look at your weaknesses, and try to see them as God sees them; let him use them for his glory. Write about it, sing about it, cry about it, scream about it, and especially, pray about it because sometimes our weaknesses end up being our strengths.
Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!
I realized something recently. When I’m working, I listen to Christian music almost exclusively. I’m talking about bands like Tenth Avenue North and Rend Collective. When I’m hanging out with my dad (my mom doesn’t really like music), we almost exclusively listen to secular music. My preferences in both categories don’t cover a hugely wide range of genres because I know what I like. When it comes to movies, I’ll watch almost anything, from romance to action to horror films, as long as the story is good. I don’t mind what some might consider vulgar language, and I don’t mind portrayals of faiths or belief systems that contrast with my own. I’m not afraid of these things.
Similarly, I am beginning to care less and less about what people think when I say that I am Christian, and I believe the Christian God to be the only true God. As I said, I am beginning to care less. As a teenager, I purposefully separated myself from others, but it was not for faith reasons. I had no faith back then. Still, I didn’t care what people thought of me. It was out of spite. Now I have faith, and my God has taught me to love, and now that I do love, I care what people think of me. It’s odd, and ironic. I care what people think because I love. I need people to understand that I believe in absolutes and in objective morality, and though I’m not perfect, I try not to judge. What I am trying to say is that I care less about my image now, and more about whether or not people can see the real me. The real me is Christian.
The world breeds fear. It’s hard to overcome it because the world is just so complicated. There are wars, there is violence, there is hunger, there is sickness, and there is a multitude of other problems, not to mention the supernatural factors. I’ve learned that fear is probably the Devil’s most powerful weapon. The most important thing to remember is that Jesus has already won. That means we’ve already won. My mom and I are listening to a story right now that’s told largely from the perspective of a seventeenth century Jewish woman living in London. At that time in London, apparently the leaders of the Jewish faith condemned theater because it was vulgar. I remember hearing that Christians had very similar sentiments about early Rock ‘n’ Roll, thinking that it was downright evil. They said the same about games such as Dungeons and Dragons when that first came out.
Such fear is nothing but a lie. Of course there are lines that need to be drawn. I don’t listen to certain bands or even just certain songs by bands that I otherwise like because they insult my Lord or my religion, for example. However, fearing something and ignoring or condemning it are two entirely different things. There are things we as Christians can ignore, tolerate, and even enjoy, even when these things are not explicitly Christian. There are also, of course, forms of entertainment or other practices that should be spoken against. Obviously this requires discretion, and I believe there are plenty of people braver and better equipped than myself to do this. My aim in this post is to speak against fear. I’m not a warrior, and I’m not a coward.
I started thinking about this recently because I’ve started getting bored of the same phrases and imagery that are used over and over in so many worship songs. I want real worship, and I want real artistry, not a bunch of lines that are copied and pasted from Scripture on top of yet another new melody. This is done because it is easy, but also because Scripture is the Word of God, and we love it. We trust his word, and it gives us comfort and hope. It is understandable, but it is also overdone. God himself is an artist. His plan and his way of doing things are totally strange, yet beautiful. We are made in his image and likeness, and as Christians, and especially as Christian artists, we should aim to mirror that. Be bold, be strange, venture into the absurd, do not be afraid to love, and above all, do not give into fear.