bring a flashlight

So I've realized something since the last post a couple days ago. I'm trying to knit in the dark, but wouldn't it make sense just to bring a flashlight? Haha, yes I know, corny. But it's so obvious. Bringing a flashlight can look like a couple things. It can be reading God's word and drawing truth and light from that (God is light and he drives out the darkness), or it can mean bringing someone else who can carry a flashlight and help you out, encouraging each other and spurring one another on. And then maybe a third person to bring batteries as a back up. Sounds good to me. Yesterday God revealed a lot of cynicism that had been growing in my heart, but instead of actually being the hands and feet of Christ, I sat back and complained and let my bitterness breed contempt. It's pretty awful and I hadn't even realized it. I'm only one person, but if everyone can come together as the church and work together, that's when things really happen. Put your hope in God, Tiffany.

Writing poetry is hard stuff. I'm taking a creative writing class and we have to write at least four times a week and turn it into dropbox each time. I can go on and on about my life, but no, she wants it in poetry form, which makes it a little trickery. Gots to think of lines and very specific word choice and sound and rhythm blah blah blah. I can appreciate it, but it can get wearisome. It turns out that I'm a lot more trite/cliche than I originally thought. My original thoughts were pretty unoriginal. I wish I were a funnier person but alas...not so. Haha.

But here is a poem that was one of the better of the bunch. I hope I never have to date this many boys. Only one or two men are good enough for me. I hope it makes you laugh and maybe think.

Like the Boy of Her Dreams
after Mitch Sisskind

My cousin tells me Gunther was an ugly boy.
Acne mapped his face like bloody constellations
Toes pruny
No, he wasn’t smelly
But he always had poppy seeds stuck in his teeth,
trails of his morning bagel from 3rd Avenue
and cuffed trousers because he could never find pants
that were short enough for his even shorter frame.
Yet beside Hector, my cousin says,
Gunther was like the boy of her dreams.
Gunther was like the boy of her dreams beside Hector.
For my cousin tells me that Hector was an ugly boy
because he never paid or opened doors.
Chivalry is dead, he said,
And he lived by it too.
Really you don’t need to pay on the first date (it was crappy).
You don’t need to do anything at all.
Yet beside Alex my cousin tells me Hector was like the boy of her dreams.
Hector was like the boy of her dreams beside Alex.
For my cousin tells me Alex was an ugly boy.
He cracked his gum wickedly, charming the girls with his crooked grin
but smooched too long behind her back
and had a book that ranked them all on a scale
like cows in a meat market auction.
His words could be sweet as Splenda,
Sugary but fake, sitting on the tongue to leave a bitter kick
after it’s all over.
Yet beside Sam my cousin tells me Alex was like the boy of her dreams.
Alex was like the boy of her dreams beside Sam.
Beside Sam’s stalwart hand my cousin tells me
Alex was like the boy of her dreams.
His stalwart hand composed and conducted the rhythm of her soul
weaving a haunting tide of false reveries
Passion ignited
Then smothered in a fury of soft white ashes.

When things fall apart

Why does it feel like things are falling apart? It feels like the knitted blanket that surrounded us some time ago is unraveling, unraveling, being pulled by some invisible dark force bent on destruction, planting seeds of lies. The father of lies. And in heaps all around us are yard and yards, miles and miles of yarn, connected but apart and broken and split. What purpose does it serve just lying there unwoven. It cannot clothe, cannot cover, cannot be washed, cannot offer warmth to a heart dry and aching. And oh, it sits there, rotting under a tarnished sun. I wish I could pick up those double swords and knit deep into the inky night, but my hands bleed and my heart weeps and I can't even see the needles so they prick my fingers, pinpoints of red, and there are gaping holes that open to engulf me in a tide of helpless thoughts. The father of lies.

How can it be like this? The church should be together, unified, like each stitch of the needle, one after the other, soldiers prepared for a holy war, and each member is needed, essential to complete the body. Instead I see all these ugly holes, and something in me trembles with the unwavering feeling that this is not how it should be. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything he might have the supremacy. For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross.

in Him all things hold together. Oh Lord, please hold us together, reconciling us to you and to one another in your name.

The other day I was looking at journals in the bookstore to buy one for a friend, and I came across a beautiful one with gold flowers, and embossed on the front were these words: "believe in yourself." I know it means believe that you have the ability to do great things; it's meant to be a self-esteem booster. But if I were going to take it literally, this is what it would look like: Believe that I can do all things through myself who gives myself strength. Believe that through believing in my abilities I can overcome all things and cure all my illnesses of health and soul and mind. "Believe in yourself" translates to "I can save myself," which is a lie lie lie. It makes me so sad that our world spouts this nonsense instead of placing their trust, their belief in someone who is so much more capable, and who holds us, and the universe in the palm of his hand.

the green eyed monster is an ugly, ugly dude. worst of all, he creeps up unexpectedly and explodes in the brain, smearing green guts everywhere, branding the heart with a seal of loathing and unrest and dare I name it? Yes, even a twinge of hate.

But my heart is not his. The green eyed monster will die an even uglier death than he is ugly, and he might reappear, but only for a time. My heart belongs to a King, creator of heaven and earth. My Lord and Savior, you have won the battle for me, and you wipe away the stains of green, yellow, black, of all the different monsters of my world, and replace it with red--your blood shed on the cross for me. And it's a red that cannot be removed in any circumstance. Neither life, nor death, nor angels, or demons can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

:)

Surrender

oh hay
I like your beard.

de de de de.

I had to get that out. This strange beat has been stuck in my head. It's not part of a song or anything I can think of..I can only describe it as four splat-like beats one after the other. It's a cool kind of splat though, quick and snazzy and hip. I promise I'm not crazy, just weird.

God is doing some incredibly awesome things in my life as of late. He is always doing amazing things, but either I'm too blind/stuck in my own world to see it or I have never prayed that God would stick me there at the right place and right time. So much of it has to do with obedience. Go where you're called to go, talk to the people the Holy Spirit is nudging you to talk to, and so much can unravel. It can only be described as a miracle. To be honest, in the past talking to people, even friends, could feel like a burden. I was in a strange catch 22 where I did not want to be around people because it was just easier, but when I was alone it was lonely. These past two weeks have been filled with this desire, not of my own, to talk to people and my eyes have been opened to how much people really need to hear about God's love and grace and most of all, what was accomplished with Jesus dying on the cross.

As I surrender to Christ, I hope not to be puffed up with pride but to walk (or even crawl if need be) to greater degrees of glory, not because I am competent but because Christ is more than competent. Could it be that I can reflect the image of Jesus more and more as his love and glory is revealed to me? According to 2 Corinthians 3, it is so, and I am so so thankful and overjoyed that I am forgiven and continually restored. Restored! Oh, bliss.