Be My Muse

I need to write 9,000 words of fiction for independent study. Yes, that's all, for 3 hours of credit! As soon as I finish that, Mel and I will work on my novel, so you can bet your bottom dollar that I want to finish quickly, but well.

I can write one story or several--whatever I choose. Only one problem: I'm uninspired. I sat forlornly in front of Verk 4 (my MacBook, as you may recall) for a good while, trying to conjure a colorful plot and winning characters, before I decided I should let my subconscious work it's magic and try to plot again later. Because, trust me, my ideas were quite uninspired, and probably would've turned out not unlike the fiction "book" I wrote in 6th grade about myself, renamed Tallie Keioni, and my two guy friends saving our fellow middle schoolers from becoming enslaved to the soldiers from the "newly-formed continent of Markonia," where all the "hateful and evil people of the world" had come to live.

Instead of writing a short story, therefore, I added to my novel. Oh, trusty novel, you are a balm to my soul. Right now, anyway--Mel swears my classmates and I will begin to hate our novels mid-semester. As prolific a writer as he is, I tend to believe him.

Well, all that to say, I still don't have a short story idea. Now, I am conducting an experiment. Most people who read this post won't comment, or wouldn't, ordinarily. Comments and readers do not match up, because I know I have more than 0 readers...I think... ;-)

If you're reading this and have never commented before, please do so now. Throw out a story idea. The first thing that pops into your head. Something interesting. Whatever. Maybe it will inspire me. I'll let you know what I end up doing. Until then, over and out!

We Gon Find You...

I feel it's only fair that I share the pleasant pain of this song that will, inevitably, get stuck in your head after you watch the video. It's so worth it though, if your sense of humor is at all similar to mine.

Do you remember that broadcast news story a few years (?) ago, where an intruder climbed into a girl's bedroom window and tried to rape her, but her brother got there in time to beat him off? How am I supposed to remember that? That happens all the time, you may think. True, but this incident was unique, purely because of the way the brother responded in his television interview. Watch and recall:

Original news story

Yesterday, our friend Tim introduced us to the group The Gregory Brothers, who are known for auto-tuning actual news casts. That is, they take the dialogue and video clips and electronically manipulate them to make a song and a "music video," respectively.

Who knew that the "Bed Intruder" story would become an all-too-catchy and oddly hysterical song that hit the top of iTunes downloads charts for a spell?

Gregory Brothers' song

...

Like I said, who knew?

I'll Give it a Fourth Shot

The winds of change are blowing again. I'm about to start my senior year of college. Whoa. Where has the time gone?

I am acutely aware I'll never have a repeat opportunity to be in such close proximity with a large group of peers. Therefore, I don't want to waste the year. OU is both a fantastic social environment and rich mission field for me. I ask myself: what will I do with it?

Then, I remember. I don't "do anything with it."

 I don't regret my first three years of school, even the situations I felt I was failing in at the time. However, I spent those years trying to run my own life, to make sure I wasn't missing any steps. I wanted to "have a ministry," so I ran myself into the ground trying to make that happen. I wanted to be a good friend, so I poured myself out so much that I was not only emotionally dry, but bitter towards others, in the end. I tried to keep tabs on every area of my life out of fear that if I didn't, I would just fly off the handle, sinning right and left, letting my character, academics and social life go to pot.

This year, I will pursue God, and him alone.

Jesus wasn't kidding or mincing words when he said not to be anxious about tomorrow. Paul wasn't joking around or spouting drivel when he said not to be anxious about anything.  I conclude that I cannot fix my life by doing exactly what the Bible says not to.

All this time, I have pursued perfection. I have relinquished control in one area only to pick up another and insist that this one is the one I need to micromanage in order to "please God." Doing things right becomes an idol as soon as I start desiring it over God.

No more worrying about how I'm going to ensure that I don't squander my last year at the University of Oklahoma. The time I have on this earth is best spent getting to know the God who gives me the ability to do everything worth anything. As I do, he will move, I am sure of it. He always has, and he never, ever changes.

It is Finished.

I stand on a pedestal, like a slave being sold at the block, for all the world to see. I breathe shame. Despicable child that I am, I cannot but look at the faces surrounding me and wonder, “What do they see? What are they thinking?” The questions burn—they taste like vomit in my mouth!

Yet, who can I be, but this slave? I know nothing of the world that does not demand perfection.  All my life, my captors have tried to train me to be a model of perfection, but I have failed them! In my heart, I am sickened by the fact that I want to please them at all, enough to sacrifice my heart, mind and body to their deadly appetites. I want so badly for them to praise me that I let them keep me on the block longer and longer, just so people will know that I am of some worth to these men!

In the crowd, I see the beloved face of my husband and the faithful eyes of my best friends. They look at me now with a feeling much deeper than the simple concern they began with. They were once slaves, too, you see, but a man of light set them free long ago.

That same man once came to my cell to free me. I stepped out from behind bars only to jump back into the arms of the people I knew best.

Yet my dear ones cry for me here, today, especially my husband. Their eyes plead with me, begging me to believe that I am destroying myself, grinding myself into nothing. From the ground, they beg me with earnest voices to at least try to see what they see. But up here on the block, I see nothing but my ambition to be worth something to these slavers.

My husband reaches out his hand, telling me that I am worth his very life to him. I turn my head away. He who would take me home, nurse me to health, dress me in beautiful robes and hold me tenderly in his arms, does not count. The only people who count are these dealers in death. Why? Because they are the men who run the world, don’t you see? They are the ones who will launch us forward into fame and renown. They are the victorious army – everyone else fights with a glory that will not be seen until the very end. While I am on this earth, I want to be a part of the army that looks like it’s actually winning!

Sleep is my only respite from this deadly dance.

In the night, I curl up in my cell and forget about my captors’ presenting me until the next day. Someone shakes me awake. For a moment, I hang on the edge of a dream, clinging onto the doorframe that leads into a land where my value is secure and my eyes are made new. Then, the wind of reality sucks me out, out, out, with black and hellish pain I cannot fully describe.

What is this? A man has come to rescue me in the night. He reaches out his hand, as my husband did, and in his skin is the light that illumined the dream. In his being is the essence of value, security and newness, made real before my eyes.

But I cannot accept. Oh, who could accept something so good? Something so good could not be true. And I cannot ever be free.

“I will free you.”

No.

“Dear one, I will free you.”

No, Lord, NO!

“I have adopted you, and you are my child. I have loved you, and you are able to love and be loved. I have become your righteousness, and you are sanctified forever with me.”

I can’t.

“No matter what you say, beautiful one, no matter what you do, these things will not change.”

I bare my teeth. Anger erupts in my heart and scratches up my throat like a scream too loud and bitter to swallow down. I scream, and scream, and scream.

His face never changes, except for a slight tightening of the eyes that might be sadness. His face is all love and compassion. He is not unsure of himself, even in his emotion. He is surety incarnate as he looks at me, spreads out his hands and says, “Did I not tell you it is finished?”

I swallow every word I have ever spoken when I see those hands with those holes gaping in them, wounds that pierce from front to back with indiscriminate hatred and rejection. In my mind’s eye, an image of blood and storm clouds and tears and death flashes like lightning.

“NO, LORD!”

Noise like a hurricane explodes in my ears. I cannot hold on any longer! I cannot, I cannot, I--!

All at once, the world goes still.

I am not in my cell.

I panic, groping the floor, trying to figure out what this strange world is. I collapse—I am too exhausted to go on.

In a haze, I feel strong arms lift me. They hold me securely and carry me as their owner walks forward.

I look up, dizzy and squinting against the mist, to see a smile more warm and definite and unchanging and sincere and full and holy than could belong on anyone but the Son of God himself. He brushes a tear from my cheek with his finger—I didn’t know I was crying. I need to turn my face away. I cannot face him like this; I can never face him again!

I cannot stop crying. He cradles my head, lets me bury it against his chest. When I look up, he is still smiling with even more love than before, if that were possible. I try to return the smile, weakly.

He nods, and holding me close, whispers, “Did I not tell you? It is finished.”