Girl on the Metro

Another story ... This time from my first fiction class ...

Girl on the Metro

1.

Hello ... A whole month and I’m still walking around on glass. But people wouldn’t believe me if they knew, even though they see me every freakin day.

You know, I’ve always hated the phrase, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Those words give way too much credit to humanity methinks. Seeing to believe? How much do we really, really see? Shouldn’t people really say, "I’ll believe it when somebody can show me rock solid evidence, when it actually matters to me?" Leave a message at the tone … beep …

People see every moment. Yet no one can surely, truly believe what they see. No one recognizes people for what they are, or the experiences they wear on their skin like a tattoo. No one seems to ask for a name today because no one can see right in front of them, much less remember a few moments later. Why bother with formalities when there isn’t even time to look at someone. Anything can start with a hello, can’t it?

There is not-a-one, yet we all continue to see and place people in the tidiest of boxes, the emptiest of labels, in the simplest way. Fat Guys, Hot Girl, Baldy, Wino, Ugly, Gangster, Skinny Chick, Mother of Seven, Dude, Lesbo, Baldwin, Dead, Zombie. The list goes on and on and on, some names more interesting than other ones. Some seem more intimidating.

I have the honor and privilege to be one again for you today good, kind-eyed Sir.

Pleased to meet you, I’m just the “Girl on the Metro.” (But I would feel much more interesting if I were The Zombie.)

2.

I see you every day, week after week, but have not spoken to you. You’ve seen me every day, week after week, but have never spoken to me. I haven’t said more than two words to anyone on this train for a while now. It doesn’t matter to you how this damsel ended up here in Metropolis, boarding the “E” every day of the week at seven in the morning. It doesn’t matter why I prefer to stand instead of sit, even though my orange JanSport pack weighs over twenty pounds. Heaven forbid I have to sit down by someone. Sheesh!

You never wonder how I can afford that mauve leather bag I clutch to my chest, or the handmade canvas protected by two sheets of cardboard I snatched from outside by the dumpster. It seems to bother you that I don’t wash my hands, like I’m some kind of Street Waif. But I do wash! Two, sometimes three or more times a day, under scalding hot water until I turn cherry red.

Don’t worry good sir, its only pure pigment from mixing tempera on my fingers. Egg yolks are good for the skin you know, though I probably can’t say the same for the pigment. Now, if you could get past the stains, you would realize how enjoyably soft they really are. You can only guess I’m one of those Crazy Bohemian Chicks, minus the dreadlocks. You think you know the ones; they don’t eat meat and brazenly dance naked in the rain shamelessly. WooHoo! Rain exists to dance off the ground don’t ya know. There you go seeing again. Knock it off! Sheesh! Why do I have to be so discombobulated … so wary … so quiet when I find a guy interesting …

For a spell, maybe you just chalked it up to my wearing headphones. Possibly that’s why the girl is so silent. Oh no! Don’t worry. It’s not an attempt to ignore anyone (well, yes it is), it’s just my way of performing the unapproachable ‘Girl on the Metro’ you’ve got locked inside your head.  Sir, Maybe I didn’t have the cash to plug them in to anything, so I just make up the songs in my head. Take it as my Mad Bohemian Poet nature and not anything too important. I wouldn’t want to ruin your image, you know. The phones keep out unwanted questions – no one wants to bother with someone who shows as much interest in them as they do in me.

I see you Metro Boy between Glitter Girl and the Man with the Magazine. I can’t help but feel tense from your chance casual looks my way. You have a smile that could brighten my day, making it about the only thing I see as natural and untainted in my stained world. My heart is going b-dump, and begins to gallop. Still you continue with your discreet glances. Still I catch myself beginning to blush with every look you take. Does he think I’m pretty? Does this count as an admirer I wonder … Or perhaps I just look weird? Trying to act natural, not daring to take in your profile, well not too much. A peculiar and wonderful muddle of fear, hope and happiness churn within. You know, I really must find that necklace my guardian angel left behind! My fingers clutch tighter on the shiny hand rail as I turned to focus out a window towards the rear of the bus. The Bald Guy two seats back seemed unaware that my eyes were stealing his window outlook.

Everything looks grey out there ... The sidewalks, the windows, the roads, the sky. It’s wet too, the kind of damp that makes your Converse do the slight squeaking sound on the pavement thing. The grey pavements mind you. Then suddenly something’s there; colors that stand out against the grey! Spray paint, Art! Coming in from the outside and then knocks on the heart. Not sure what it says or means, but there is a history nonetheless. Maybe a Girl wrote that, or a Boy. Maybe Dropouts, maybe they’re Aspiring Writers. Possibly they’re Potheads, Photographers, or Freaks. Who knows? Who needs to know?  With art, everyone’s the same, and still not the same. I recognize the value of how I can ignore parts, yet let it pour out slices of me alike. Could it be a Lawyer maybe or a Lover? It may possibly be a Surreptitious Judge or ‘just’ an Offender? Hmmm …. Maybe it does matter. But hey, art is hard to interpret. Like people … Like the Metro Girls and Boys …

… Like me. I’m happy, quirky, kindhearted and caring. I’m also sad, lonely, depressing and barely here. I say every line is yet another note in my symphony of colors. I’m all sorts of broken pieces, insecurities, and half-finished characteristics fleetingly blended together, here to give a little shading to the surroundings. I’m in the bargain bin, the finished product will be sent out next Thursday if you please. In the end which is more real? The little ole me that everyone sees every single day, or the one that only I know? What is seen, what you all think you see, is not what’s in front of you. You see what I want you to see, what I want you to see. And that girl is not me. I hate her! If seeing is believing and I only appear when the lights are out or the doors are all closed, why doesn’t someone start banging on the door! Come on; get a crowbar … something … anything! Yeah, maybe it does matter.

I wish that you’d get the nerve to ask me why you rarely see me smile, to investigate me. I’ve always had this fantasy, a sweet dream really, of someone being so kind as to inquire. They’d take me away from this routine “E” train ride, to somewhere quiet and ask me if I was okay, ask me anything. Ask me over coffee perhaps at the cute little French Café on the corner. Yes, that’s the ticket, that’s how it would happen.

“I see you every day and I never see you smile. Are you okay?”

I’d slowly shake my head. No words yet. Can’t look anxious. I’d stare at the swirls in my coffee. It feels hot on my fingers, fighting the temperature of my vintage country mug. I puff on the steam rising in spirals.  “It reminds me that I want to shower again.”

There. Now I’m interesting.

“How come?” And then it would happen, “Tell me …”

But you won’t …

Best for me to build an uninviting fence I tell ya. No one would care to climb over or crawl under it when they think they know what is on the other side of it. Like a nasty Rottweiler snarling, licking its chops or something. No one will know I have a story. And if no one knows, I don’t have to tell it. So I’ll reserve myself until my time comes. I was stupid to think you could see Sir. I don’t blame you. You’ll just go on knowing nothing about me and its best it probably stays that way. What was I thinking? Hell, I don’t even like coffee!

I don’t want anyone to see anyways, unless they are willing to look. It would only be then that it would be worth the risk of seeing a face without seeing someone’s back again. Suppose what you will, I’ll always be ‘that’ girl to you Sir. Kind, reluctant and forgettable. You don’t have to listen, oh no you don’t. In fact I know that you won’t. I’m just that Bohemian Girl on the “E”. You know all there is about the Girl on the Metro, don’t cha now.

But you know nothing about these: The Survivor girl, The Abused, The Sick, The Beaten, The Hurting, and The Muse. Therefore, my good Sir, you know so little about me. You don’t have a clue about the nights I spent under my bed and under those men in whom I should have been able to trust. Do you understand what it feels like to be bent in half or snapped in two? Wham, bam, thank you mam. Do you Sir, have a clue what it feels like to not feel truly human. I open my mouth as if to say, “You’re still beautiful.” But we both know that’s not true. And the thought makes me want to cry, just a little, but I hide it so very well.

It really is wrong of me to think that because you see me every day that you are responsible to dig at me, and find the better parts of me. I shouldn’t think that of anyone. Everyone has secrets that they long to hide, hoping that they will not be exposed by anyone. Burying them in the backyard, veiled behind umbrella drinks in festive colors, and keeping them behind meaningless conversation, hidden by flowers and barbeques. I am the secret and I want to be free. I want to be known! I want to get rid that that girl who pretends to be me, sweet, gentle, smiling and ever so kind. The one you forget about when you are in the same room as them, and on the same goddamned train every day.

Goodbye Sniper. Do not think I owe you anything, and you’ll forget all about me and the words I’ve never said. I’m ready to break the rules of the ‘Girl on the Metro’. I wish you would make an effort, I’m so tired of being ‘hard to get’. I’ve tried to call out for so long but can never find my voice. No one is listening again today anyway; they only believe what they see. Well you know they all see me, why aren’t they looking?

The “E” slows to a gentle stop in front of the Café Toi et Moi. It’s her stop. Beneath the Tuesday morning traffic, the laughter of the teens in the back, and the flurry of activity of the fellow Metro-ites clambering to get on and off the train, there was a voice. It was a cautious masculine voice reaching towards the Bohemian picking up a handmade canvas, protected by two sheets of cardboard.

“See you tomorrow.”

3.

I gather my ‘art’, dangling my bag over my shoulder. I didn’t look back as I stepped of the train into the milieu. Nor did I look back as the train drove off down its tracks, leaving the busy sidewalk as my companion. I dare not see what look his face might show, apprehensive at what emotions his eyes would betray. Does he find me interesting? Or would his face reflect disgust? Or worse yet, it would be nothing at all. Better to live in uncertainty, than face what his face might display. Now I can save my hopes, fears and anticipations, for perhaps the next train ride.

The “Girl on the Metro” walks a few paces, peeks in the toy store window and then abruptly stops. Suddenly apprehending, and nearly getting rear ended by another bumbling pedestrian with an unpleasant word or two to say in the process.

Was that “See you tomorrow???” Hello …






Cafe Toi et Moi = Cafe Me and You

The Violinist's Wife

Here is a story I written for a Fiction class at school I would like to share .... Enjoy! .... Let me know what you think!

The Violinist’s Wife

     Theodore is holding her intimately again, gently and warmly, as he has held her every single day for several weeks now. Without a doubt she is his one true love. From the doorway of his studio I stand back and watch him embrace her. I covet the way he lays her body against him, the way they seem to seamlessly fit together, the way they seem to be made for one another. Eavesdrop on her scream and whisper in crescendos, singing high, low, and every note in between. Teddy told me before we were married that he couldn’t possibly love another more than me, but I’m afraid I just can’t see it. He absolutely adores her. And truth be told, how can I deny him the pureness and beauty of his love? When he glides his bow over her strings, the singing of the vibration, the burning of the notes, there is nothing else like it. Theodore’s violin is the woman he pines for, the one he desires. Late at night after we make love, I know her harmony fills his dreams.

     

Theodore is playing in legato enhanced by vibrato, the notes flow like streams, one over another. As I lean against the entryway to watch, I see he is unwilling to part from her. As I turn to leave, he sees me from the corner of his eye, and looks up abruptly. He is still sliding the bow across her strings, his fingers hovering over the delicate curve of her neck. He pauses …

      

“What is it Carly?”

      

“Oh … Nothing.”  I recognize my reply is fragile.

     

He narrows his eyes. “Sugar? You seem …” Whatever it was that he thought I seem he doesn’t finish. He exhales and turns back to the sheet music in front of him. “I should practice a while longer. Why don’t you get dinner started?”

     

Oh sheesh! I nod. Dinner. It’s what the violin cannot provide. I turn reluctantly to go to the kitchen. The music resumes to breath over me. The sound is so clear it fills my chest. I long to be Theo’s violin, I ache to be a part of it all. I never have had the head for the wonders he and his violin can create. Although I love it, when I tried my hand at music, I could not throw myself fully into it with passion. Writing was more my thing. Now I wish that I could, to save myself from the loneliness. When Theodore is not creating music with her for himself, he is performing for the Philharmonic.

     

His love for her has taken him farther than his love for me ever could. Far, far from me. The music he makes is so beautiful; I can sense his romance with her with every single note. The slow concertos are like a fairytale love story, in which you anticipate the prince to find his princess. When Theo plays a daring suite, I can see the dancers in shimmering dresses throw sparkles across the spotless polished wood dance floor, the stuff of storybooks. That is the potency of their love.

     

I know that it is silly, always very silly, to be resentful of an inanimate instrument. Who could I tell? Who would listen? But she seems to be alive under Theodore’s touch, and he is unwilling to part from her. From the studio, I can hear the mood of the piece he is playing flawlessly change. The notes rise and become sharp and quick. This new melody is upbeat, almost has a bounce to it. The bow slides quickly, the violin moans from pressured strings, notes tremble in the air, breaking silence into sparkling shards.

     

Ambling into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, I realize how low we are on anything that can remotely call healthy. We, well mainly he, make good money. However, he is so preoccupied with her, he hasn’t bothered to grocery shop, and I have been swamped for the past month. Today, really, has been the first day I haven’t had pages to mark up, change, and re-edit for all of January. Releasing a weary sigh, I walk towards the front door of our flat.

     

“Theo,” I shout.

     

The music continues to spill out of the studio.

    

“I’m going to the grocery store,” I continued perfunctorily, knowing that my words were drowning under the melody. His performing is ceaseless. I turn and gather my coat from the nearby rack and grey scarf. I open the door and stare. The hallway is nippy. *sigh* I have zero desire to shop. I quickly realize. I have no desire for anything. I step back and close the door. I do have a desire. I want my husband back. Theo has been seduced by the magic and mystery carried in his music. Biting my lip, I turn away from the door and toss my scarf and coat on the floor. I proceed towards his studio. He has paused momentarily, and is leaning over the gorgeous mahogany violin to scribble a few notes to himself. He looks up and sees me in the hallway.

       

“I thought you were going shopping?” He sweeps a strand of hair that has fallen loose from his ponytail behind his ear.

     

“I’d rather you came with me.” The words fell out quietly. “It’s freezing outside, and the city is so…” my voice trailing off when I see the look on his face. “Forget I said anything,” I say stupidly. What the hell else can you say to a musician?

     

But the look he gives me is not what I expect. His eyes hold me captive. It brings to mind the first time he caught my look from the stage long before we were married. He was playing a Paganini Violin Concerto.  And I remember the way he played her, as if just playing for me, just me alone. The auditorium dimmed, the symphony orchestra became soft, and it was only he and I and the music. The sound ... of the violin ... so brittle and innocent ... with a touch of bittersweet and longing ... made my heart ache and remember ... many things. She was not a figure at all, but an instrument for our love. I believed we glowed that night. The intensity of the gaze he is giving me, in silence, is the same but, I cannot read its intention. I am anxious about what he will say to me.

     

“I’ll order out and go shopping tomorrow, ok?” My voice is pleading, I’m not sure what for …

     

Theo breaks his look and nods, “That’s fine.” As I turn to go, he begins to play differently now. He is playing her spiccato, hitting her strings with his bow, notes being bounced off. The song he is playing sounds downcast, yielding eerie memories. My mind conjures up the impressions of storm clouds, amassing to form a funnel over some distant plain.

     

I leave the room and wander down the dimmed hallway. Our flat is considerable, painted in warm tones of deep red, and muted orange.  We’re the sort that decorates with fresh cut flowers and candles, and with paintings blended so beautifully with colors, and no lines to tell me who I should be or where I have to end. But despite all of our best efforts, there is a chill in the place that apparently cannot be lifted. Even Theo’s love for his violin can’t exorcise the concealed threads of ice. I pick up the phone and speed-dial the number for the pizza parlor a block and a half away. I order a large half- California Club and half-Hawaiian. Sometimes compromising is the easiest. And besides, I don’t want to interrupt the music any more than I can help it. But damn …

     

I decide to head for the bathroom right across the hall from me. It has a large, spacious bathtub, the kind with the soothing jets. I scarcely ever use them, but their comfort is not lost on me. I usually shower, so I don’t waste valuable time I could be spending on changing tenses, and amending ‘there’ to ‘their’ on a sloppy manuscript. Besides, this bathtub seems to be full of memories.  I turn the handle and soon steam rises off silken water, with bubbles floating through the air. Sitting on the side of the tub I take my slippers off and dip my feet in the water.

     

It was just about a year ago from this very place that I had rushed to show Theo the plus sign on my pregnancy test. He had loved me then, and he had loved the new life inside of me. Two and a half months later I felt something was terribly wrong, so I crept to the bathroom. Soon enough I had discovered it; blood, lots of it. I knew I was losing it. You can’t lose this much blood and expect it to still be alive, still be breathing … of course not … it is impossible. The pain, the cramps, they were unbearable, the vomiting, the dizziness, all of it ... too much to take. I took some medicine, lay in the bed, and eventually slept the rest of the day and night out.

     

The next day I spent the entire afternoon in this tub, contemplating how my body had become a tomb. I was devastated and inconsolable. Theo had sat on the toilet next to the bathtub, leaning over me, rubbing my hand. There was nothing for it, nothing was said. He left the room and silently came back with his violin, and sat there and played. Quietly weeping, the violin moans from pressured strings. He played for me then, but I think he was playing for himself as well. The notes fill my chest as my tears would not stop. His music has always been where he has thrown himself, and the way he played her that day, we shared the lamentation. Before long, tear drops stain the mahogany one by one …

     

I would not return to that day for anything, but he used that violin to love me. Now he only loves her. I suppose I cannot blame him. After that day, several months later, I had another. Children cannot grow inside of me. It’s like I was poison to them! And it was Theo who became inconsolable. He had never verbalized he wanted children, not aloud, anyway. But he way his face lit up when I told him, and the way he played when they passed from me … I knew how very much he aspired to be a father. Perhaps that is why he prefers her to me. With his violin he can create. She is superior where I have failed. Sometimes fate is so cruel.

   

I turn off the jets and kick my feet softly in the warm water, Theo’s playing has stopped. I hear the front door shut.  There is silence for a moment. Then I hear footsteps coming closer to the bathroom.

    

“I guess you didn’t hear the door Hun. It’s on the counter if you want any.” He pokes his head in the doorway then pauses before speaking. “Carly, is something wrong?”

     

I look down at my feet making small ripples in the water and finally shake my head.

     

“Have you … Have you been crying?”

    

I keep looking at my knees above the bubbles and don’t answer. I want him to take me in his arms and hold me, but I know very well that he won’t. I wait a few seconds which feel like minutes. At long last he grips he door face, tightly, before turning away. “Don’t let it get cold,” he says half-heartedly as he begins to amble down the hall.

    

He never eats in the studio so I know that he is sitting at the table, or at the very least hovering over the counter. I get up to rinse my hair then drain the bathtub. Dinner together, even in this state is more appealing than the alternative, dinner alone. I step out onto the floor. “Crap! There are no towels.” While puddles form around my feet, I slip on my robe that was still hanging from the door, and proceed to make little footprints on the hardwood floor as I walk to the kitchen and dining area.

     

As I supposed, Theo is leaning over the kitchen counter, munching on a piece of Hawaiian while looking out the window at the wall across the alleyway. He has a plate set out for me beside the pizza box. I open and take out a piece of the California Club. Trying to smile at him, and then giving up, I pick off a slice of avocado and pop it in my mouth, taking the plate and the pizza to the table.

    

“Carly?” he says after a while.

     

I look up at him. He walks up to the table and sits across from me, a vase of tired Peonies between us. He’s got the look on his face of a man grasping for words. He seems to mentally shrug and continues, “The new piece is difficult. I keep getting distracted, slipping into older pieces. More natural I suppose …”

     

I nod slowly. “It sounds nice from what I can hear.”

     

“It’ll be better when I can play it smoothly, of course”

     

I stare at my plate, picking at the peppers and chicken distractedly. Then I stand up. “Do you want anything to drink?

     

“Yeah … Sure … Is there any orange juice?”

    

Opening the refrigerator, I am again instantly reminded about how low our supplies are. “I guess I really should have gone shopping. There isn’t any.” I pour two glasses of water and bring them back to the table. We both sit. We both eat. Neither of us speaks.

    

“How is the manuscript going?” Theo asks after wiping his face on a napkin.

     

I shrug. “There’s nothing to write home about.”

    

“Well maybe you should!”

     

“What???”

     

Why don’t you actually take up writing instead of just tearing other people’s to pieces? You always can find just the right words!”

    

The suggestion strikes me. I’ve thought about it many times, but the excuses then begin, real and imagined, and those in between, to avoid actually doing it. “Oh please,” I say, trying to sound casual and amused. “One artist is quite enough in the house.”

    

“I’m sure you would be good at it!”

    

I shake my head. “No … No … I’m … I’m content.”

     

“But are you really happy?”

     

I force a smile as I look up at him. “When I am not, I know that this too shall pass. You should just be concerned with getting that piece prepared in time for the Spring Concert.”

     

He rises and picks up his plate and carries it to the dishwasher with a sigh. After standing for a moment he turns and says softly, “It’s not a piece for the Spring Concert.”

     

I cannot hide my confusion. “Are you not playing? You are almost always first chair. You are expected to be there. You can’t possibly be thinking of sitting this one out!”

   

“I can be!” he declares, rubbing his bottom lip with his long thin musician’s fingers. “Come here.”

     

Theo takes my hand and leads me back to his studio and sets me down on the window seat, the one with the decidedly better view. With extreme care he opens the violin’s case, and lifts her by the neck-gently. Caressing the smooth varnish upon the carved surface, he lifts her to his shoulder, and the tension heats. Horse hair placed at rest upon strings. All thoughts leave my head. With a silent sigh of anticipation, and an inward breath and preparation, with a flicker of light in the dark of clover eyes, he begins to play. I have heard him play all day, but this time he has made it clear that he wants me to listen. And so I do.

     

Describing the composition without poetry would be hard not to do. The violin plays my soul as my heart glides across the strings. The beat of my existence represents a sad tale, of loss, pain, and suffering that can only be freed through the expression of string and bow pressure momentously singing notes. There is a passion, an immense terrible passion that overcomes me, it crescendos throughout my being. I can see it in the shift of his expression, in the concentrated frown of his mouth and in the sincerity of his half-closed eyes. I could almost hear the words in every touch. The song trails off into a sweet, deep melody, and then jumps up into lightness with sudden staccato.

    

I’m sure that this piece is not one I’ve heard before, but there is something intimate and familiar to it. It wraps around me, filling me with is deep vibration. I feel the song binding me up, but softly, carefully. What makes Theo’s playing different I realize, is that he is not playing it to hear the sounds she makes. He seems to be waiting for something in the playing, and when he is finished, he looks up at me. The decrescendo lingers in the air.

    

“That was … That was …” I begin standing up.

     

“For you.” He said quietly. “Carly, are you going to leave?”

    

“Wh-what?” my voice stumbles.

     

“I’ve seen the way you … Like he rooms you are in no longer matters. Like you are planning to get out, to get away … Of all of this.”

    

I am taken aback. I look down toward my toes and shake my head. Looking up I reveal, “I don’t know Theo. I’m going around and around in circles.”

     

He puts his violin back in her case and closes it as she has completed playing her part in this. Then he takes my hand and pulls me close. We embrace, and the warmth of it that rushes through me is far greater than any music, or perhaps borne of it. Holding on to him, and bury my head in his chest. My heart is beating fast, allegro. I could swear I am hearing symphonies …

Makin' Plans

This quote confirms what I’ve been thing nowadays. I’m now in Spring Break and halfway to my graphic arts degree. It is true … Aim high … It gets exciting!

Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will not die, but long after we are gone be a living thing, asserting itself with ever-growing insistence.

– Daniel Hudson Burnham

Here, take it, it's yours

The Gift Time wants to show you a different country. It's the one
that your life conceals, the one waiting outside
when curtains are drawn, the one Grandmother hinted at
in her crochet design, the one almost found
over at the edge of the music, after the sermon. It's the way life is, and you have it, a few years given.
You get killed now and then, violated
in various ways. (And sometimes it's turn about.)
You get tired of that. Long-suffering, you wait
and pray, and maybe good things come - maybe
the hurt slackens and you hardly feel it any more.
You have a breath without pain. It is called happiness. It's a balance, the taking and passing along,
the composting of where you've been and how people
and weather treated you. It's a country where
you already are, bringing where you have been.
Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,
turning the world, moving the air, calling,
every morning, "Here, take it, it's yours."

~ William Stafford ~

Taking Time ...

A cool little piece to share on a beautiful Sonday ...

Take time to think;
It is the source of power.

Take time to read;
It is the foundation of wisdom.

Take time to play;
It is the secret of staying young.

Take time to be quiet;
It is the opportunity to seek God.

Take time to be aware;
It is the opportunity to help others.

Take time to love and be loved;
It is God’s greatest gift.

Take time to laugh;
It is the music of the soul.

Take time to be friendly;
It is the road to happiness.

Take time to dream;
It is what the future is made of.

Take time to pray;
It is the greatest power on earth.

–Author Unknown

Psalm 51

"Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me." That's a really good prayer to have. But notice how David isn't saying, "Yeah God, I'm gonna make my spirit strong and make my heart clean and then I'll come back and we can talk." No. David is asking God to do it for him. Another thing I like about this. It reminds me that we can't make it all by ourselves. And I know I'm not the only one guitly of trying. Life is such a constant struggle, so many things to overcome, and some days it just gets SO HARD.

But that's what I find my hope in. That I'm not alone. It doesn't matter how lonely I feel. He's right there for me all day. Every day. Forever. And He'll help me through the tough stuff.

Just some thoughts :) .

Psalm 51
1-3Generous in love—God, give grace! Huge in mercy—wipe out my bad record.
Scrub away my guilt,
soak out my sins in your laundry.
I know how bad I've been;
my sins are staring me down.

4-6 You're the One I've violated, and you've seen
it all, seen the full extent of my evil.
You have all the facts before you;
whatever you decide about me is fair.
I've been out of step with you for a long time,
in the wrong since before I was born.
What you're after is truth from the inside out.
Enter me, then; conceive a new, true life.

7-15 Soak me in your laundry and I'll come out clean,
scrub me and I'll have a snow-white life.
Tune me in to foot-tapping songs,
set these once-broken bones to dancing.
Don't look too close for blemishes,
give me a clean bill of health.
God, make a fresh start in me,
shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life.
Don't throw me out with the trash,
or fail to breathe holiness in me.
Bring me back from gray exile,
put a fresh wind in my sails!
Give me a job teaching rebels your ways
so the lost can find their way home.
Commute my death sentence, God, my salvation God,
and I'll sing anthems to your life-giving ways.
Unbutton my lips, dear God;
I'll let loose with your praise.

16-17 Going through the motions doesn't please you,
a flawless performance is nothing to you.
I learned God-worship
when my pride was shattered.
Heart-shattered lives ready for love
don't for a moment escape God's notice.

18-19 Make Zion the place you delight in,
repair Jerusalem's broken-down walls.
Then you'll get real worship from us,
acts of worship small and large,
Including all the bulls
they can heave onto your altar!

Crooked Tree

A great quote I would like to share ...

"Your heart is blessed when you can see the beauty in a crooked tree."

~Author Unknown

shows me the stars

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars."

~The Ever Prolific Author Unknown

I am a Christian

When I say, "I am a Christian," I'm not shouting, "I've been saved!"
I'm whispering, "I get lost! That's why I chose this way"

When I say, "I am a Christian," I don't speak with human pride
I'm confessing that I stumble-needing God to be my guide

When I say, "I am a Christian," I'm not trying to be strong
I'm professing that I'm weak and pray for strength to carry on

When I say, "I am a Christian," I'm not bragging of success
I'm admitting that I've failed and cannot ever pay the debt

When I say, "I am a Christian," I don't think I know it all
I submit to my confusion asking humbly to be taught

When I say, "I am a Christian," I'm not claiming to be perfect
My flaws are far too visible but God believes I'm worth it

When I say, "I am a Christian," I still feel the sting of pain
I have my share of heartache which is why I seek His name

When I say, "I am a Christian," I do not wish to judge
I have no authority--I only know I'm loved


Copyright 1988 Carol Wimmer

joy a liquid

The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid.
~J.D. Salinger

I think that this quote rocks! Happiness breaks when something falls on it, but joy fits in whatever container you put it in. There is a distinction between joy and happiness I have usually thought of it as happiness being a sort of worldly emotion that comes from some worldly satisfaction - not worldly in a bad way, but in a mortal human earthly way and joy as being something God given that doesn't necessarily make us happy but gives us hope and inner peace . Just some thoughts... Tim

Better To Light Candles

Better To Light Candles

Merle Shain

It is better to light candles
than to curse the darkness.
It is better to plant seeds
than to accuse the earth.
The world needs all of our power
and love and energy,
and each of us has something that we can give.
The trick is to find it and use it,
to find it and give it away.
So there will always be more.
We can be lights for each other,
and through each other's illumination
we will see the way.
Each of us is a seed,
a silent promise,
and it is always spring.

Have a most blessed evening everyone!~ Tim

Antoine's Rockpile

An interesting quote I would like to share with you all ....

"A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral."

~~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Butterfly

Just a cool quote I just came across ...

“What the caterpillar calls the end, the rest of the world calls a butterfly.”

-Lao Tzu

Divorce and the Woman at the Well

Awhile ago I was on a discussion site which was discussion the issue of divorce. It always amazes me how this subject gets so "heated". Suddenly there are those who are supposed to be apostles of grace get right into rule keeping, guilt and condemnation and I find it truly sad.

That said, I am a lot more interested in the big picture of the significance of Jesus than I am the details of any controversial passage. Let me give you an example:

The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water.” Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come here.” The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; for you have had five husbands, and the one you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.” (John 4:15-18)

I am not quoting all of this story, because the majority of the people here know it well. It’s one of the great chapters of the Bible, and it is a great “big picture” passage. The woman’s sexual past, marital history, Samaritan ethnicity and gender were of no particular interest to Jesus. What was important? This woman was filling up her life with substitutes for the significance and love of her true husband, Yahweh. She needed living water, and she needed the one who gives water without cost and without deserving it. She needed to believe in God’s messiah, and come to receive from him, eternal life in all its dimensions.

That’s how I understand Jesus. The primary thing is not that I have screwed up my life, and may continue to do so. That’s a given. The primary thing is Jesus himself, and the Gospel that comes to me in him alone.

I used to work at a store where several Christians worked. One of the guys we Christian folk witnessed to was a young man who was divorced and remarried. One evening, another Christian- a Church of Christ guy- and I were talking religion with this fellow, and the Church of Christ guy said that if Harold became a Christian, he would need to go back to his first wife and remarry her!

Yes, you read that right. Now, what was this person thinking of? He was thinking of Jesus’ words in Matthew 5 and 19. There had been no adultery. The guys marriage broke up, and he tried again. That did not matter to the Church of Christ guy. The marriage was illegitimate and needed to be abandoned, and the first marriage restored. Then God would be happy, of course, because that’s what God is all about: people repenting correctly.

I think that if the Church of Christ guy had been at the well with this woman and Jesus, he would have listened, and when Jesus left, he would have said, “Lady….let me add a few things to what Jesus said here. Your various arrangements have all been sinful, and if you become a believer in the messiah, you will need to go back to husband #1, if you can find him, and make that marriage work again, no matter what. Repentance is very important to real faith, and we cannot overlook these illegitimate sinful relationships. That would be a bad witness.”

Of course, that would be really stupid, but it would be taking the verses seriously. Not the Gospel, but the verses. The problem with divorce and remarriage is that there is no comprehensive writing on the subject in the bible. What I'm saying is that no writer sat down and wrote an entire discourse on the whole subject of marriage. What you get is bits and pieces in response to particular questions. We are left to put the whole together.

I not against people being convicted against remarriage for sure. I am convicted against drinking for example in my case, but I don't attempt to make it a law for others. But this is the conclusion I've come up with under guidance of the Holy Spirit ...

God hates divorce. Malachi 2:16

He also forgives. 1 John 1:9, John 8:1-11

If you seek answers to divorce according to the law, then you will be condemned by the law.

If you confess your sin…and seek His forgiveness, you will be forgiven by His Eternal Grace.

Your choice: Guilt or Grace!?

Christ died as our punishment. He who knew no sin, became sin for us (2 Corinthians 5:21).

How cool is that?!

Psalm 88

Psalms 88

88:1-18 O LORD God of my salvation, I have cried day [and] night before thee:

Let my prayer come before thee: incline thine ear unto my cry;

For my soul is full of troubles: and my life draweth nigh unto the grave.

I am counted with them that go down into the pit: I am as a man [that hath] no strength:

Free among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, whom thou rememberest no more: and they are cut off from thy hand.

Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps.

Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted [me] with all thy waves. Selah.

Thou hast put away mine acquaintance far from me; thou hast made me an abomination unto them: [I am] shut up, and I cannot come forth.

Mine eye mourneth by reason of affliction: LORD, I have called daily upon thee, I have stretched out my hands unto thee.

Wilt thou shew wonders to the dead? shall the dead arise [and] praise thee? Selah

Shall thy lovingkindness be declared in the grave? [or] thy faithfulness in destruction?

Shall thy wonders be known in the dark? and thy righteousness in the land of forgetfulness?

But unto thee have I cried, O LORD; and in the morning shall my prayer prevent thee.

LORD, why castest thou off my soul? [why] hidest thou thy face from me?

I [am] afflicted and ready to die from [my] youth up: [while] I suffer thy terrors I am distracted.

Thy fierce wrath goeth over me; thy terrors have cut me off.

They came round about me daily like water; they compassed me about together.

Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, [and] mine acquaintance into darkness.

I came across this Psalm 2 or 3 weeks ago, but decided then not to post about it. I figured that I might have been throwing enough darker stuff out there and this Psalm takes the cake! I had a particularly rough week then on several fronts and really identified with this thing. My relationship with God is a struggle at times and the dynamics of that seems to keep me on track. Its when I get complacent ...

It is quite freeing to me to come to the prayer book of the Bible and find both great joy AND great despair. Its definitely fair to ask, what is this despairing stuff doing in there? I think it has to do with honesty. We all know that we can get really ticked off about the way others treat us, offend us, betray us ... And we also know we really can't control others, nor should we desire to. But we shouldn't be afraid to acknowledge our anger, even rage to God because they aren't so ... "nice." We should give these feelings to God because there is a deep trust that God will know what to do and how to do it, and will do what is just. This is a healthy kind of faith I think. Sometimes, just naming our anger and giving it to Jesus is just the right therapy. Certainly better than trying to control something out of control for sure.

Though the this Psalm ends on a very somber note, what follows it is the 89th Psalm which begins like this:

I will sing of the mercies of the LORD for ever: with my mouth will I make known thy faithfulness to all generations.

For I have said, Mercy shall be built up for ever: thy faithfulness shalt thou establish in the very heavensNo matter how long the winding trail, no matter how dark the night, His presence will been seen, "...but joy comes with the morning."

I'm at the 89th Psalm place now, but more that likely, surely even, the 88th Psalm place will come again ... and I'll be none to happy about it ... but He is with us ...

Just some thoughts ...

Another Agape Thing!

I guess one of the most amazing things I find in a relationship with Jesus is coming to grips with agape love. That Christ decided to die for me long before I was born, regardless race, habits, doctrinal positions and anything else that often, we as humans, allow to get in the way. That Gods love is without condition and even if we don't accept Him, he still loves us anyways.Another thing that hits is that this unconditional love, by implication is what we should be adopting when we call ourselves a follower of Christ. This kind of love, in me as far from perfect, makes me pause to think why I got so angry with someone who has a totally opposing view on life as I do. Or someone who goes out of their way to oppose argue with me, or someone I pick little fights with. I've been reflecting in the past week or so since I've been off pain meds, on many of my relationships with people and it becomes so obvious that its much easier to talk Christ than live it. I can reel of theology, life experiences and whatnot, but my life and behavior has really got to reflect this relationship between Christ and me. And the sad truth is that I come up wanting ...

I realize that Jesus is chiseling away the rough stone, smoothing those parts so that He can be reflected more clearly. At this point I wish to apologize to all my brothers and sisters, and others, when my words don't match up to my walk. I apologize when in haste I argue my part in my desire to be understood and ending up hurting someone. May Christ keep me humble, keep us all humble, and allow us to grasp what it really, really means to have the fruit of the Spirit. What it really means to walk without condemnation, in the shadow of the Cross, in His presence. And to be a refection to others what Christ's unconditional agape love is all about.

A blog from Tim... sorta ...

An Irony in the Tapestry of Recession

Last week, on my trip to Coquille, Oregon, I was checking out the TV and a local TV affiliate is broadcasting a commercial for a ministry, one that has a reputation for "deliverance" -- showing scene after scene of unemployment lines, people frustrated over desks of household paperwork, crying people, people holding their head in their hands in total angst. The pitchman exhorts viewers that "There's no problem God can't handle!" and urges us to come to this church and get all our problems solved. Sending in a "seed tithe" would be a major step in the right direction ....Several minutes later I'm watching CSI and on comes the latest commercial of a notoriously ambulance-chasing plaintiffs' law firm. More talk and imagery related to "these tough economic times," more angst, and the suggestion that if life isn't treating us right it may be because we haven't sued someone who deserves it: "Call the offices of ________!"Ironic.

Of course there isn't a problem God can't handle. But perhaps our comfort isn't His #1 concern! From where we stand, we see the underside of the tapestry...and it is a work in progress. The Master Weaver, sees the final pattern, the master plan, and the "right" side of the tapestry as it is woven. What may seem to be a giant flub or cosmic knot to us may truly be an ingenious and lovely design from the view of our Creator.

There have been so many times in my life when I have been creating something, and in the midst of the project wondered, "did I do that right? Doesn't seem to fit there very well, or suit the final project very well." Only to discover that the piece I had cut or the seam I had sewn worked out simply as the ONLY POSSIBLE WAY to achieve the desired end results. Now if I just "sued someone" or passed on the blame elsewhere, the work of art would have never been completed! Our prayer should stem from our hearts ... not our wallet!

Some thoughts on a Saturday ...

This morning I came across these verses .... I just found it interesting ... and very cool ...

Isaiah 61: 1-3 The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the years of the Lord's favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion- to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.

And this story... At the Royal Palace of Tehran in Iran, you can see one of the most beautiful mosaics in the world. The ceilings and the walls flash like diamonds in multifaceted reflections.

Originally, when the palace was designed, the artist specified huge sheets of mirrors on the walls. When the first shipment arrived from Paris, they found to their horror that the mirrors were shattered. The contractor threw them in the trash and brought the sad news to the architect.

Amazingly, the architect ordered all the broken pieces collected, then smashed them into tiny pieces and glued into the walls to become a mosaic of silvery, shimmering, and mirrored bits of glass.

Broken to become beautiful. It's possible to turn your scars into stars. It is possible to be better because of the brokenness.

If human hands can create something breathtaking, even in the midst of disappointment and brokenness, how much more can God, the Creator and Restorer?

This is a super overwhelming thought, don’t you think?