Outcast

     If I could choose a name for myself, it would be Pariah. It means "outcast."
     Everywhere I go, I notice that when it comes to me, one thing is always the same. Though I make friends easily, though I get into groups quickly, I never get past arm's length.
     People let me be a part of their lives, but never let me into their hearts. I am a friend, an acquaintance, a coworker. But I'm a problem:
     I say it like it is. I am what is known as "brutally honest." I'm not politically correct. I don't make polite little comments on everything.
     I don't look the part I'm supposed to play. I don't fit in anywhere even though I have friends everywhere. I don't fit in with the perfects because I make big mistakes that are hard to forget. I don't fit in with the naughties because I manage to behave most of the time. I don't fit in with the intellects because this scholar doesn't study textbooks or listen to college lectures, but prefers to study the heart, mind, and soul of the people. I don't fit in with the spiritualists because I enjoy material things a little too much for them. I don't fit in with the materialists either because I look to a future after this life and I get off on just being alive. How can I be so like everyone and so different?
     I show opinion. I openly admire some (sometimes to the point of making them uncomfortable). And end up avoiding those I don't care for even though I try not to show it. I'm not supposed to show favoritism, but you know, there are those I really wish I was like and those I can't stand. But at the end of the day, we are all the same. So I smile and expel the extra baggage. Putting aside prejudice and impression. Somehow I make it through. And that shocks people. How can I put it away? How is it that I can forget, even for a moment, that I don't like that person and really like that other person? How is it that it no longer affects me?
     I own up when I make mistakes. Even with my big ones. No person would do that. Nobody likes being vulnerable. So what's wrong with me? A Christian doesn't make mistakes. Christians are supposed to be perfect. So when they make mistakes and the world sees, they come across as hypocrites. But being a Christian, when I profess forgiveness, I'm also asking for it. We all make mistakes. We have all crossed the line at one time or another. So why is it so hard for the world to understand? How is it that I offer confession when I mess up? How can I admit having done what I wasn't supposed to have done in the first place?
     Everyone wishes I'm pretending to be strong. Everyone wants me to be gray in a world of black and white. Everyone wishes to stick a label on me; prescribe a solution to me because I happen to be a problem. Everyone sees only a part of me - only one tiny bit of who I am. It may sound like I'm boasting, but I know when I say that there is not one human on this earth who knows me. I am an outcast.
     People are afraid. Afraid of hurting. So they build up walls around their hearts and try to fit in where they can so they don't feel alone. But I am not afraid of getting hurt. I know what it is to hurt and I am not afraid. I let myself be vulnerable. I have a smile and open arms for all. I make mistakes and own up. I don't like it, but I do it. And that is strange to a world that does only what it likes to do.

     So what if I never get past arm's length? So what if I stand a little off to the side? So what if I make mistakes that are hard to forget? So what if no one knows me? I am an outcast. That is obvious. I don't like it. I don't like getting hurt. I don't like being vulnerable. I don't like to bare my soul before the world, before anybody. But I cannot forget that it has been done before. I will not, I cannot forget that Jesus made Himself vulnerable and got hurt. He was the biggest outcast of all. Loved by the masses and hated by the bigwigs. And He loved them all. Broke down the walls that hearts had made. And changed the world.
     So here I am. Wanting to have the same walls that everyone else does. Wanting to be safe. Wanting to be loved by a man that would probably never have me because of the things I once did. Wanting to belong to one who gets uncomfortable when I'm around. But I wasn't called to be safe. I wasn't called to be normal. And maybe I'll never get the guy of my dreams. But you know, I will follow the one person who knows me to the end of the world. The one person who knows me - all of me - and loves me anyway.
     And the love that I'm referring to - well, there's nothing like it.
     It's not a weight to bear you down.
     It's not a box that keeps you holed up.
     It's not a sacrifice, not a compromise, but a gift.
     It's not a pedestal that makes you an idol.
     It's not an expectation of perfection.
     It's not to make you change.
     It's not even to make you love back.
     The Outcast Jesus loved the world. Loved every single person. Even me. Even you. And followed through on that love. And His love lives on in Christians around the world to this day. Lives on in me.
     That's why I am an outcast. That's why I'm strange and a problem to this world. Because the unconditional love lives on in me. And people are afraid of it. Afraid because they know it tears down walls. Afraid because it does change lives. So they make me an outcast. I would love all but am kept away. So I love from afar. They try to stay safe from me. From the Christ loving through me. From the real person who loves you. So when I say I love you, I am outcast. Rejected. Marked as strange, crazy, and a problem. But I love anyway.
     I love you. The most understated phrase in the world. The one that broke Death itself. It was left unspoken, but seared on our hearts and minds, left screaming through all of creation. And still we look away.
     To look away from an outcast? Normal. But for the outcast to love unconditionally and still be rejected? Ironic.

John 3:16

Power Out

Baptized in shadow.
Surrounded by black.
Where has the light gone?
Where's the warm yellow glow?

Stumble.
Flailing for a flashlight.
Where is the light?
Where is the energy?

Snatch up the matches.
Ignite dusty candles.
What's happened to the power?
Where's the electricity?

Sometimes I wonder
if we could ever learn
to live again without it.
We take it for granted.
But if it were gone for good,
life would change.
Do you think that
perhaps we should
be careful with what we have?

The love of God.
A gift to the people.
Why would He give it to us?
Why should He care?

A life.
The Life that changed the world.
Why did God send him?
Why did he care?

I should be dead.
But I stand living and alive.
Why am I still here?
Why does He care?

Sometimes I wonder
will we ever learn?
We go through life
and we take God for granted.
But if He didn't love,
none of us would be here.
Do you think that
perhaps we should
be careful with what we have?

Do you think that
perhaps we should
accept His love before it's too late?

The Story of the Rose

     In the yard of my parent's home are two rose beds with six - no seven - different kinds of roses. Four of them are red: small dark roses, the classic blood red, small reds, and brilliant, shimmering, heavy scarlet blossoms. One bush holds countless tiny pink heads. The foremost, the one closest to the street, is a Tripicana (I believe that's what its name is): large yellow rose with pastel pink to bright pink edges. But my favorite is the rose that stands behind the front porch. Its branches are so few in number and so crooked that it can hardly be called a rosebush. And every summer it only gives one, sometimes two blooms. Yet they are of the purest white.
     The rose is a classic flower. Grown in public gardens and forbidden palaces, used in decor and designs, the standard choice for a lover's bouquet. But what draws me to the rose in not its fulness, strong colors, or delightful aroma, but the thorns. How is is that such a beauty could bear something like a thorn? Why is the favorite of flowers surounded with a wall of protection to deter the hand of the admiror? The rose, so lovely, so beloved, and yet so painful if one gets too close. How is that?
     Most people see the thorns as the devices to protect the glorious petals. That if it weren't for thorns, the blooms would be ripped from their stems and cruelly left in the gutter to die. Once the instant delight in achieving the beauty is over, it is so often thrown away. So the rose grows defenses - keeping the careless and the grasping hands at bay. People use this to say that a woman should be the same: beautiful and altogether pleasing, but still willing to protect herself from the careless and the grasping man. This analogy does indeed have much merit. But for me it is only half the story.
     The Story of the Rose.
     On the day of its creation the Rose was just another leafy plant. No thorns, no flowers. Lots of stem, lots of leaves. No one would have guessed that this would one day be the rose we know and love. But as time went by, it became clear that something was quite wrong with the Rose. Every time she lied, every time she hurt another fellow plant of the plants in the garden with her words and deeds, one of her stems would suddenly sprout a thorn. Eventually she realized that she had lost all her friends - every thorn a painful reminder of what she had done. She blamed her friends, blamed the Gardener. And her thorns multiplied. But the Gardener still tended to her.
     One day, the Gardener began to dig her up.
     "What are you doing?" she wondered.
     "You are big enough to be in the King's garden," the Gardener replied.
     As he worked, the thorns cut and stabbed at his skin, causing him to wince from the pain, but he never stopped. He moved her to the King's garden and placed her beside the great doors of the castle. A position where all could see her.
     For a time, the Gardener was gone. Everyone laughed at the Rose. But she did not cry. She grew proud of her place. Then some men came and cut some of her stems and took them away. Soon the Gardener returned and tended to her again.
     "I was crowned King," he said. "This is my garden now. You were my crown that day."
     That was when she saw the thorn marks across his forehead. Then she cried. She knew, she understood that the thorns were her own wrongdoings - that she did not belong in the King's garden. She begged the Gardener to burn her - to destroy her.
     He shook his head. "I want the world to remember. Just as I once was lowly and now am greatest of all, I shall make you the best of flowers."
     And to this day the rose stands as the symbol of life. It is always darkest before dawn. The thorns come first before the glorious beauty.
     I have thorns, I sin. But my thorns are forgiven. One day I will bloom - full and bright like the rose.

Silver Line

The Lost Letters of Annabelle: Third Letter

February 12, 1813

Dear Kitty,

     I write with you letter beside me. You and I both know that David would be a much better match for me. But surely David would never see me worthy. And I cannot stop thinking of Matthias. You say that I am young and I should wait. But I do not think that I should risk even implying my sentiments to David. I do not know if he would even want me! And I cannot bear the thought of how David's disposition towards me would change once he knew of my true feelings! What has Matthias done to make me love him you ask? I know not. Perhaps it is because I want to be wanted. Do I love him? I don't think I do in that manner Kitty. For when Matthias told me he was courting another, there was no jealousy in my heart. I was surprised that he had chosen another so quickly, but that quickly faded. Matthias is happy. I still hope that he will return for me, but I shall not pursue him. David is, after all, the better man. We share the same devotion to God. But Matthias. Oh Matthias. I see his face with my waking eyes. David is a noble, purple robed prince. But I am drawn to the knight in black. And we cannot be together. I love David, but my passion is for Matthias. My heart weeps. It is like all the stories. But if only I could reach Matthias' soul! The choice ought to be no choice at all! David and I are of one heart and soul, but Matthias shares my desires. To think that only the past year I had promised myself to deny all material and fleshly desires. And I beg with my eyes and trembling hands for Matthias' embrace. Oh that I had become a nun! That I had denied myself the company of men entirely! None of this would have happened!
     I should not wish it away. I must live with the choices I made. And still time runs on. I have an eternity to win David's heart, but not with Matthias. Tomorrow could be one day too late to save him. If my death could bring Matthias' soul to God, I would give my life. But I do not have that power. Ans as long as Matthias' soul is lost, I cannot belong to him. I will not give myself to him no matter how much I feel for him. To do so, only to lose him forever would break this heart and make my life and love for him wasted time. So while I slowly build affection between myself and David, please pray for Matthias. As I unfold my heart to you and to God, pray that I will make the right decisions from now on. But I will never stop hoping.

Annabelle

Postscript: "All things worketh together for good..."

The Lost Letters Of Annabelle: Second Letter

February 5, 1813.

My dear Kitty,
     You were right of course. Mother and Father were not pleased at all. But Mr. Antony is a gentleman! Yes dear sister I know now. I did see him again, against Mother and Father's wishes. For a fortnight after telling them about him, I kept silent, then I left him a small note to meet me at the little public garden that Mrs. Crumford keeps. And he came. We walked through the trees and the flowerbeds, talking all the while. We had such a lovely time! And we discovered that we like so many of the same things! Of course, I asked him about his faith. His answer is the one thing that worries me. He told me that he believes in God, but that he goes to no church. That means he is not a Christian at all, but a Deist! I do suppose that is better than being full heathen. Oh Kitty what am I to do? I like him so terribly much! And he has made it clear that he wants me. It's not that he has already asked me to marry him. That would be too indecent. But his behavior and words told me that he thought me beautiful. I shall be indiscreet with you and say it outright. He wants me. Do not think harshly of him. He is a perfect gentleman. But I do know what crosses his mind when he thinks of me.
     There's something else too. I must have done or said something that made him decide to stop courting me. He told me that for a while we should part as friends. That for a time we must grow to know each other, then perhaps he might ask to court me again. I do not know what to make of it. All this has happened so quickly. Perhaps I should let him go and live as if it all never happened. But I cannot stop thinking about him. What should I do?

I await your reply,
Annabelle.

Human Nature

     As I sit in a restaurant watching people go by, eavesdropping on the conversations of a young man and woman in front of me and three men in business suits behind me, I marvel again at humanity. We are unique. Each and every person in different. But at the end of the day, we are all the same. Forget age, gender, looks. See the heart. We all choose at some point or another (some more than others) to waste time doing something "fun." We all have wants and ways to get what we want. We all form opinions and beliefs. We all worry about what others think of us. We all wonder where we're going to be after death. It's called human nature. "I think, therefore I am."
     It takes time to learn anything. Some things we learn in time, some things through experience, and some things we never learn at all. Does the fact that I have not yet learned some things that most have already learned make me any less human? No. Does the fact that I know and understand things that few my own age can say the same of themselves make me better than they? No. I have always learned on my own time and always will. I am still human. I am not "greater than thou." And I never claim to be.
     Then why am I treated differently? Am I offensive? Intimidating? Perhaps. Some people found, and still find, the name of Jesus offensive. When he walked the earth, a lot of people thought he was offensive. A problem. He challenged authority, exposed the dark in people's lives, cut through to the heart of every subject, tore away every lie. Caused trouble. Jesus was offensive.
     What about me? I say weird things, make people feel awkward. I am brutally honest, telling the truth even when it hurts. Am I offensive? Perhaps. Some people found, and still find Jesus offensive. He healed the sick, the lame, the leper. Fed the hungry and hungry heart. But refused to give in to the words of the leaders of the day. Refused to let them come close. So they killed him. Jesus was offensive.
     What about me? I have strange opinions. I sometimes behave like a little kid, sometimes like a queen. I care for the friend and stranger alike. I am a vulnerable heart where most spend years building fences and walls to protect themselves from hurting. My childlike openness scares people. They don't know what to do with me. Am I offensive? It sure seems that way.
     They say youth and wisdom don't go together. Am I young? Indeed. Younger than most people realize. Am I wise? No. I certainly don't think so. I'm simply vulnerable. I am offensive. Perhaps it is because people just don't know what to do with me, so they befriend me, but never let me in all the way. I am part of them and still an outsider.
     Or perhaps it is because they can see the name of Jesus written on my heart. It is human nature to avoid what is offensive.

The Lost Letters of Annabelle: First Letter

January 22, 1813. London.

Dearest Kitty,
     I am sorry for not being as dutiful as you with writing letters. In truth, until very recently there was nothing worth writing about. You keep saying that London is the most exciting place in the world, but nothing exciting has happened to me. Well, until yesterday.
     I do hope that you are sitting down while you read this, for what I have to tell you will shock you I am sure. I know it shocked me. But I shall tell you anyway. I have a suitor! And I am not even of age yet! You kept saying the moment I came of age I would have married some young man or other - most likely David. And I kept telling you no one would have me, that I deserve no one - especially not David the best of men - so I keep my heart for God. And yet here I am.
     Let me tell you how it was. I was helping Mother in the shop, and she had gone for a moment. A man entered our little shop and asked about the laces and ribbons for the hats in our window. I, of course, answered his many questions as best I could. He said some witty things that set me laughing. I suppose my face must have gone red like it does so very often. Well, as I was measuring some ribbon for him he asked me if I was free - if I was not engaged or wed yet. How my mouth must have fallen! I was so startled that I stumbled over my words in reply that I was, indeed, free. His face immediately brightened.
     Oh! His face! I forgot to tell you what he looks like! He is not as tall as most men but still taller than myself. His dark hair, cut so very short, lies close to his head, which makes his large brown eyes seem even larger. He is not a big man, nor is he thin. But what caught my attention - other than his wide smile and bright eyes - was his voice. Just like David's voice. A different timbre of course, but so charming, so pleasing! I was so flattered by him. When he left, Mr. Matthias Antony left a calling card in my hand and bade me good-day.
     Oh the thrills of life! But what shall Mother and Father think? My agreeing to be courted by a perfect stranger! They will never let me see him, I know it. I must tell them about it of course. But what shall I do? I do want to be courted by him. I must know if he is a good man. I will meet him again somewhere eventually. Even if I do not try. Please pray that he is a devout Christian. He must be a good man. I dearly hope so. I think I shall meet him. There are things I wish to ask him. Even if Mother and Father say no, I must meet him again. There is something about him. I do not know what it is yet. I must find out.

Your sister,
Annabelle

Valentine; A Poem For Couples

Valentine.
Will you be mine?
I gave you my heart.
May we never grow apart.

Valentine.
Don't cross the line.
Don't turn away.
I want you to stay.

Valentine.
You say you're fine.
But I am not alright.
You picked a fight.

Valentine what has happened?
What has changed?
Is there someone else now?

Valentine.
You are like wine.
You came and tasted good at first.
But now I feel like I could burst.

Still my heart hungers for you.
For you alone.
You ask if I have another.

I mumble a name.
But it's just not the same.
The passion is for you.

Broken Valentine.
Time to heal and shine.
Forget the past.
I want what will last.

Put aside the pettiness.
Break the chains.
No more "someone else now."

I want permanent.
I want love forever.
I want forgiveness.

Here I am God.
With open heart and sorrow for what I did.
Forgive me and bring us Valentines back together.

In Love

     To be in love or "in" it at all? That is the question. What is meant by the phrase "in love"? What does it mean to be in love? Firstly, if to be in love as the world means it, then I have been in love several times.
     Several times I have felt the feeling of wanting to be near someone. Several times the feeling, the rush, of when that person came to a meeting where I also was, washed over me. Several times I felt happy with that person was close and sad when the individual left. Several times my heart beat fast, wanting to stop altogether for sheer happiness. It is a thrill. It is stressful. It is a sudden onslaught of emotion. There is nothing like it in the world. And it is fantastic.
     On the other hand, how does one define "in love?" Love is not a substance. Love is not jello. It is not a swimming pool. It is impossible to be in love. There is familial love. There is attraction. There is desire. And there is a Greater Love. But none of these can be described as in love.
     So is being in love just a strong emotion? Just another part of my over-emotional life that I should completely disown because I cannot trust my emotions? When my emotions control my life, things get out of hand, out of control and I regret it later. Emotions are enemies of logic and reason. To be in love is to be silly. To be in love is to be vulnerable. To be in love is to risk heartbreak.
     And yet I cannot deny what I have felt. Though I must keep my emotions in check, they are, after all, one of the things that make the crazy life of a human enjoyable. As I said, it is a thrill. The happiness while there, the worry while away. To be in love is to be human.
     So fall in love. Be bold and offer your heart to a person of your choice. (If you want to stay safe, get a dog or a cat and stick with loving pets.) Be prepared to hurt. Be prepared to be heartbroken. Expect it. But don't let it stop you. Enjoy the happiness, but remember that people fall out of love just as fast as you can fall in love. Note that it will end. Keep yourself just out of arms reach. Understand that real love is a choice and that it is permanent. It is like an evergreen tree. The only way to get rid of Love is to kill it. (And even when that was tried long ago it didn't work.) While being in love is like a day-lilly. It opens, soaks in the sun, and dies. It does not last, but it is beautiful.
     Fall in love. But love wisely. Enjoy your emotions, but don't let them rule your life. Learn the Greater Love, and when you "fall out of love" you will bounce right back. I know. I've done it. It's not impossible. Far from it. It's human to fall in love. It's human to hurt. But it's God's love to love again.

Silver Line

What Is a Blog?

     What is a blog? I have been informed that "blog" means "web-log." Simply put, an internet journal. I suppose that is what it indeed is for me. I put down whatever comes to mind. And the software remembers at exactly what time I "posted."
     So I guess you could say that this is my public diary. But I shall put down more than just random musings about every subject I have something to say about. And I certainly won't ramble about the stupid little problems and tiny bits of fun in my normal life.
     I am a storyteller. If I do ever write about something in my life, I'll probably end up dressing it up. As someone once said (I can't remember who right now, I'm also paraphrasing this), "You tell someone something about your life and they don't believe it. Make anything up however, and they will treat it like it actually happened to you."
     So. Blogger I have become. I have things in my head and I never bothered to Put It Down until now. I'm here and I'm speaking (well, typing) my mind.

Silver Line

Where to Begin

     How does one begin a new journey? What word comes first for a writer? How would someone like me start anew as a blogger? What kind of world have I stepped into?
     For those of you reading this, you must know this one thing: to speak, to write, to express one's opinion, is to be vulnerable. But I have learned that people sympathize with the vulnerable. I don't ask for it, but people still listen to me. And I am honored.
     If you stay to watch me struggle through this unknown world, you will watch a young writer grow like a rose - I shall reach up for the sky and unfold my heart. What you choose to do with it is entirely up to you. That's what it means to be vulnerable.

Silver Line