Palmtree Contemplations

I couldn't make sense of any of it. In chapel, Janie scribbled away in her journal as if she was taking a timed writing test. I overheard her muttered whispers in the hall on several occasions, things like "Do not awaken! Do not awaken!" or "Steadfast! Steadfast! Hold steadfast!" She was gone in the woods for stretches of time, doing who knows what, coming back exhausted and barely staying awake during study sessions. I wondered, "Has she lost it? Is our beloved Janie really going crazy?" What bothered me so much was that I seemed to be the only one who noticed. Then again, study groups didn't notice that kind of thing, and our Bible study was made up of girls who all had very different schedules. Additionally, Janie was living by herself this semester, so there was no roommate to comment on her frequent trips to the prayer closet. Maybe she was finally cracking under all the pressure of school and work. Finally, one day I could not handle all th...

"Can you give me more of the top voice?" Dr. Whitley asks. I nod and focus on bring the top notes out in the next few chords, looking to him for the verdict. He shakes his head, which in Whitley-ism means, "No, not even close." I play one chord, drawing out the upper note with my pinky while barely playing the other note. This earns me a nod. (Whitley-ism for "Hmmm. Better.") "Again, but much slower."  I play the entire measure. A shake of the head this time. He plays it for me on the Kuwait, so I can hear what he wants. I try again.  "No, no, no. You're not listening to each note." (Whitley-ism for "You're not paying attention.") "Listen to each note, and go slower, much slower." I focus on hearing the melody in the upper voice as I play it. This time we both shake our heads. I can hear how the middle voice of the chord is taking over the melody line, making it indistinguishable. I play it agai...

The pre-game show for the Superbowl was on, but no one paid much attention. I sat alone on the couch, while the rest of the family talked and munched in the kitchen and the dining room. On the television, a young man with curly brown hair took the stage. "Oh dear. He's probably going to be annoying like the last performer," I thought. His relaxed stance drew me in, though. I leaned forward as he took his first breath. Halfway through the first verse I was shushing the rest of the family, "Hey, this guy's good. Listen!" "Who is this?" "I don't know. Josh somebody or other." I stayed silent for the rest of the performance, captivated by this Josh guy's voice and the song, You Raise Me Up. Shortly after that, we bought Josh's CD Closer. It was my sister's first year of college at a school only two hours from where lived, and on trips to visit her we always listened to Josh, at least once if not twice. I always sang my l...

There's a reason they call it "writer's block". For me, it means every good idea that I have suddenly seems so terribly cliche that all I want to do is rip it to shreds and watch all my silly words burn amber to black to grey. I hate this feeling with everything that is in me. The inability to express what is going on around me creates this strange, frustrating vortex of emotion. People might think I'm angry, but I really just want to be able to write something good and I can't think how to do it. Every sentence I begin seems ridiculous, even the one I am now finishing. I wish I had some easy answer to give. Why do I sound like a cynical old woman in my inner thoughts, criticizing the world and feeling that nothing is original. Yet, when the sparrows take flight and I am standing below watching their black-winged clusters flap against the gold-tinged azure sky of twilight, I remember what it is to wonder. I remember the little girl who used to stomp through...

The only freedom I ask is this: Give me a field to roam in, Flowers to pick, sunshine to bask in, A sky bursting with blue, and above all, The strength to lay all these "good" burdens at Your feet And the sense to kneel and listen to The only truth worth hearing: You are God and I am Yours.

The young man did not know what to think when he saw her coming. At first he thought she was a mirage, another hallucination to torment him in his inner struggle. Then, as the tattered edges of her clothes came into focus, he knew she was real. The confusing things about her were the lack of shoes and something else the young man did not at first identify. Coming out of the desert, people always looked worn-out and dirty. She was both of those, and yet something else as well. Glad was the word for it, the young man decided. He wanted to ask her how she had done it and why on earth was she glad? She was, after all, barefoot, sunburned, bruised, and dirty. Caught between his confusion and inner battling- should I go? should I stay?- the young man silently contemplated the ripples of the sand before him. "Hello," the young woman called out. He looked up, realizing that she had advanced and was determined to speak to him. He nodded. She stopped a few feet from him, her filthy...

So this is what it is to be held? This strange peace that settles So soft and still Like dust caught in sunbeams. So this is what it is to be held? The yielding to love that comes Quiet and clear Like stars sparkling in the black. So this is what it is to be held?  This contentment that seeps in Slow and tingling Like the fire's warmth in winter.  So this is what it is to be held: The sureness that buoys, Firm and freeing Like the ocean holds me now.