But all this is a cheat.
If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.” —
-C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
(of all the human writings i have read in my life, this perhaps resonates with and speaks to me the most.)
filmmakers. artists. writers. cowboys. photographers. chefs. college students. mothers. businessmen. truck drivers. bloggers. drug dealers. musicians. soldiers. politicians.
in our own ways, we are all just a bunch of snobs.
we can’t be comfortable until we are convinced of our own superiority.
and once we are in that comfortable place, wherever we find it, there we remain stagnant and stunted for the rest of our lives, not moving off the throne of our self-assessed worth for fear of showing the ignorant places, surrounding ourselves with people who reinforce our image (because they have their own agendas, too).
humility is fearlessness, because humility has nothing to hide, no image to protect, and no appearances to keep up.
Thus up from the garden to the Gardener, from the sword to the Smith. To the life-giving Life and the Beauty that makes beautiful.” —C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
He opens shafts in a valley away from where anyone lives; they are forgotten by travelers; they hang in the air, far away from mankind; they swing to and fro. As for the earth, out of it comes bread, but underneath it is turned up as by fire. Its stones are the place of sapphires, and it has dust of gold. That path no bird of prey knows, and the falcon’s eye has not seen it. The proud beasts have not trodden it; the lion has not passed over it. Man puts his hand to the flint rock and overturns mountains mountains by the roots. He cuts out channels in the rocks, and his eye sees every precious thing. He dams up the streams so that they do not trickle, and the thing that is hidden he brings out to light.
But where shall wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding? Man does not know its worth, and it is not found in the land of the living.
The deep says, ‘It is not in me,’ and the sea says, ‘It is not with me.’ It cannot be bought for gold, and silver cannot be weighed as its price. It cannot be valued in the gold of Ophir, in precious onyx or sapphire. Gold and glass cannot equal it, nor can it be exchanged for jewels of fine gold. No mention shall be made of coral or of crystal; the price of wisdom is above pearls. The topaz of Ethiopia cannot equal it, nor can it be valued in pure gold.
From where, then, does wisdom come? And where is the place of understanding? It is hidden from the eyes of all living and concealed from the birds of the air. Abaddon and Death say, ‘We have heard a rumor of it with our ears.’
God understands the way to it, and he knows its place. For he looks to the ends of the earth and sees everything under the heavens. When he gave to the wind its weight and apportioned the waters by measure, when he made a decree for the rain and a way for the lightning of the thunder, then he saw it and declared it; he established it, and searched it out. And he said to man, ‘Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom, and to turn away from evil is understanding.’” —
Job 28, ESV
apple green jolly rancher, bikini top, coffee grounds, seventeen postcards taped on bare white walls, a dreamcatcher, my wildflower bouquet stuck in a coffee mug.
random things like a penguin sticker and a sycamore leaf and a stuffed toy killer whale. they have stories, trust me.
attempts at being an adult like a calendar and a coffeemaker and a drawer stuffed haphazardly with important papers.
oatmeal and crunchy peanut butter and peppermint tea and red gatorade and dunkin donuts coffee.
books that i wish i had time to read by john steinbeck and louis l’amour and david brainerd and john macarthur and a.w. tozer.
books that i don’t want to read, everywhere.
the trappings of a girl my age…the accoutrement of a college student.
I’m sick of inspirational quotes.
All these you-can-do-it-shoot-for-the-moon-stars-love-go-me quotes. Ugh. The point is, no I can’t. The point is, Christ already did.
The majority of my life has been one giant effort to pull myself up by my bootstraps. I’m done. May Christ be all and in all. Not a second goes by in which I do not desperately need Him.
Does this make me weaker than I’ve been the past 20 years of my life? I’ve been weak since birth. He is my strength, in Him I am strong, refusing to acknowledge that is only foolishness. It’s time I wised up.
May the rest of my life be a conscious effort to recognize my dependence on Him. I want to feel the need for Him every second of every day.
The air is spiked with hickory smoke and earth
A thousand leaves disintegrate to dirt
My father’s hands that hold the gun are strong
My father’s eyes are trained that search the land
We strain to find the faintest ghost of sound
And watch the shifting colors all around
The fragrance of the dying summer world
The bitter coffee in our silver cans.
And then—against the fog—a foreign frame
I know the rush, this is the chase, the art, the game
All surging through, I tap my father’s arm
A spark of recognition lights his eyes
He is a boy again.
Muscled haunches, tapered legs and timid step
Proud, arched neck, the smoke of wild breath
My father gives the gun into my hands,
Immortal time repeats itself again.
His whispered counsel pulsing urgency
I train the sights until the prey I see
And all the world holds its breath for me
And all the world shatters with a sound.
Scarlet leaves and mossy hanging wraiths
The forest stirred, disturbed that sacred place
My father’s calm approval, even pride
His art and skill—adventure still to me.
Sacrifice of flesh beneath the blade
This life for ours—the judgment has been made
Calm and steady in my father’s hand
Passing on this ancient rite of man.
(my dad took me hunting for the first time many years ago…wrote this last month.)
Beads and bland-faced saints
Angry eyes of God on me
Faith of my fathers.
My forgiveness bought
Not by penance but God’s blood
Post tenebras lux.
My Protestant Reformation
now that it’s Christmas break i want this tattoo