The randomest questions come to me sometimes. And sometimes, out of the randomness comes a legitimate question. Such was the case a few minutes ago.
The question: Why do we fans take such a personal interest in what musicians/actors/athetes/fill-in-the-blank do?
I was thinking about this because of a post by Chemdiah at im-enchanted.blogspot.com that facinated me. The post is titled, "Young + Swift?" and for the record I agree with her arguments on why the two shouldn't date. But why do I even think about this? What makes a teen from Alaska interested in the life of a guy she's never met who lives halfway across the country?
I can only come up with two reasons, so don't worry about this post being too long. The first reason is that when we become a fan of someone, we are supporting their work and in a way their values as well. When we applaud their actions, we are saying, "I agree with this," and when we make our frustrations known, that is our way of "disowning" a value or belief that we do not support, even though we support the person with that belief.
The second reason is because we care. It is impossible to become a fan of someone you don't care about to at least a small degree. The more interest we take, the more we care. Chemdiah's post was written because she cares about Adam and Taylor, and doesn't want to see them in a situation that she feels would hurt them.
So yeah, to everyone I've ever been fangirlish over, it's because I care. That care is what makes me seem creepy at times, and it's also the reason I pray for you while listening to your music/watching you act/whatever.
And to all the fans like me out there, keep caring...and put some of that care into the people around you, too. Just think: with how many of us there are, we could change the world!
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Hello, I apologize for the delayed-ness of this post...
It's November, aka, National Novel Writing Month. Click the link to see what I'm talking about. Anyway, between plotting my novel and now writing it, I have not been on much, so I wanted to apologize by letting you guys read my prologue! (It ain't much, I haven't even edited it yet, so please be kind...)
Prologue
Brielle
I love the solitude of our garden. The flowers are in full bloom this spring, and our rose bushes are doing beautifully, but my favorites are still the daisies. They are so simple, so unassuming, and yet they are so beautiful. I think they are the most underestimated flower in the world. I think I feel much empathy for them.
Papa and Uncle Josiah are working on an invention, but Papa will not tell me what it is. I wish he would tell me. What kind of thing are they working on that they couldn’t let me know?
The sun is getting higher in the sky. It is time to go inside now, until the hottest part of the day is over. I believe I shall go on a ride this evening; riding is so peaceful.
Brielle Arron closed her journal and looked around her family’s garden. The light sand pathways wove in and out through the numerous flowers. There were roses and daisies, daffodils and sunflowers, pansies and chrysanthemums. Her father had always told her, “Flowers are like people; they come in all colors and sizes, but they all have equal opportunity to bring joy to others.”
Her father had always worked on instilling in her a belief that all people were equal. Brielle wasn’t blind to why; many people looked at her as less than par because of the gimp leg she had been born with. But Brielle refused to let her shorter right leg define her. Everything that someone with two sound legs could do, Brielle did as well or better. She allowed herself no less.
Of course, with her leg covered by her dress, no one who didn’t know about it would never think her anything but perfect, until they saw her limp. Her still-forming figure was perfectly balanced, her waist no bigger than healthy, her curves pronounced but not overwhelming. Her skin was not as fair as many considered desirable, due to her frequent outside activities, but that only highlighted her blue eyes and contrasted her soft lips. Her hair, long and “dirty blonde,” hang halfway down her back, and despite its thickness, was light enough to ruffle in the light breeze that was blowing through the garden.
She sat there a few more minutes, enjoying the quiet of the birds and the breeze, then she picked up her journal and pen and carried them into Brookmoor.
Brookmoor was the only home she had ever known, the garden was in the back, and from the back there was nothing much to show it as anything other than a large brick country house. But from the front it was another story. The long, sloping drive that led up to Brookmoor gave the illusion of the house being even bigger than it was, not that that illusion was necessary to make it impressive. The house was a massive brick dwelling, covered with ivy and moss. The front door was taller than a normal door by ten feet, with a smaller servants’ door next to it. The house and grounds had once belonged to a duke, who had left the estate to Jamison Arron, his best friend and Brielle’s great-grandfather, because he had no sons. The mansion had become the family home, and it was the only home Brielle and her current family had ever known.
Her current family, all of her family who was still alive, was her father and uncle. Her mother had passed away when she was young; Brielle hardly remembered her. She used to ask her father how her mother had died, but he refused to tell her. He told her as much as she wished to know about her mother, except for how she had died. When she had failed at learning her mother’s fate from her mother, she tried to coax it out of her uncle. But Josiah had simply smiled his soft smile at her and said, “Oh, little one, who am I to tell you about your mother? She was your father’s only joy, until you were born. If anyone need be the one to tell you about her, it is he.” And so she never knew what had happened.
Once inside, Brielle cut through the kitchen and the dining room, and came out into the front hall. She was about to climb up the stairs to put her journel in her room, but just then, her father and uncle came out of their laboratory. She ran to them as fast as she could, threw her arms around her father, and gave him a huge hug.
Marcus Arron smiled down at his only child and kissed her on top of her head. He was almost 6’4”, not quite a foot taller than her, and his build dwarfed her beyond height. His chest was broad from manual labor, his muscles well-defined, although not visible through his shirt like his brother’s were. Josiah Arron did not make his brother look small, but he was the larger of the two by not quite two inches of hight. He was more muscular only by default of being the older of the two, so he had worked many more days of labor than his brother had. Both brothers had brunette hair and hazel eyes. It did not take someone who had known Marcus when he was first married to know that Brielle looked exactly like her mother, because she did not resemble her father at all.
Brielle looked up at her father and gave him her sweetest smile. “What were you and Uncle Josiah working on today?”
He smiled right back. “Just another project, nothing much.”
“If it is nothing much, then you should be able to tell me.”
“Not yet, BriLi. You need to go finish school, okay sweetheart?” He used his pet name for her, a combination of her first and middle name, Brielle Lillie. She knew she would not get him to tell her anything more, so she hugged her Uncle Josiah and ran upstairs to her room to do her daily required school reading. If she hurried with her school, she might have time for a ride.
Marcus smiled as he watched his daughter disappear into her room. “She’s really something, isn’t she, Brother?”
Josiah smiled too, as he thought of his neice. “She reminds me of another fifteen – year – old I once knew. He had unstatisfiable curiosity, too, and it often got him into trouble.”
They shared a warm look, the look of brothers who have been through life with eachother. Both well remembered how often Marcus’s curiosity had gotten him into trouble as a boy, and how often he had dragged Josiah into his mischiff. Josiah had always felt that, as the older brother, it was his job to keep Marcus out of trouble, but no one could stop Marcus once he had set his mind to something. More often than not, Josiah had followed along with Marcus’s schemes in an attempt to keep them under control, but no one could control Marcus once he got going. Brielle took after him when it came to curiosity, although she also had more sense than he did at that age, a fact Marcus attributed to her mother. Jennifer had always had a healthy sense of caution. They had been good for each other in that aspect; she had taught him caution, he had taught her to explore life. It was many of the things she had taught him that had given him the ability to invent. He was cautious in his experimentation, not only because he didn’t want to leave Brielle without a parent, but because Jennifer had taught him its value.
A thought suddenly struck him. “Josiah, are we messing with something that should be left alone? Is what we are experimenting with too risky?”
Josiah looked at him, sober. “No, we are exploring something that could help numerous people and prevent many tragic accidents. The danger would only come if it were put in the hands of someone who wished to use it for evil.”
“Then,” Marcus replied, no humor in his expression, “we must make it our goal to make sure such a person never gets ahold of it.”
Papa and Uncle Josiah are working on an invention, but Papa will not tell me what it is. I wish he would tell me. What kind of thing are they working on that they couldn’t let me know?
The sun is getting higher in the sky. It is time to go inside now, until the hottest part of the day is over. I believe I shall go on a ride this evening; riding is so peaceful.
Brielle Arron closed her journal and looked around her family’s garden. The light sand pathways wove in and out through the numerous flowers. There were roses and daisies, daffodils and sunflowers, pansies and chrysanthemums. Her father had always told her, “Flowers are like people; they come in all colors and sizes, but they all have equal opportunity to bring joy to others.”
Her father had always worked on instilling in her a belief that all people were equal. Brielle wasn’t blind to why; many people looked at her as less than par because of the gimp leg she had been born with. But Brielle refused to let her shorter right leg define her. Everything that someone with two sound legs could do, Brielle did as well or better. She allowed herself no less.
Of course, with her leg covered by her dress, no one who didn’t know about it would never think her anything but perfect, until they saw her limp. Her still-forming figure was perfectly balanced, her waist no bigger than healthy, her curves pronounced but not overwhelming. Her skin was not as fair as many considered desirable, due to her frequent outside activities, but that only highlighted her blue eyes and contrasted her soft lips. Her hair, long and “dirty blonde,” hang halfway down her back, and despite its thickness, was light enough to ruffle in the light breeze that was blowing through the garden.
She sat there a few more minutes, enjoying the quiet of the birds and the breeze, then she picked up her journal and pen and carried them into Brookmoor.
Brookmoor was the only home she had ever known, the garden was in the back, and from the back there was nothing much to show it as anything other than a large brick country house. But from the front it was another story. The long, sloping drive that led up to Brookmoor gave the illusion of the house being even bigger than it was, not that that illusion was necessary to make it impressive. The house was a massive brick dwelling, covered with ivy and moss. The front door was taller than a normal door by ten feet, with a smaller servants’ door next to it. The house and grounds had once belonged to a duke, who had left the estate to Jamison Arron, his best friend and Brielle’s great-grandfather, because he had no sons. The mansion had become the family home, and it was the only home Brielle and her current family had ever known.
Her current family, all of her family who was still alive, was her father and uncle. Her mother had passed away when she was young; Brielle hardly remembered her. She used to ask her father how her mother had died, but he refused to tell her. He told her as much as she wished to know about her mother, except for how she had died. When she had failed at learning her mother’s fate from her mother, she tried to coax it out of her uncle. But Josiah had simply smiled his soft smile at her and said, “Oh, little one, who am I to tell you about your mother? She was your father’s only joy, until you were born. If anyone need be the one to tell you about her, it is he.” And so she never knew what had happened.
Once inside, Brielle cut through the kitchen and the dining room, and came out into the front hall. She was about to climb up the stairs to put her journel in her room, but just then, her father and uncle came out of their laboratory. She ran to them as fast as she could, threw her arms around her father, and gave him a huge hug.
Marcus Arron smiled down at his only child and kissed her on top of her head. He was almost 6’4”, not quite a foot taller than her, and his build dwarfed her beyond height. His chest was broad from manual labor, his muscles well-defined, although not visible through his shirt like his brother’s were. Josiah Arron did not make his brother look small, but he was the larger of the two by not quite two inches of hight. He was more muscular only by default of being the older of the two, so he had worked many more days of labor than his brother had. Both brothers had brunette hair and hazel eyes. It did not take someone who had known Marcus when he was first married to know that Brielle looked exactly like her mother, because she did not resemble her father at all.
Brielle looked up at her father and gave him her sweetest smile. “What were you and Uncle Josiah working on today?”
He smiled right back. “Just another project, nothing much.”
“If it is nothing much, then you should be able to tell me.”
“Not yet, BriLi. You need to go finish school, okay sweetheart?” He used his pet name for her, a combination of her first and middle name, Brielle Lillie. She knew she would not get him to tell her anything more, so she hugged her Uncle Josiah and ran upstairs to her room to do her daily required school reading. If she hurried with her school, she might have time for a ride.
Marcus smiled as he watched his daughter disappear into her room. “She’s really something, isn’t she, Brother?”
Josiah smiled too, as he thought of his neice. “She reminds me of another fifteen – year – old I once knew. He had unstatisfiable curiosity, too, and it often got him into trouble.”
They shared a warm look, the look of brothers who have been through life with eachother. Both well remembered how often Marcus’s curiosity had gotten him into trouble as a boy, and how often he had dragged Josiah into his mischiff. Josiah had always felt that, as the older brother, it was his job to keep Marcus out of trouble, but no one could stop Marcus once he had set his mind to something. More often than not, Josiah had followed along with Marcus’s schemes in an attempt to keep them under control, but no one could control Marcus once he got going. Brielle took after him when it came to curiosity, although she also had more sense than he did at that age, a fact Marcus attributed to her mother. Jennifer had always had a healthy sense of caution. They had been good for each other in that aspect; she had taught him caution, he had taught her to explore life. It was many of the things she had taught him that had given him the ability to invent. He was cautious in his experimentation, not only because he didn’t want to leave Brielle without a parent, but because Jennifer had taught him its value.
A thought suddenly struck him. “Josiah, are we messing with something that should be left alone? Is what we are experimenting with too risky?”
Josiah looked at him, sober. “No, we are exploring something that could help numerous people and prevent many tragic accidents. The danger would only come if it were put in the hands of someone who wished to use it for evil.”
“Then,” Marcus replied, no humor in his expression, “we must make it our goal to make sure such a person never gets ahold of it.”
Leland
Leland Caulder rode homeward, galloping his horse along the old woodland path. His hair whipped back from the breeze his horse was creating around him. He smiled, thinking of how his mother would fuss when he arrived home. Though he never told her, the very reason he kept his hair, as she said, “longer than any prudent young man would consider wearing it!” was because she fussed over him so. The more she fussed over someone, the more she loved that person, and Leland loved knowing how much she loved him. He was careful, though, to always keep his hair short enough it never touched his shoulders. When he was younger, it had gotten that long, and someone had questioned why he wore his hair like a girl’s; he had determined that day that though his hair were longer, and he liked it that way, no one would ever think it looked like a woman’s hair again.
At eighteen, however, no one looking at him would think anything about him to be less than masculine. He was lithe, and though he could not look brawny, no matter how long he worked his job as a blacksmith’s apprentice, his muscles were firm and strong. His hair, although slightly long, gave him a rogueish appearance, and its almost reddish hue caught the eyes of many young women. His eyes also attracted unnoticed attention, for they were grey with a touch of green and brown in them, an unusual eye color, and marvelously matched with his hair.
As a blacksmith’s apprentence, Leland lived with the blacksmith of the villiage nearest his home, but the man had a soft spot for him, and allowed him to go back to his parents after work on Saturday and return on Sunday evening. This was precisely what Leland was doing galloping down the road right before dark. He was trying very hard to get home before darkness fell and shrouded the way completely.
The lights of his parents’ small country cottage appeared in the distance. Leland spurred his horse on faster, and soon they reached the small homestead. He stabled his horse and rushed inside to warm up.
His mother looked up just as he came in. “Leland!” Mrs. Caulder rushed over to hug her son, just as her husband came in the back door with another load of wood.
“I thought I heard you riding up, Son,” Mr. Caulder said, coming over to his son and clapping him on the shoulder.
The Caulders settled in for dinner, and after a wonderful time of catching up with eachother and what had happened during their weeks, they went to bed, tired but happy to be together again.
Early the next morning, right after breakfast (complete with his mother fussing over his hair, of course), Leland went out for his regular ride. He didn’t always have time to excersize his horse when he was at the blacksmith’s, so he made up for it every time he was at his parent’s house. This was an exceptionally beautiful morning for a ride; the sun was just peaking over the mountains, and the air was cool, but not cold. Leland took his time. He had all day with his parents, his father had said, and his horse needed the excersize. It was almost two hours later before he was back within sight of his parents’ house.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. An armored prison wagon was pulling away from his house. Leland spurred his horse faster. He had to make sure his parents were okay.
No one was there to greet him when he arrived. He pulled his horse up sharply and dismounted as quickly as he could. The house was empy, and on the door was an official notice. It read:
At eighteen, however, no one looking at him would think anything about him to be less than masculine. He was lithe, and though he could not look brawny, no matter how long he worked his job as a blacksmith’s apprentice, his muscles were firm and strong. His hair, although slightly long, gave him a rogueish appearance, and its almost reddish hue caught the eyes of many young women. His eyes also attracted unnoticed attention, for they were grey with a touch of green and brown in them, an unusual eye color, and marvelously matched with his hair.
As a blacksmith’s apprentence, Leland lived with the blacksmith of the villiage nearest his home, but the man had a soft spot for him, and allowed him to go back to his parents after work on Saturday and return on Sunday evening. This was precisely what Leland was doing galloping down the road right before dark. He was trying very hard to get home before darkness fell and shrouded the way completely.
The lights of his parents’ small country cottage appeared in the distance. Leland spurred his horse on faster, and soon they reached the small homestead. He stabled his horse and rushed inside to warm up.
His mother looked up just as he came in. “Leland!” Mrs. Caulder rushed over to hug her son, just as her husband came in the back door with another load of wood.
“I thought I heard you riding up, Son,” Mr. Caulder said, coming over to his son and clapping him on the shoulder.
The Caulders settled in for dinner, and after a wonderful time of catching up with eachother and what had happened during their weeks, they went to bed, tired but happy to be together again.
Early the next morning, right after breakfast (complete with his mother fussing over his hair, of course), Leland went out for his regular ride. He didn’t always have time to excersize his horse when he was at the blacksmith’s, so he made up for it every time he was at his parent’s house. This was an exceptionally beautiful morning for a ride; the sun was just peaking over the mountains, and the air was cool, but not cold. Leland took his time. He had all day with his parents, his father had said, and his horse needed the excersize. It was almost two hours later before he was back within sight of his parents’ house.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. An armored prison wagon was pulling away from his house. Leland spurred his horse faster. He had to make sure his parents were okay.
No one was there to greet him when he arrived. He pulled his horse up sharply and dismounted as quickly as he could. The house was empy, and on the door was an official notice. It read:
“To whom it may concern, by order of the royal prince, Henderson Erix, Jonah Caulder, and his wife Mariah Caulder, have been arrested for high treason, rebellion, and harboring a threat to the crown.”
Leland read it twice. His parents, insurgents? Impossible!
He mounted his horse, prepared to ride into town and protest, but before he could start off, he heard someone coming. Quickly, he heeled his mount into the woods, then snuck back on foot to eavesdrop.
Two guards were standing on either side of his parent’s door, talking with eachother.
“How long do we have to wait here?”
“Only ‘til the kid comes back; then we can go home.”
“Where'd he go, again?”
“I think he goes on a ride every morning. At least, that's what I was told.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“How am I supposed to know? That old man and woman wouldn't say anything about him. Pretty stupid of them, if you ask me. The prince doesn't care about them, just the kid. If they had cooperated, they could've stayed at home.”
“Just trying to protect their son, I guess.”
“Ha, he's not even their son. I can't see how that would make him worth their freedom.”
I’m the one they were harboring? I’m the reason they were arrested? Leland could not think of anything he had ever done against the law, no matter how hard he thought. How could he be considered a threat to the crown?
Leland determined that he would find his parents and free them, wherever they were held. Sneaking back to his horse, he thought about were he could go. He certainly could not stay there, nor could he go back to the blacksmith’s; that was the first place that would be searched when he never returned home, if it had not been searched already.
In his saddlebags, which he snuck out of the barn, were one change of clothing and the money he had earned in his last week at the forge. He had not had the chance to give it to his parents before they were taken away; now, he was grateful for that fact. There was no telling when he would find work again, and he needed to buy some food for his journey, where ever that would take him. Now, to decide where to go and to find someone who could tell him where his parents had been taken.
He dared not take the path. Riding silently through the woods, Leland plotted his revenge, hatred for the prince welling up in his heart.
He mounted his horse, prepared to ride into town and protest, but before he could start off, he heard someone coming. Quickly, he heeled his mount into the woods, then snuck back on foot to eavesdrop.
Two guards were standing on either side of his parent’s door, talking with eachother.
“How long do we have to wait here?”
“Only ‘til the kid comes back; then we can go home.”
“Where'd he go, again?”
“I think he goes on a ride every morning. At least, that's what I was told.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“How am I supposed to know? That old man and woman wouldn't say anything about him. Pretty stupid of them, if you ask me. The prince doesn't care about them, just the kid. If they had cooperated, they could've stayed at home.”
“Just trying to protect their son, I guess.”
“Ha, he's not even their son. I can't see how that would make him worth their freedom.”
I’m the one they were harboring? I’m the reason they were arrested? Leland could not think of anything he had ever done against the law, no matter how hard he thought. How could he be considered a threat to the crown?
Leland determined that he would find his parents and free them, wherever they were held. Sneaking back to his horse, he thought about were he could go. He certainly could not stay there, nor could he go back to the blacksmith’s; that was the first place that would be searched when he never returned home, if it had not been searched already.
In his saddlebags, which he snuck out of the barn, were one change of clothing and the money he had earned in his last week at the forge. He had not had the chance to give it to his parents before they were taken away; now, he was grateful for that fact. There was no telling when he would find work again, and he needed to buy some food for his journey, where ever that would take him. Now, to decide where to go and to find someone who could tell him where his parents had been taken.
He dared not take the path. Riding silently through the woods, Leland plotted his revenge, hatred for the prince welling up in his heart.
Friday, September 2, 2011
BAAAAACK!!!!
I didn't realize how long it's been since I last posted. Sorry. :/
Anyway, thought I'd share a little thing I blogged elsewhere titled, "Ramble 1." I'll probably be posting my rambles rather regularly.
" The hillside out my windows is green. Quite a lovely color, but the yellow is starting to creep in. Perhaps it would remain green for longer if it rained more. But then the salmonberries would all rot on the bushes, and that would be such a waste. Maybe it's okay for it to not rain till after salmonberry season. Just so long as it rains quite a bit afterwords so the blueberries will ripen.
My there are a lot of berries here. Salmonberries, blueberries (high and low bush), crowberries, low-bush cranberries, and probably others I don't know about. Hmmm.
I sit here swaying and listening to very relaxing music. I might just fall asleep on my keyboard and slip into another dream. I hope it's not one that gives me another idea for NaNo, I already have too many ideas for that.
My, this song is relaxing. And peaceful. And... *yawn*
I should go to bed."
Anyway, thought I'd share a little thing I blogged elsewhere titled, "Ramble 1." I'll probably be posting my rambles rather regularly.
" The hillside out my windows is green. Quite a lovely color, but the yellow is starting to creep in. Perhaps it would remain green for longer if it rained more. But then the salmonberries would all rot on the bushes, and that would be such a waste. Maybe it's okay for it to not rain till after salmonberry season. Just so long as it rains quite a bit afterwords so the blueberries will ripen.
My there are a lot of berries here. Salmonberries, blueberries (high and low bush), crowberries, low-bush cranberries, and probably others I don't know about. Hmmm.
I sit here swaying and listening to very relaxing music. I might just fall asleep on my keyboard and slip into another dream. I hope it's not one that gives me another idea for NaNo, I already have too many ideas for that.
My, this song is relaxing. And peaceful. And... *yawn*
I should go to bed."
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Anthem Song by Aaron Gillespie
Shortly before Aaron Gillespie released his first solo album, a worship project titled "Anthem Song," I read a professional review of it. I was disappointed that the review focused solely on the music; there was no mention of the lyrics, or most importantly, the heart.
The first time I listened to anything by Aaron, it was the album "Southern Weather" by his project The Almost. My heart was sucked into his voice and the emotion he put so deeply into every part of his songs. Seldom have I heard an artist who can put that much heart into his music.
That is what I was looking for in "Anthem Song." A worship album is nothing if the artist doesn't desire to worship God and throw all his heart into doing so. And I wasn't disappointed.
"Anthem Song" doesn't just have heart, it is heart. Aaron Gillespie poured an intense desire for and love of worship into every song. The result is eleven (twelve, if you pre-ordered on iTunes like I did) songs of pure, powerful worship.
So I was definitely not disappointed. Anyone agree with me?
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Life on the bubble
One of my friends is experiencing one of the toughest situations that a kid can face: choosing which of his divorced parents he will live with. He is choosing to move and live with his dad, but he will have six months to reverse his decision and move back here to live with his mom.
I asked him why he wants to leave his friends and everything he knows, and his answer was something like this: "This island is like a bubble. I'm so sheltered here that I have no idea what's out there. I'm going to be spending most of my life out there, so I want to adjust to that before I have to live on my own."
Which got me to thinking, is this island really a bubble? By living here, am I really sheltered enough that I won't be able to cope with the "real world" when I get there?
Then I started wondering exactly what he wanted to get used to. Gang violence? Locked doors? Not being able to walk home after dark?
See, my life here is somewhat sheltered. I can walk home when it's still dark out and my parents don't worry about me. We only lock our doors at night, and most people don't even lock them then. There are no gangs, no shootings; cultural diversity is normal and even taken for granted. In that way, I am sheltered and blessed, and I don't know why anyone would want to leave that.
Another friend said, "You can only grow so much spiritually here, because there's nothing to challenge your faith." With that, I totally disagree.
See, there are some things you can't be sheltered from no matter where you live. Did living here keep my dad from having a snowmobile accident? Did it prevent any of the surgeries I've had? Does life in this "bubble" keep those here from losing loved ones? From growing old? From rejection? No.
And with those challenges that exist even in what some call a bubble, comes the opportunity for spiritual growth. It doesn't take a school shooting to help a community or an individual grow closer to God, and I don't see why anyone would think that.
I asked him why he wants to leave his friends and everything he knows, and his answer was something like this: "This island is like a bubble. I'm so sheltered here that I have no idea what's out there. I'm going to be spending most of my life out there, so I want to adjust to that before I have to live on my own."
Which got me to thinking, is this island really a bubble? By living here, am I really sheltered enough that I won't be able to cope with the "real world" when I get there?
Then I started wondering exactly what he wanted to get used to. Gang violence? Locked doors? Not being able to walk home after dark?
See, my life here is somewhat sheltered. I can walk home when it's still dark out and my parents don't worry about me. We only lock our doors at night, and most people don't even lock them then. There are no gangs, no shootings; cultural diversity is normal and even taken for granted. In that way, I am sheltered and blessed, and I don't know why anyone would want to leave that.
Another friend said, "You can only grow so much spiritually here, because there's nothing to challenge your faith." With that, I totally disagree.
See, there are some things you can't be sheltered from no matter where you live. Did living here keep my dad from having a snowmobile accident? Did it prevent any of the surgeries I've had? Does life in this "bubble" keep those here from losing loved ones? From growing old? From rejection? No.
And with those challenges that exist even in what some call a bubble, comes the opportunity for spiritual growth. It doesn't take a school shooting to help a community or an individual grow closer to God, and I don't see why anyone would think that.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
BAND SOCKS!!!
Thanks to all my friends who are reading this :)
Okay, anyone who knows me knows that I like drawing on my socks. I make lots of "band socks" by decorating my socks with sharpies.
So here's my latest collection. I would have made some Owl City and Relient K socks, but I already have some that aren't worn out yet. I hope you enjoy looking at these "creations" of mine.
Runaway City
Philmont
Hillsong United
Rush of Fools
Skillet
Cinema
Seventh Day Slumber
Tenth Avenue North
High Flight Society
The Almost
33Miles
The Rocket Summer
Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked them! :)
Okay, anyone who knows me knows that I like drawing on my socks. I make lots of "band socks" by decorating my socks with sharpies.
So here's my latest collection. I would have made some Owl City and Relient K socks, but I already have some that aren't worn out yet. I hope you enjoy looking at these "creations" of mine.
Runaway City
Philmont
Hillsong United
Rush of Fools
Skillet
Cinema
Seventh Day Slumber
Tenth Avenue North
High Flight Society
The Almost
33Miles
The Rocket Summer
Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked them! :)
Monday, January 24, 2011
Owl City love
I can't stop dancing once his music starts playing. Hearing one of his songs can make my day. I read every blog post, even the ones I don't understand. I go crazy at the mention of him.
His music is awesome, amazing, and inspiring. I'm listening to it right now, not that that should surprise anyone. He makes me cry, makes me happy, makes me alive. Even just writing this is making me happy.
I'm in love with Owl City. Thank you, Adam, for making my life that much sweeter.
His music is awesome, amazing, and inspiring. I'm listening to it right now, not that that should surprise anyone. He makes me cry, makes me happy, makes me alive. Even just writing this is making me happy.
I'm in love with Owl City. Thank you, Adam, for making my life that much sweeter.
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