....the God who gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were.


... being fully persuaded that God had power to do what he had promised.


Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ...


And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.


And hope does not disappoint us....

I like xanga... it's safer than facebook. Here I can confess that this is more than a story. This is my history aside from the fact I've disguised it as best as possible. No mother indeed!

She stared out the window, the white hills flashing by. Her father’s music was going on chaotically in the back of her mind. Suddenly she was pulled back into the dark prison. She couldn’t breath. Humiliation rose in her throat like bile. There is nothing worse than being in a crowd of people that don’t understand you, unless perhaps it’s being with a few people who don’t understand you. To live everyday amidst the courtiers and smile at them while you know they are whispering malicious daggers at you is dark thing. You don’t just throw them any smile either. It’s a real smile. At least, it was in the beginning. Against indomitable prejudice, her smile had finally become a mask. She gaily bantered along with their inconsequential conversations no longer looking for a friend.

A friend… her memories bled with faces. There was Connor - always tinkering with his various inventions, Plato – deep in his books and true to his namesake, Caden who made the sweetest, lightest cakes, Colette – no hands wrought finer sculpture, and Phelan who ne’er drew a sweeter bow. She had loved Ronia for her bluntness and Elana for her thoughtfulness. They were not exactly like the other courtiers. At least they didn’t fake niceties at her. In fact, there was no meanness in them at all. They were fervent and serious about what they did which was generally honest work. But they were courtiers of James’ kingdom. She flinched at the thought, James – the prince of the neighboring kingdom to her own. He was unpredictable, manipulative, and stubborn along with being intelligent, sensitive, and generous. He took excellent care of his people and they loved him completely. His love built her walls.

It is an even darker thing to live with people who cannot see your heart’s blood dripping from you every day. It is one thing to live with people who do not see past the superficial; it is quite another thing to live with people who must not see. It is oppression not to trust when you have been so used to trusting. Her father, the King, was a loving man. He had never given her cause to distrust. Her mother was a distant memory like fragrant wild violets in the spring. Her mother. Maybe… if only… perhaps if she had been alive none of this would have happened.

The white hills were becoming a blur as the music in her mind spiraled chaotically. It rose to the screech of a cat fight and hard sharp staccatos pierced her deep reverie. She started - then slammed the door on the struggling fingers of her memories. Ugh. Hadn't she shut the door on that ugliness when she had bowed her formal adieus before James? A single crack and it came streaming in again like the snow swirling around her. Blast - she would have to skate this mood off when she arrived home. Her breathing was more like gasping and there was a wild keening where the silver blade had twisted. Why couldn't she shake the gloom that settled around her like her ceremonial dress robes?

Yesterday was really sad. I woke up from a nightmare. Ten children were sleeping in rickety metal beds like the ones you see in a hospital or orphanage. Two men came in – horrible caricatures of funny looking men with big noses and unshaven faces - and murdered eight of the children. As each one was killed you saw the child rise out of the bed and float around with ghastly wounds. I believe the point was that they became some form of slaves to the men. As I watched the slaughter, I was suddenly flashbacked to the eldest boy’s last memories. Annoyed, roughly pulled into the black night, confusion, cold pain twisting into his back, and then all spinning in darkness. Then it was back to the scene of bobbing ghosts and black and white metal beds. The eldest boy swore he would protect his youngest sister from the confused fear he felt as he died. The men apparently did not know the exact number of children. The youngest child was (age 3) was down at the end of the rows. If the older child ghosts could bob up and down chaotically, they might be able to mask the youngest child’s sleeping body and save her. And so I was engaged in a desperate hope that she would be spared. Meanwhile, the third youngest child was in the bathroom. When she came back, fear rose in all of our hearts, even as we knew she was doomed. The only one we knew could be saved was the youngest. Age 8 came in, started running out, and went down. In the confusion, I hoped the youngest would be smuggled out. There was running, bobbing, and fear.

I woke up.

Driving home that evening I saw a large snapping turtle lying in the road. Some jerk of the highest order had run over him. (How can you not miss a turtle?) His blood was running out in the road – a red streak of sadness. I sobbed. Why God? Why did you let the world fall? I know. Because there had to be free will. There is no love without spontaneity and choice. But at such a high price? How could there not be a better way? But there wasn’t.

My mother was so excited to show me a bird’s nest. It had four little eggs in it and was perfect for a picture. She was sad that I wasn’t home to take the picture and thus very surprised and happy when I showed up. We walked to the place. “Wait… where is it?” Oh no… look on the ground. It lies forlorn and empty, ravaged by some wild brute. Oh mother nature – you could not be further from a mother.

One sad thought brings upon the shore a tidal wave of past unhappinesses. Bobbing ghosts and ghastly self-pity. Perhaps I am not as healed as I thought I was. Perhaps the wounds were deeper than I thought. I saw rejection of my soul this year. True rejection. The kind of rejection that says... you're not worth it to me. The kind that works on Satan's twisted lies and tells me

You aren't enough.