An Ode to August

You are the grass stained month
Covered in faded greens and sleepy blues
I find you yawning on my porch
To share your melancholy hues
 
Your humidity blankets the rolling hills
But I forgive your oppressive memory
When your whispered wind chills
And kisses the sky with honey
 
Gone are the honeysuckle walks of June
And the firefly nights of mid-July
But here you are with a blue moon
And grass stains on your thigh
 
Nestled between the solstice
And the sunlight from my childhood
You yield your breath to the equinox
Know I would keep you if I could
 
Instead I sit with you as your colors wane
Full of warmth and stormy days
You leave as quickly as you came
And take with you the sun's dying rays

Travel Journal: August 15 - Buery, West Virginia

We hiked to the ruins of Beury, an apt name for such an old, dead town. The town was established in the 1870s as a mining camp for the nearby Echo Mine, but it was abandoned by 1925. We could’ve hiked along the railroad tracks from Thurmond to get there but decided to take a “shortcut” instead. Our original idea was to drive up a rutted gravel road then hike down to Beury along the power lines. Nature had other plans. She had reclaimed the clearing of the power lines with brambles and nettle. Instead, we found a loose semblance of a trail and bushwhacked our way down the mountain. 

The trees revealed the season, their green leaves faded with the summer that has meandered through the mountains. Morning rain turned the West Virginia woods into a jungle of bugs and humidity. We scrambled along deer trails and weaving roads long reclaimed by nature. Had it not been for the flatness of the abandoned road or railway, we never would have seen it in the otherwise steep hillside. 

Finally, after 2 miles and 900 feet of elevation loss, we slid our way down shale and rocks to the ruins of Buery. The roofless company store rose amid the ivy to be the most noticeable structure. An old double fireplace and stone archway were hidden next to a long, moss-covered retaining wall. 

“We’re standing in somebody’s living room,” whispered Daniel as we investigated the ruins. This place was a home, a town. People inhabited these structures, now only haunted by ghosts and ivy. 

Further buried in the hills were two chimneys and a cracked stone floor. At least 100 years old, I thought, now strewn among the creek bed. The fireplace openings were raised at least 8 feet above the creek, indicating the building actually sat above the water. I've now learned this was the remainder of a 23 room mansion, a luxury in this old coal town.

 
We sat at the fireplace, eating our snacks where a family could have broken bread a century ago. A train grinded past on the rails below us, its low rumble sounding like it had broken free of the mountain itself, a sound that would have been a familiar fixture to life in the West Virginia hills as trains transported tons of coal along the River to bigger cities. 

As the sun started to cast long shadows through the leaves of the thick canopy, we decided to begin the journey to our car. Before we left, an unstable rock fell from the crumbling chimneys and hit me. With a hurt wrist and ankle, the flat journey along the railroad tracks back to Thurmond was much less daunting than climbing straight uphill over moss covered rocks. 

Two and a half miles along the tracks we walked, looking like everything a scene from Stand By Me. Another train rolled by, this time full of oil instead of coal. Its whistle echoed through the valley long after the engine was gone. Finally we found ourselves back in Thurmond, another abandoned coal town but in much better shape than the ruins of Buery. 

Trip Summary
A trip to Buery is worth the 2.5 mile trek along the tracks, especially if you can make it on a bicycle. There is room to ride or walk beside the tracks rather than on them. After our long, difficult slide down the mountain, I would not recommend our shortcut.

Park in Thurmond (Google maps should get you there safely, but cell service is limited). Walk along the tracks toward the northwest side of town. After about 2.5 miles, there will be a small opening in the brambles. You should be able to see the stone ruins of the company store from the tracks. The house with the double fireplace will sit behind the company store, up and to the left. From the stone archway, walk toward the creek (directly to the left if you’re looking at the fireplace with your back to the tracks) to find the remains of the mansion that sits above the creek. Metal pales and other small treasures lie scattered about if you look for them. There is a sign that says no artifact hunting, so please be respectful of the area’s heritage. 

Memories Taste like Honey in Coffee

I cannot imagine growing up in the city, all concrete and bricks. I come from a place where the people grow old the same way the shadows grow long: slowly, so that you don’t realize the season has changed until the nights grow cold. Here, melancholy drips from rooftops like icicles melting in the springtime. Memories taste like honey in coffee, bittersweet. Nighttime is quiet, save for the sound of a lonesome train whistle echoing off the hills. 

Places like this make it easy to be a writer. Stories flow from the creek beds and from the veins of the people. These stories remind me not to lose myself to the sunrises and sunsets. These stories remind me there is a beautiful in-between to the rising and falling of the sun. It is in the in-betweens where life is lived and memories are forged. Like the hollers between the mountains, it is in the in-betweens where you learn your lessons.

Each season has an in-between. We fail to notice them most times. There are September days where the sun shines warm, but the air carries the scent of autumn on the wind. Leaves cling to the trees in November, but the nights grow colder. In March, green grass tentatively pokes through snow long residing on the mountainside. May brings thunderstorms to new flowers. These moments in-between bring patience, contentedness, and growth. Although the grass poking through ice promises warmth, we must be content in the present cold. If we wish for each season to be the next one, we cease to enjoy the present one for what it is.

I am not sure if this is wisdom or melancholy. Sometimes I cannot tell a difference. Reading through some of my old scribblings, I am nearly drowning in nostalgia. I attribute my constant state of melancholy to my West Virginia heritage, but I am not sure that is solely the culprit. I lost two of my grandparents at a fairly young age. My grandpa, my Best Buddy, as I called him, died when I was only six. Most people have few memories at that age, but I remember Best Buddy so vividly sometimes, I feel like he is actually here. When I came home from school, he would have a tub of cheeseballs waiting on me. He told me the Cheeseball Truck ran that day. During thunderstorms, I still hear his voice telling me thunder is only taters falling out of a wheelbarrow. 

I learned what death was at an early age when I lost him. Earlier than I would have liked. I remember sobbing at his funeral. Any time the preacher would say his name, I would cry even harder. I still cry at night sometimes, missing him, 17 years later. He was only here for one-eighth of my life. That number shrinks with each passing year. Even at six, I knew the memories I had of him were important. Maybe I view them through rose-colored glasses, but that does not negate their importance. I learned what it was like to love someone deeply, to expect to see them every day, to learn about the Cheeseball Truck from them, and then to have all of that cease abruptly. All of this at six years old. That’s when melancholy began to seep into my bones. That’s when I learned it is not the beginning and the end that matter, but the in-betweens. Rather than wishing for the storm to pass, Best Buddy taught me to enjoy the sound of taters falling out of a wheelbarrow. 

My memories taste like honey in coffee. 

Patchwork Heart

We all have our memories. One of my best friends in life says our memories are our soul.  I think he is right.  Our experiences shape who we are, right to our very core.  A soul is not a static place, but a dynamic idea that shifts all the time. One thing I have learned is you leave pieces of yourself everywhere you go.  Every place I have set foot has a piece of my soul.  What’s more, every person I connect with has a little part of my heart.  I have strings from my soul to people and places all over the world.  That’s what life is - breaking yourself down so you can replace the empty pieces with bigger things, new ideas, different cultures, and most importantly, the love of others. If we don’t let pieces of ourselves get lost along the way, new pieces cannot find their way to us. Your soul is a patchwork quilt, a new bit sewn together each day.

The Lord is the ultimate healer and protector of my soul, but a beautiful thing about Him is He created us to build relationships. He Himself is a triune, three people in one, so He created us in His image to love and interact with others. Thus, I believe each soul is a patchwork heart. Pieces of others’ lives are stitched into our hearts, which is sometimes frayed and imperfect, but beautiful in its own right. The Lord created you with His tender hands, leaving room for growth and new life in Him. He will mend the frayed edges and revive the faded colors. Patchwork quilts are woven with care, well-loved by others because each piece tells a story. I know, at least in West Virginia, these quilts are cherished for generations, passed down through gentle and loving hands. Cherish your heart like this. 

You may give some patches of yourself to others, sharing memories and experiences with them before you realize what is happening. In the best situations, they return the favor, adding more quilt squares to your soul than you ever thought possible. Sometimes people take beautiful parts of you and trash them, tearing your seams for no good reason. When this brokenness threatens to overtake you, seek the ultimate Mender and those people who help shape you into the beautiful soul you are. You will return to the beloved person you were created to be. 

Realize your soul a beautiful heritage, telling stories of those who have come before you and those you have met along your journey. The bright colors mingled among the dark hues of hard times are the unique patchwork that makes you who you are. Know the warmth hidden in your depths can be a comfort to those surrounding you. Even the frayed edges caused by those experiences that left you a little worse for wear bring character to your soul. Others can see those holes and know you struggled through something, but are still the colorful comfort they find on cold winter nights. Your soul is as unique as these quilts. Do not worry too much about your frayed edges. Live your life gathering and giving as many colors and patterns as possible.

Omnes Domum Reduent

Everyone Returns Home.  That's what the title means in Latin.

I have been very aware of the notion of home lately.  I have blogs written about leaving your comfort zone and having the courage to walk away from home.  Now I want to focus on the joy that is home.

You know the simplicity of childhood?  How lovely it was that your only worry was how to make your blanket fort bigger? That’s the feeling I experience with Jesus.  When I truly rest in His presence and His grace, my worries just disappear.  It is not a complicated love.  It is a love like childhood - a love of innocence, of purity, of laughter, of joy, of ice cream on the porch.  People try to make religion a complicated institution, when in reality, it is a simple relationship with Jesus Christ.  He loves you like his child.  He wraps you in his arms, twirling your hair with his nail scarred hands. 

My favorite story in the Bible is the homecoming of the prodigal son.  The son decides he wants an extravagant life, but it ends up leading him to squalor.  He comes home, yearning for the simple life he once knew, even if it means being a servant.  But when he comes home, his father greets him with open arms.  His father doesn’t care what he has done, he simply wants to love and take care of him again.  This paints a beautiful picture of our Heavenly Father.  He does not see our miserable selves, but an innocent child who needs love. We run away from Him, from our true home, to see what the world can offer us.  We eventually realize nothing can beat the comfort of home.  We come running back to find our Father on the front porch, arms wide open.  Nothing is sweeter.

In a literal sense, this is how I feel coming home from school.  I can feel the worries of the world leave me as I walk through my front door.  More often than not, I come home and fall asleep on the couch because I do not have to worry about anything.  I am safe and warm with the people I love most.  That is what the simple love of Jesus gives us - a home.

I am not saying the entire life of a Christian is easy or comfortable.  But I am saying the gentle call of the Lord whispering, “Come home, daughter, just come home, and let me love you” makes it all worth it.

Country Roads Always Lead Home

As I sit on my back porch in the heart of the Appalachian mountains, I can't help but be thankful for my West Virginia heritage.  I have written numerous papers and blogs about my love for the mountain state.  Today, on Mountain Mama's birthday, I continue to fall in love with this state.  Honestly, I think if everyone had a little bit of West Virginia in their blood, the world would be a better place.

In West Virginia, we swing life away on porches.  We chat with our neighbors for hours and share a glass of lemonade with strangers.  Summer days are spent barefoot in the creek chasing the shadows and minnows in the cool water.  Summer evenings are best enjoyed making lanterns with lightning bugs caught under the moon.  Autumn strolls by on ball fields and campfires.  The hills are ignited in color, creating an aroma of melancholy and beauty unmatched by anything else.  Winter wriggles into our lungs as the boney fingers of trees are covered in a blanket of pure white snow.  Giggles intertwine with the steam of hot chocolate shared after a day of tracing our way down hills on sleds. Spring reminds us of the grace of God as the hills come alive in a cacophony of bird songs and redbuds.  We all catch spring fever and once again spend our days barefoot in the grass, even if there's still a little snow in the shady places.

We all need more West Virginia in our blood.  Our heritage is hard work and family.  This state was formed straight from the mountains, where we foster love and hospitality.  The road has not always been easy for us.  We are still made fun of for our backwards ways and bare feet.  But every time someone sneers at me when I reply "West Virginia" to their question of where I am from, I smile because I know the secrets of the mountains.  I know the values fostered in this state, which they may never experience.

Maybe our secret is barefoot days and lightning bug nights.  Maybe it is the beauty we have always found in the simple things.  Maybe it is our value of God and family (and here, everyone is family).  Grass stains and muddy toes are not a burden to us, but a reminder of a day well spent.  Conversations are not an inconvenience, but a blessing that intertwines all our stories.  Food is not just a necessity to our health because a meal of beans and taters shared with the ones you love is laughter and prayers cherished for a lifetime.  The world would be a better place if we all made those things our priorities.

There's something about this place that makes it home to everyone, not just the ones born here.  When you breathe in the mountain air, it finds its way deep into your bones and refuses to leave.  Always remember where you're from.  Cherish your accent because there is a culture all its own in y'alls and hollers.  Even if you move away, find a creek and take off your shoes.  West Virginia is the perfect mixture of mountains, love, and simplicity.  So happy birthday, Mountain Mama. You are the closest to heaven we will get on this side of eternity. I am blessed to always call you home.

An Apology

In a time of political turmoil, there are so many blogs and "open letters" of various kinds with the writer's opinion on a certain matter.  There are so many arguments out there, I have a hard time keeping them straight.  I honestly am on the fence about so many issues that I am not even going to attempt to address any of these things.  There is nothing in the Bible about whether we should support Bernie or Trump, or boycott stores because of a bathroom policy.  There are two things, though, that the Bible clearly states.  These two things are what I am clinging to in the time of political upheaval in our country.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.  The second is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.  There is no other commandment greater than these." - Mark 12:30-31

Could Jesus be any more clear?  He specifically and radically calls us to do one thing: love.  First, love God, because He is the ultimate Creator and is worthy of our love.  Additionally, when you love Christ, it is easier to love others.  When you realize we are all equally cherished and desired by the God who hung the moon, loving others seems a natural response.  If he can love me in my wretchedness, I can certainly love others in theirs.

I understand both sides of nearly every controversy out there, or I at least try to.  I also try to look at these issues through a Biblical lense.  There usually isn't a clear cut path in the scriptures regarding who I should vote for or what store I should support.  But every time I look in the Bible, Jesus clearly states our need to love those around us.

As believers, this is our doorway into showing other the love of Christ, which is so much greater than anything the world can give them.   God does not need our help judging anyone - He's got that covered.  He calls us out of our comfort to love and be His body on earth.  To me, it seems rather difficult for a non-believer to draw Christ's love out of all the slander thrown their direction.  I hold tight to these verses because there is no greater feeling than love.  That is what we all strive for on this earth, but instead, we are surrounded by hatred and negativity.

I am not saying one view is more right than the other.  I am also not degrading the fact that everyone has an opinion.  I am just saying that there are a lot better things to do with our short lives than to hate on other people.  Christ calls us to love on others so the world may see Him.

If you are reading this as a person who does not believe in a god, or Jesus, please know that I love you.  I may not agree with everything you do, but I love you just the same.  More than that, though, Jesus does.  You may have experienced hatred from people who claim the name of Christ, and for that I am deeply sorry.  I just want you to know that there is a God who loves you more than you can imagine.

The Head and the Heart

In our lives, our head is in constant battle with our heart.  Our head inhabits the rational part of our existence, while the heart is a little more impulsive.  Every choice we face reignites a battle between the two - at least the hard ones do.  That's why we struggle to make big decisions.  Our head is in opposition to our heart.

"Everything will be okay," says the head.

"He's lying, cry until it hurts," says the heart.

Sometimes I find it easy to listen to my logic.  I know one choice is the far more reasonable one.  Every now and then, though, I develop these terrible things called emotions.  They wriggle their way into my brain and short circuit all my neurons.  A logical thought gets lost in translation, and my decisions no longer make sense.

I get overwhelmed by a storm of emotions, each fighting for my attention.  The logical and reasonable thoughts are swallowed by the waves.  I am but a boat with a broken sail in the depths of a hurricane.  Luckily, I know the One who calms the storms and walks on water.  He has the ability to command the tumultuous sea to stop its turning and listen to Him.

Know it is okay to cry because tears are needed to cleanse your heart of its burdens.  Know it is also necessary to pick yourself up, put on your big girl panties, and say "everything will be okay."  My dear, it will be.  The clouds may seem as black as night, but the remember One who calmed the storm can calm your raging heart.

Grass-Stained Knees

When I was younger, I knew it had been a good day when I came in with dirt in my hair and grass stains on my knees.  It meant I had explored and adventured most of the day. It meant I was so full of memories of made-up sword fights or imagined dragons that I could barely stay awake.  It meant that for most of the day, I was probably uncomfortably hot and sweaty, but never had I been happier.

As humans, we cling to our comfort zones.  We are hermits in our comfort. We create these walls around us that define our contentment levels.  As soon as we get remotely close to these barriers, we freak out.  Oh no, we think.  I can't go out there - to the real world.  What if I make a mistake?  What if I get hurt?  It is so much safer in here.

Okay, so what?  So what if you do make a mistake?  You learn from it.  What if you do get hurt?  Then you heal and move on.  Your comfort zone is a safe environment, but nothing ever grows there! Every day is a new adventure - a new experience with new opportunities.

I write this as much to myself as to you.  I love being comfortable.  It is my sanctuary.  There are days where I would love to do nothing but curl under the covers with a cup of coffee and a book because it is safe and cozy and warm.  But what would I learn if I did that every day?  What memories would I create?

When I get older, I hope to have this mental scrapbook of memories and life lessons with rips in the pages, coffee rings on the corners, and grass stains on the spine. There will be stories marred with storms and heartbreak, and others decorated with sunshine and laughter.  Regardless, I want to flip through the tattered pages and pluck vivid memories from them. To me, the most terrifying thing in life is not change or being uncomfortable, but looking back on nothing but empty, dust-covered pages.

I write this, and my past couple of blogs, encouraging you to leave your comfort zone.  Do one thing every day that absolutely terrifies you.  It can be as small as making a phone call (which makes my heart race more than cliff jumping), or as drastic as white water rafting in a monsoon (which I don't recommend, but hey, it could be fun).  Life isn't meant to be lived as a prisoner of comfort.  Sure, your comfort zone is wonderful place to return to now and again, but you shouldn't reside there.

Dance in the rain. Talk to strangers.  Go skydiving. Pet lots of dogs. Fight dragons. Be a living Gospel. Do things that scare you.  You may come away from it heartbroken, but at least you tried.  You learned from it, good or bad.  You created a scrapbook memory that will lift your spirits or be a lesson to teach your children.

Know anything worth doing always contains a risk of failure, but the uncertainty is so worth it.  I pray that you never look back and see dusty pages, but rich experiences that shaped you as a person. Don't be afraid to get a grass-stained heart. It means you've had a good life - a life of adventuring and exploring everything the world has to offer.  

Carry On, Wayward Son

I am sorry I haven't written in a while.  I've been busy laying in a hammock all summer.  In fact, that is what I am doing currently.  I have been ridiculously lazy this summer.  I have done a few crafts and counseled at camp, but over all, I have done nothing but lay around.  On some level, I needed the relaxation.  I had a hard spring semester, and the fall isn't going to be any easier.  However, I learned that too much of a good thing can be bad.  For me, that meant lying on the couch.

I say all this for a reason.  I worked out some over the summer - mostly strength training.  Tuesday I decided I needed to get back into cardio.  This was a bad decision.  My legs are still sore.  I worked out with Kenny Burner and the soccer team for a little bit.  For those of you that know Kenny, you know that he does nothing halfway, especially workouts.  It was then that I realized I am so out of shape compared to how I was during soccer season.  Anyway, we did some jump ropes and wall squats - nothing too terrible.  After that, I went for a run.  Keep in mind I haven't run in probably a month, maybe more.  And in that month, I have done very little cardio.  Being as smart as I am, I also decide bleachers are a great way to jump back into cardio.  News flash - it's not.  I hated bleachers when I was in shape.  To try to do them now was torture.  I was gasping for air after the first set; it was really a pitiful sight.

I know it sounds like I'm rambling about my fitness, or lack thereof, but I have a point.  I learned something this summer.  1. I hate cardio, and 2. your character is defined by how you act when people aren't looking.  

All of my life, I have had someone pushing me to do better.  In school, it was my classmates.  In soccer, it was my teammates.  At home, it was my family.  We all challenged one another to be our very best.  Now that I'm in college, it's just me.  My classmates don't care if I fail a test, I no longer have teammates, and I don't come home to Valley View at the end of a long day.  I had to learn self-discipline in every walk of life.  From school to reading my Bible.  

I realized this with each step I took on the bleachers in the hot sun on Tuesday.  I could stop right then and no one would notice. I could stop the pain in my legs, the burning in my lungs.  I could just...stop.  But something inside pushed me to keep going - I was determined to conquer the bleachers again.  There was no trophy or crowd cheering me on at the finish line.  It was just me and the setting sun.  

Life is full of moments like this.  There is no glory in late night studying in a dorm room.  There is no great reward in waking up at 6 to hit the gym.  There is not a trophy for kindness.  You don't get a pat on the back every time you say "please" and "thank you."  Sometimes, it feels like there is no good reason to continue working hard and being kind.  You do these things and you get nothing in return. 

Or so it seems.

All of these moments that seem pointless are what determine your character.  Doing one more set of bleachers when you want to pass out determines your character.  Studying one more hour when you want to do nothing but sleep determines your character.  Being nice to the waitress when she spills your drink all over you determines your character.  

Galatians 6:9 says, "And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up."  Kindness, determination, and hard work may not have any immediate reward on Earth, but God promises that He will give us so much more in Heaven. 

In the same way, if you continue to work hard - to complete the bleachers - and still feel downtrodden, remember Colossians 3:23: "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters."  In those times when you feel no one is watching, or that no one will notice if you stop, God is with you.  He sees your weariness, but He will give you strength to carry on.  He sees your heart like no one else, and He knows you are capable of so much more.  

Paper Memories

Melancholy is hard to define.  Sure, Webster has plenty of words attempting to explain this term, but is there a proper way to put this elusive emotion into concrete terms?  Can you really define any emotions?  It’s hard to remember how something, or someone, feels until you experience it again.  And when you do experience the feeling once more, you hold onto it for all its worth, knowing when you wake up tomorrow, it will be gone.

Memories come with waves of these emotions.  Melancholy cannot stand alone.  The word itself is two-dimensional – it tastes weird on your tongue.  Melancholy requires emotions to be had in order to be experienced.  You cannot feel nostalgia for memories you’ve never had.  You can be lonely for those memories, but never nostalgic. No, nostalgia buries itself into your bones when you are lonesome.

Nostalgia is different for everyone.  I feel it when there is a tinge of autumn in the air.  I am immediately transported to crisp Saturday mornings in October with leaves crunching under my soccer cleats.  I am 8 years old again, with no other goal than to stop one. 

Other times, when the sun is shining just right through maple leaves, I wind up in my front yard.  I have climbed the tree, the bark rough against my skin, and am laughing with my best friends in the whole world.  Because then, my front yard was my whole world.

When the smell of winter wriggles its way into my nose, I am sledding down what feels the biggest hill in all the world with my dad and sister.  There are plenty of wipeouts, causing red faces and runny noses, but we treasure every second.  Later, we go inside for hot cocoa that warms you right down to the soles of your feet. 

Baby’s breath is not just a flower, but a memory of spring days taking Easter pictures in flowy dresses. The spray of water from a hose is green grass and apple trees and dancing around in the miniature rainbows in my Pooh Bear swimsuit.   

The smell of coffee is a multitude of memories, from dipping cookies into my grandma’s cup to late night Bible talks with some amazing people.  It is late afternoons in a porch swing, waiting for evening to fall.  It is snowy evenings curled up with a book, wandering through fantasy worlds.  It is small cafée in Europe, watching people meander past.   

With a warm breeze swirling through the open windows of my car, I am not driving to college alone anymore.  My favorite people are in the seats with ice cream dripping into our hair.  We are exhausted from soccer practice, but we still sing Disney songs at the top of our lungs.

The crackle of a campfire is late summer evenings playing card games and telling ghost stories that were too silly to be scary.  The smoke winds towards the blanket of stars that make me feel like I’m falling through infinity.  My best friend’s faces are dancing in the firelight, and I remember thinking that life never got better than this.  I was right.

Salt air is the best summer of my life with my family baking in the sun and flying kites.  It is dark nights on the beach watching sea turtles find their way to the water - to their home. Salty breezes are telling stories with my mom until my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

The notes of one song take me back to late nights in dorm rooms, my feelings for a boy amplified when he sings it in a way that makes my heart do somersaults., loneliness dispelled just by the sound of his voice.  With the notes of another song, I am in the front seat of the car on the way to a day in the sun at an amusement park with 30 of my closest friends. 

To you, these memories are just words on paper.  But to me, they are feelings, and smiles, and laughter.  I could spend the rest of my life writing down these memories, but to outsiders, they will never be more than paper.  Instead, I will cradle them in my heart until they completely envelop me.  When I am lonely, I will call on them to comfort me. 

This is nostalgia.

Vintage Moon

darling play the dusty records' lullabies
dance together 'neath the autumn skies
live your dreams 'til the music dies

'cause nothing can change under a vintage moon

dance with the heavens as a fire rages 
with a flame that's been lost for ages 
write a tune in these unwritten pages

'cause nothing can change under a vintage moon

forget the worries of the sunshine's light
you don't have the colors of the world to fight
tonight you're just a child of black and white

'cause nothing can change under a vintage moon

cover your wrist fraught with scars
live a life that death once marred
to the rhythm of the lone guitar 

'cause nothing can change under a vintage moon

throw away the doubt you face
twirl about in your dress of lace
and know that strength is found in grace

'cause nothing can change under a vintage moon

breathe the quiet melody of days long gone
let the records play their broken song
and dance a little slower in a world gone wrong

'cause nothing can change under a vintage moon

To Learn from the Trees

One of the most terrifying realizations a person can have is that time passes.  Whether you are doing something or not, time continues to progress, seconds turning into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into weeks, weeks into years, until certain moments are no longer distinguishable.  People are born, and from the minute they take their first breath, they begin to die.  We are all dying.  Seasons change and nature progresses through its cycle - birth, death, new life - continuously.  Humans are not as aware of it as we should be.  Every second of every day, the trees and the birds live and breathe around us in perfect harmony with one another.  Perhaps we should take note of it.  Through storms and brutal winters, the keep on living.  They are survivors.  Regardless of their circumstances, they continue to live.  And when their time has come to leave this world, they have passed on their seeds to sprout new life so the world can continue its perfect harmony.  In the end, we all fall victim to time and its passage.  It's a beautiful tragedy.

The reassuring reality of it is we all play a part in the tragedy, whether we choose to or not.  We are surrounded by living organisms, characters in the circle of life, for however brief of time.  Through this passage, we should learn from the trees.  Eventually, they will die - just like us.  But through the seasons, they thrive.  They grow and bud, then prepare themselves for winter, year after year.  Biologically, death is imminent.  That does not give them reason to stop living, though.  Creatures depend on them, so they live and thrive.  We should do the same.

Seasons will change.  Time will pass.  You will live.  And you will die.  While we are here, we should thrive.  Beneath the vast cosmos, we need to become active participants in this great tragedy, contributing our voice to the harmony of life.

Faith and Science

Okay, so can we can just talk about how amazing God is for a second?  I am a biochemistry major, and I've really only been studying the sciences really in depth for a couple months, but I have learned so many amazing things about how life works.  Every time I open my textbook, I see God.  In today's society, that sounds really strange, especially with all the evolution talks.  But even in the first chapter of biology, where all it speaks of is the biosphere and such, the complexity of the world is brought to light.  The deeper I go, the more I realize that we are not here by accident.  The systems and reactions and cells in the body, or even the microscopic bacteria, are far too complex to simply have happened.

Do you realize the amount of steps and processes that occur just in the mitochondria of a cell to provide our bodies with energy?  It's amazing, quite simply (and also completely overwhelming).  Atoms, the smallest unit of matter, can react with other atoms in an almost infinite number of ways, yet our bodies know the codes to arrange them in a way to specifically suit our needs. The neurons that connect in your brain to form memories, or even that cause your hand to move as you are scrolling, are incredibly complex, yet specific to a function.  Our body can be scratched, bruised, and broken, yet still manage to heal itself.  If that doesn't point to God, I don't know what does.

I could probably get some criticism for this post, but I don't mind.  Everything I am seeing and learning is reflecting God.  We are not here by accident.  Random particles did not come together to form systems as complex and as perfectly organized as the ones on this Earth.  Humans are flawed by sin, but I believe our bodies, the ecosystem, and the stars are all still intact, the way God created them to be.  The mitochondria in our cells are making energy so we can praise God, yet so often we use it for something pointless.  We need to take a look inside ourselves, not just our souls, but the bodies that house them, and examine how we are the artwork of a magnificent, beautiful, and perfect God.  

Hello Again

Wow, I didn't realize how long it has been since I last wrote.  Since my last post, I have traveled to Europe, graduated high school, and started college.  These are all huge milestones that haven't fully sunk in for me yet.

I have learned quite a bit though.

First and foremost, I loved Europe an inexplicable amount.  Most of you probably know that I've been dying to travel to London for a long time.  It was everything I'd dreamt it would be. In just ten days in Europe, I tried more things than I have in my entire life.  There was my first experience riding the tube - basically picture a can of sardines.  I ate snails, which was great with all the garlic and butter.  I rode on a night train; contrary to popular belief, it was NOTHING like the Hogwarts Express.  I learned and spoke and heard a cacophony of different languages, which was fun until I didn't know how to order a cheeseburger and people yelled at me.  I was cleansed by a hippie at Stonehenge.  I spent Easter morning on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.  Through all of this, I saw an inkling of how diverse and beautiful the world is.  Even in London, where we spoke the same language, the people were so different than they are here - I am not saying they were better or worse, just different.  In France and Spain, it was so strange to hear people speak and not know what they were saying.  It was beautiful and terrifying and eye-opening.  The new experience, different cultures, and foreign languages made me feel alive, like I'm not the most important thing in the world. Everyone has stories to tell; my brief ten days in Europe taught me I want to listen to them for the rest of my life.

I read Paper Towns right before gradation, which was fitting.  The main character, Q, makes the point that leaving somewhere is exhilarating and sad and terrifying only if that place mattered.  High school was difficult, and part of me was completely ecstatic to be leaving it behind...but another part of me knew that things would be different from then on.  Leaving high school meant that I would no longer be surrounded by faces and thoughts very similar to mine; much like Europe, going to college bombarded me with new ideas and perspectives on the world.  High school was a cocoon of safety (mostly) - I was a big fish in a small pond.  With adulthood lingering above me and college surrounding me, I realize that I am a very very small fish in a massive pond.  There is nothing wrong with that; it is very exhilarating...but also completely terrifying.  Leaving high school mattered - it meant leaving a part of my childhood and comfort zone behind.  But if I didn't have the childhood and experiences I did, I wouldn't have the capacity or the will to accept things different than myself.  I am thankful that I was raised to be respectful and open-minded, but also to stay true to myself and my beliefs.

I don't really know the purpose for writing this blog, other than to tell you that just in the past six months, I have learned and grown more than I ever have.  I learned that the only constant in life is change, which is beautiful and exhilarating and terrifying and sad.  But how boring life would be without all of those emotions.

There are No Supermarkets in the Desert

The bright African sun reflects off the desert sand as sweat drips into his eyes. He can scarcely see the faces surrounding him.  The men have rich olive skin with coffee-colored eyes and chocolate hair; he can only see the dark brown eyes of the women- the rest of their bodies are covered by black cloth.  Everything around him is dark - except the sun.  It beats relentlessly.  Josh and his wife, Liz, moved to a 99.8% Muslim city in Africa a year ago, choosing to surround themselves with these people in hope to share Christ with them.  Venturing into the Unknown, they left everything familiar behind to become the only Americans for an eighteen hour radius.  From the moment they stepped off the plane, people noticed them.  Liz, her long brown hair hanging freely on her shoulders, and Josh in his new khaki pants, stood out in the city of poor Muslims.  Some men kept their distance while most were receptive because “in their view, you’re the American.  You’re smart, you’re rich, you have the American dream and you have chosen to take interest in their lives and their culture.”  Spending over a year there and completely immersing themselves in the Islamic culture brought this couple a different view on the people Americans so greatly loathe.

 Being the only Americans, they were forced to learn and embrace Arabic.  Every form of communication, besides talking with their boss, was in Arabic.  For Josh, this was one of the most difficult parts of adjusting.  “I’m not a language guru,” he sighed. “I still struggle with the language. It also makes it hard to form relationships when you can only speak certain words.” However they learned it because that was the key to unlocking new friendships and insights to the Muslim thought process.  If, through this language, Josh and Liz could form new relationships with a people that are so demonized by Americans, then they could overcome any obstacle the language presented.  The people were patient with them.  Laughter over misused words at the souq, the local marketplace, brought about conversations and friendships that would not have happened otherwise. 

Culturally, the Muslims are governed by all things Islam.  “Everything they do is Islamic to the core.  The way they raise their kids, the way that they do business is based on Islam.”  Americans say that this is a terrible and radical way of life.  In some ways, there are negative effects from the Islamic worldview and thoughts.  Women are persecuted greatly. Men always eat before the women and children.  Perhaps the most recognizable degradation to women is the covering, or jilab, they have to wear.  The men cannot “control” themselves so women cannot have any part of their body exposed in public.  Besides his wife, Josh never saw a woman’s head uncovered.  “Not being able to walk down the street and talk to a lady is really different from our culture.”  Beating of women is a norm to the Muslims.  If the woman does one thing wrong, men have the right to hit them.  Very rarely would Liz ever walk the streets by herself.  “In the few times I did go out by myself, I would cover my head and try to blend in more.”

In contrast, while Americans focus on their jobs and professions, the Muslims concentrate on relationships.  “You could be invited over to someone’s house for tea and end up staying three or four hours because it’s not about the time, but the relationships.” Work and schedules are not priorities to them; rather, the men will work in the mornings, then come home for a few hours for lunch with their families and neighbors.  The interaction between people and friends govern their day to day lives.  Although food is limited, Josh and Liz’s neighbors would invite them to their houses almost daily to mingle at dinner with their families.  The evening would often fade into night as conversations between friends were enjoyed over pots of tea.

            Because of their illiteracy, Muslims tell stories of their families or of their religion in order to pass down their traditions and wisdom.  Much like in Appalachia, oral storytelling imparts the history and beliefs of generations of Muslims to younger family members. These times of socializing and bonding with the locals provided perfect opportunities for Josh and Liz to tell “stories” about their faith.  Hoping to share Christ in a way that was natural for their friends, Josh and Liz incorporated stories of the one Lamb who was slain to rescue everyone from a terrible eternity.  They also told several simple Bible stories such as Noah’s Ark or Daniel and the Lion’s Den in order to pique their interests in Christianity. Although the language continued to pose a bit of a problem, their friends began asking pertinent questions about why they believed in God and His Son.  Some chose to reject Josh’s answers because they did not align with their Islamic faith held all of their lives.  Others would sit in quiet reflection, soaking in the new point of view the strange English-speaking outsiders told.  Despite the danger that comes with turning from Islam, Josh could tell some were hungry for more than their culture provided.  The Bible stories bestowed a means to escape a lifetime of Islamic culture and open their eyes to a new Hope.    

Josh and Liz may consider their struggle at language, the strange way of cooking, or people not relating to their stories failures. When they moved, they realized they had to redefine their definition of failure and success.  “If you’re scared of failure, you should never move overseas because you fail every day.”  Even though they were incredibly afraid, they moved to the Muslim city in Africa daring to reinvent the American thoughts of Muslims and to share the Gospel with people who desperately need it.  They learned that there are many faults to the Islamic religious system.  More importantly they learned that all Muslims are not the radical terrorists Americans make them out to be.  They require the exact same necessities Americans do; they want to love and be loved and share in the everyday experience that is Life.     

For the Least of These

So funny story about how God answers prayers.  This year for my birthday I was considering not doing the offering for missions because I was afraid we wouldn't receive as much as we have in years past. (That was stupid because God can achieve mighty things so who am I to doubt His power?)  Anyway, I was talking to Him, and I said, "God, if you want me to do this so I know it's in Your will, send someone to ask me about it. If they ask me about it, I know they are still interested in giving." I waited, honestly not thinking too much about it.  Then Miss Flora Carter, a friend of my grandma's who has been reading my blog and one of the sweetest ladies I've ever talked to, inquired on my timeline if I would still be receiving offering for missions.  I immediately knew this was God's answer to my prayer.  Thank you Miss Flora, for asking me about it.

I tell you all of this for two reasons: one, to share the wonderful power of prayer and the Will of God.  And two, to let you know that Abby and I will be receiving donations for our 18th and 16th birthdays.  We have not yet decided what organization we are giving to, but I will let you know as soon as God tells me :)

Thank you to everyone who has given in the years past.  It truly warms my heart to know that I am surrounded by people who support that calling God has given me.  I know this season is incredibly busy with Christmas shopping, Lottie Moon Christmas Offering, Shoeboxes, and family get-togethers, but I ask this of you because I know we all want to give to people who are so much less fortunate than ourselves.

"Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to me." ~Jesus

Almost Heaven

I have dreamt of visiting the bustling city of London and the rolling pastures of Dublin ever since I was a little girl.  Book after book I've read, transporting me to faraway places that seem so much grander than my home nestled in the West Virginia hills.  This state is my home, generations of my family hailing from the deep “hollers” of Logan and Wayne Counties; but part of me believes I’m not meant to stay here.  This part of me knows that my childhood dreams of England and Ireland will someday be realized.  Little did I know, however, that before I could branch out to these faraway places, my roots must grow stronger in this intimate place of Almost Heaven, West Virginia.    

Deep in the heart of my lovely state stands a town where time has stopped and melancholy memories drift down from the mountaintops.  Lonesome train whistles echo off the mountain passageway as the Shay locomotive rolls down the tracks.  Years after the actual operation of the railroad has ceased, the town of Cass still clatters with excitement as the Iron Horse grinds into the station.  Here, in a town frozen in time, my family spent our summer vacation – not the normal choice of ocean-side views, but one of rolling hills and quaint little towns.  What I would soon realize is the town of Cass and our other excursion sites through West Virginia held stories they needed to tell me.  A bright, summer sun glinted off the coal-coated black train engine, casting murky shadows on our upturned faces.  Tickets in hand, my mother, father, sister, and I boarded the locomotive with anticipation.  All of the covered cars quickly became crowded, so we made our way to the open car beneath the smokestack spitting out layers of speckled coal dust.  I located an empty bench, my family following suit.  A sharp whistle rang from the train, and with chugs and puffs, the steam engine hauled her passengers away from the station on the same track where she hauled tons of timber thousands of times in the years gone by. 

No more than five minutes after pulling away from the station, the tracks to the side of the main line were scattered with broken locomotives, only shells of what they once were.  Seeing the bodies of the Iron Workhorses which transported tons of timber from the mountains to pulp mills forced me to realize how much times have changed.  My ancestors depended on these trains to maintain their lifestyles; today they are simply a scenic destination for tourists.  Life existed in a simpler form then and the nostalgic graveyard of antique trains made me long to be a part of it.  The history of the place stirred a hidden feeling in my heart, calling me home in sepia tones.  A heartbreakingly haunting train whistle hung in the air as we passed, our steam engine paying homage to her fallen comrades. 

Further down the tracks as the slope began to rise, the silhouettes of the company houses came into view.  Blackened with coal soot, the white houses slumped under some hidden weight.  All across West Virginia, families of coal miners and loggers lived in homes identical to the ones standing before me.  The heartbeat which kept West Virginia alive dwelled here.  It occurred to me that coal mining and logging weren’t only occupations, but ways of life.  They were the industries that built and shaped this state – and the people in it.  These coal-blackened company houses represented the hardworking, unbreakable men and women who resided in them, standing strong despite numerous adversities.  My heritage is wound and threaded in humble abodes quite like these.  The houses caked with coal dust seemed to stand much straighter and gleam much whiter, embracing the qualities of perseverance and determination they embodied. 

As civilization faded into the distance, the train slowly ground her way up the mountain.  Lush trees provided shade the majority of the time, specks of sunlight dancing through their green leaves.  Black coal dust pirouetted from the hiccupping smokestack, littering the treetops and train cars like forgotten snowflakes.  I dozed as the birds composed a sweet lullaby with the rhythmic cadence of the industrial steel wheels of the train.  A feeling of peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time enveloped me as the scenery of the summertime hills drifted by the train.  The higher we climbed, the more I knew my lungs would always yearn for crisp mountain air.

Finally, after hours on the train spent daydreaming and reminiscing, our Shay locomotive reached Bald Knob, the final stop at the top of the mountain.  Here the tracks ended.  All of the weary passengers unloaded onto the cool stretch of grass, wanting nothing more than a bathroom and food, but what we saw when we stepped off the train took our breath away.  For miles in every direction, hills and valleys cascaded into a work of art only God could create. Shadows bounced and played over the landscape of farmland and forests, content to tease the shimmering sunshine and soaring clouds.  The varying hues in the landscape below looked strikingly similar to the patchwork quilt my great-grandmother hand-stitched, each square a special piece of clothing from every member of the family.  On cold winter nights, it is under this quilt I find comfort and security.  The view stretched out before me shifted suddenly; no longer did I see mountains and farmland, but a colorful patchwork quilt draped across a bed frame.

You will run for home when your heart is broken, when you long for familiarity, and when you are simply tired of saying goodbyes.  Without a home, you become a hopeless wanderer.  For the longest time, West Virginia was simply a place where I’d grown up.  Now, as I prepare to leave it for the first time, I realize this place, these hills, and the people here have found their way deep into my heart.  With lightning bugs twinkling off the silhouettes of trees and the fiery mountainsides in autumn, I have seen more beauty in my backyard than some see in a lifetime.  The hills are my comforting blanket – they have seen me broken, triumphant, and torn; they have rejoiced with me and they have cried with me.  My roots are now so deep into the mountains’ soil that no matter where I may roam, I will always return to Almost Heaven.   

Through Painted Deserts

Recently, I finished Donald Miller’s Through Painted Deserts.  I would highly recommend this book to anyone – and just saying, I wish I could write like him.  Anyway, in reading this book, I discovered a few parallels in what God is and what He created. 

On the first day of creation, God spoke light into existence.  All he did was say “Let there be light,” and there was light.  He saw that it was good. (He created it, so how could it not be good?)  I know I put this quote on Facebook just a few days ago, but it is the basis for how I came to see things a bit differently.  Donald Miller writes: "Consider the complexity of light in light of the Hebrew metaphor: we don't see light; we see what it touches. It is more or less invisible, made from nothing, just purposes and focused energy, infinite in its power...How fitting, then, for God to create an existence, then a metaphor, as if to say, here is something entirely unlike you, outside of time, infinite in its power and thrust: here is something you can experience but cannot understand. Throughout the remainder of the Bible, then, God calls Himself light."  He is exactly right here.  Light, as scientists define it, is not really matter or waves, but somewhere in between.   Through centuries of study, scientists cannot fully explain the phenomenon of light; yet, even with its unexplainable properties, light is the sole purpose by which we see everything.  Without it, we would be lost in total darkness.  Its importance can only be magnified in the fact that it was the first thing God created.  He did not need it, but He knew that humans would come to depend fiercely on it.  So is the same with our Creator.  We cannot fully understand Him or explain His omnipotence, but we realize He is the Light by which we see everything else.

The second parallel I noticed was love.  Here is another phenomenon, if you wish to call it that, that we cannot fully explain. Some scientists say the feeling we experience as love is triggered by a series of chemicals in the brain.  These chemicals start a chain reaction when we see someone or something that triggers their release.  The mystery is why people experience the feeling of love to different objects or people.  Perhaps it is our genetic makeup or certain environmental factors, but the fact of the matter is, love is the driving force behind the majority of our actions. For Jesus, it was the sole purpose He gave His life for His people.  Several times, the Bible states God is Love.  He is the embodiment of the feeling every human so intensely craves.  We go through this life looking for love, which we usually find in the form of lust and sin.  What we so often miss is that our one true Love is longing for our hearts and souls in a way that cannot be explained.  All the chemicals in our brain and DNA are trying to point us to Love, if we would only bother to look in the right direction. 

Another paradox I believe God intentionally created was the sensation of beauty.  Here is yet another thing we cannot comprehend. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I think that’s true.  For me, beauty can be found in an infinite number of places in this universe.  Some people claim true beauty is a sunset on the horizon of ocean waves.  Others may say it is the fiery treetops of West Virginia in the fall.  A baby’s innocent laugh or a pure smile is beautiful.  Regardless of what the beholder deems beautiful, I believe God created the feeling of beauty solely to bring glory to Him.  I don’t know about you, but when I marvel at the starlight in a summer sky, God is in that beauty.  Everything beautiful is touched by His fingertips, and you can feel that in a breathtakingly stunning moment.  He created beauty so we can simply relish His perfection.

There are so many other feelings and sensations that I believe God created to eloquently display His wisdom and grace, to make us feel His presence in each of them – feelings of peace, hope, joy, happiness, and faith.  I’m not a theologian so I can’t claim that any of these statements are correct, but I feel deep in my heart that my God knew what He was doing when He spoke light into existence.  Everything is so perfectly mapped out and planned that it’s almost impossible to ignore Him in Love, Light, and Beauty.  In so many ways we as humans have twisted these feelings into worldly and selfish desires.  I wish we all could take a step back and ask why they were created in the beginning instead of how we can reach them.  If we do this, hopefully we can find our way through all the muck and mire to the true definition of Love and Light.