Banner Blog #1

How do you blog about a beat that you don't have yet?

In my previous post, the one for Angelos, I mentioned that the beginning of the school year has been psychotic. I can't help but admit that Banner has been a contributor to my headaches, heart palpitations, panic attacks, and my boyfriend's empty wallet; the man has to buy me chocolate and wine just to keep me sane these days.

I've written with the aimed intention of having stories published both in Health, Perspectives, and in News. Hi, could that be more diverse?...

Sadly, I don't think any of my stories made it in to this recent issue, but I feel accomplished at having written them despite the fact. One article was an absolute beast to write. I had to fight my personal opinions, battle through a hundred news stories, pick one angle out of a thousand I could have taken, and somehow figure out how to give a broad, general idea on the situation but leave out the millions of facts and happenings since then.

Did I mention I'm new to Banner? Mi loco en la cabesa, amigos.

I did learn that there are certain stories/beats that I enjoy writing, and that others could disappear forever and I'd hardly want to write even an obituary for them. Articles that involve creativity, such as How-To's, pieces on recipes, health articles, or if I could even write a short story that would be printed for, say, 3 consecutive issues...how cool would that be? These are the things that I enjoy, things that I love writing about anyways. To have them featured in a newspaper--I see you, byline--would blow my socks off.

It doesn't appear that it's going to be as easy as I had initially imagined this past summer, while I was preparing to come to school. I thought I'd take this place by storm, show them I can write, get my name in as many articles as I could in the short year I'll be here. Boy, was I wrong. I can write, yes, but not as well as I thought I could. (God is SO good at humbling you at the precise moment it's least convenient!) And go figure, I write two articles that I believed were going into one issue, and they're not. There is no woe-is-me here, though. I enjoyed the challenge, and I will continue to enjoy the challenge, and even if I get a hand cramp and die, I will be published!

Lofty thoughts, but sometimes, I wonder if I have the gumption. No no... I'm a journalist. I HAVE to have the gumption. It's going to be my job.

Because I'm a senior, yet a newb in Banner, my learning track is quite different than anyone else. I'm not lumped in with Freshman, because their learning pace is too slow for me to get what I need to done, but I can't be lumped in with the seasoned writers, because I'm not. The result: I do my own thing, I guess. I write, and if it gets published, it gets published, and if not, then Maryann will edit it for me.

So, my beat. I can't help but laugh when I think about me having a beat at this point. I'm so far from obtaining the experience I need to be an accomplished journalist, yet I have so little time to achieve so much. The only thing I can really do at this point is practice, just keep writing, and pray. Pray that I'm even able to get a job someday, seeing as my experience is so limited.

Angelos Blog #1

This year is weird. I say that in a present tense, not only because weird things are happening now, but because weird things continue to happen and will keep happening for the rest of 2010.

There has been little to be confident about, even in life, health, finances, residency, food, or otherwise. That is not how it usually is in my world. Usually there is stability, guarantees, reassurances, and security in all of the above. I wasn't even sure if I would make it to school this year or not, given how much I struggled for a loan. I worked hard for this, to be here at CBU--so much so I started the semester off exhausted, not exactly the ideal beginning to a semi-new life.

The pace hasn't slowed yet, either. The semester seemed to launch with more than just a kick start; in fact, it was a kick start with a jet engine/rocket booster attached. I'm surprised at how I've been able to keep up with homework, for the most part.

Just within these past two months I've seen three hospitalizations, two deaths, a broken car, and a pile of bills I'd rather turn into fire kindle. But you know what I've learned?

God is good. It's a phrase my mother keeps reiterating--God is good. God has provided for all that we need, though He is the one who determines what our needs are. He has been faithful to provide for me, faithful to usher in that check or that hug just when I need it. In fact, He's the only reason I'm even here at CBU.

I know this blog was supposed to be about reflections on our first few weeks of school, but every time I glance back at the past month, all I see is one wild ride in life, not at CBU. As much as I wish my education could be my center focus, all I can see are the struggles my family and I have seen, and most of all, how God has provided for us in more ways than we could ask for.

The Sweet and the Hollow

The wind smells sweeter this year, more so than years previous. There is a strangeness to it; elements of past, of present, and of future mingle with the smells of fresh air, earth, and the snap of cold. There is a sense of being lost in it, and yet, rediscovery. It's almost like a whisper, telling of thing ancient, and things to come. It brings to the mind memories, many memories.

Memories of Mama braiding my hair and making crafts with me. The times when our small kitchen, warmed by a real wood stove, smelled of homemade oatmeal cookies and coffee, and if you were to take 4 steps away from the kitchen counter you would catch the scent of burning wood. I would watch as Dad slipped on an old leather glove, opened the black, ash-laden door to the stove and pile more logs on. I love that memory. It reminds me of how simple things used to be.

Or all the times that my sister, brother, and I would hose down our back patio at night. We would wake up extra early the next morning before school, just so we could slip across the ice and catch a few extra giggles before we hit the books. We smiled so much then. There was snow, and snow angels, and snow sleds, and even a snowman family that greeted passing cars at the end of our long driveway, dirt churned with snow. One year there were even icicles, something I had never seen before that year.

We bought real Christmas trees then, and the house permeated with the scent of pine. Pine, wood, smoke, cookies, warmth, hot chocolate, and pumpkin and spices and cinnamon and apples; an aroma that was so strong and savory it seeped through the wood our house was built from and into the outdoors.

I am also flooded with memories of people. People who lived in the small town we did, the people who have changed my life and will always be apart of it whether they are present in it or not. People like Emily Bosma, Brianna Forewood, Melissa Graves, Mr. Farris the Jr. High band teacher, and the nice man who ran the local corner store, Ranchers. I don't remember his name, but he always smiled when we went in. I was welcome there, even as an unsupervised 13 year old. That said something.

But we moved from that small town. Our new house smelled of its previous owners, old drywall, and every so often the waft of animal. It was heated electrically.

Mama made Amish bread in the new kitchen, and Dad didn't chop wood anymore. We got a fake Christmas tree to replace the real ones we had every year. And there was no snow.

People from this new town resurface: people like Josh Paschall, Chloe Weick (who is now a Chloe Vaughan), Dani DelRosario, Rose Barnes, and Alyssa Elliott.

There are many memories with Josh Paschall in them. Pressed Skittles between my Bible pages, that horrible orange sweatshirt he loved to wear, and I will never forget Halo and fried chinchilla tacos and 7-layer burrito cakes. He was my best friend for years.

We don't talk anymore.

This chill wind, tainted with sadness, also reminds me of a church. Not a quaint country church, but a church that met in the industrial center of town. The church where most of the people I cherish from our new town went. It was a place called Safe Harbor, and the youth group was on fire for Jesus. They loved the Lord with a passion you wouldn't expect from high schoolers. And it was amazing.

I remember Dani Del and Rose leading worship. It wasn't just music. It never is for them. You could hear the deep love they held for their Lord, their reverence for Him through song. The youth there followed suit, arms held high, fingers spread wide, some with tears of joy or pain or submission or thankfulness streaming from their eyes. The message was solid, the Christian support true, and the common question of evangelism was never absent: they went, they did, no questions asked.

And then people gradually left, some willingly, some unwillingly. Pretty soon all that remained was the backbone of the had-been administration and the few faithful families whose love for the church exceeded their need to move on. That church faded away, slowly and painfully, leaving a deep chasm of pain and misery in its wake.

Our best friend Alyssa managed to stay with my sister and I after the church split, but even that didn't last long. I blame the boy, but after 2 years and much prayer I can thank the Lord for reconciliation.

Many more memories swamp me. Relationships that came to a painful end, plans made that were never executed and executed plans that never worked out. People who were once so strong, who I looked up to, but who slammed themselves into the world and lost their way. People who I've hurt, and people who have hurt me. People who I have lost, and people I have gained. Love given and love taken; hearts mingled with excitement and soon after, bitterness.

Indeed, the wind is sweeter this year, more so than years previous. It smells of the beauty of remembered memories, the warm ones that are reflected in the eyes of every child. But the wind is hollow, too. It whispers the words of unheeded wisdom, it taunts at wrong decisions made, and strokes the heart where loneliness is, ever intensifying it.

Is this what growing up feels like?

So Very Gone.

A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, landing on his eyelashes just long enough to catch his eye by fracturing the sunlight in a thousand directions. He wiped it before it dripped further and burned his eye.

Exhaustion.

He had been walking for what seemed like hours, his heart pounding, every step resounding with resignation, yet echoing with fear. Flashbacks came frequently. His mother, when he was eight, reaching for the flyswatter intended for his rear end. The 8th graders who introduced him to his first swirlie. The high school sweetheart who intoxicated him, both in mind and body. The one who said she "respected his values" but slipped just enough into his drink to get him to sleep with her. The one who stole his virginity.

The father he never knew.

Neglect.

Even the little things haunted him. No, you can't have a dog. No, you can't go to school there. No, you can't afford a family. No, I can't, because we don't have any food to eat. No no no.

He stopped to tie the lace on his cement-encrusted work boots. "A steel toe," the shoe salesman had said. "Real cow leather. It'll never wear out." He admired the amount of holes he saw in the dirty brown boots, cynically chuckling at his own gullibility. Shouldn't have trusted that dirty mexican.

Distrust.

How much farther? He squinted his eyes towards the street sign ahead of him, allowing his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the distance. Damn, I'm getting old, he thought. Life is ironic. You're young just long enough to realize you're stupid, and you're old just in time to realize that you could have done it better. Like he could have.

Depression.

His face hardened, his eyes set, his lips slightly drawn into a thin line. He shifted the rope to his other shoulder, picking up a faster pace than he had set before. Not too much farther.

Just the thought of them made him boil. Her gentle curves, the giggle of his 2-year-old daughter, the pleading of his 6-year-old son. Dad, come play with me! That voice haunted him more than anything else.

But it wasn't his fault, was it?! SHE had left HIM. Her pathetic, weak excuse for it was a mere, "it's for the kids' sake". He snarled.

Bitterness.

More of her words flooded his mind.

"You really need to change."

"I can't do this! I need you're help with them! I need you to BE here!"

"Don't you love me?"

"OUCH! Sto--STOP!!! Don't TOUCH me, you bastard!!!! KIDS! Go back to your room! OU--"

That didn't even teach her to obey him. She left anyways. He couldn't control her, the b****.

Hatred.

She was his, wasn't she? The kids too. Both were his, and he couldn't control them. And even though he had beaten her into submission for a time, she had left. She stole his kids and left.

Greed.

He knew better. He really did. He shook his head, let out a wail of frustration, and placed his hand on a street pole for support.

He had apologized. He begged her to come back. She refused, and he didn't blame her. He was drunk, wild with rage. How could he have?

Regret.

And he was there. He looked over the edge at the cars below, each headed to their own destination, each busy with their happy little lives. The guy in the black BMW talking on his bluetooth. The soccer mom in the minivan, swatting at the kids in the back seat. The cab driver with the rosary on the rear-view window, eating a subway sandwich. He sighed.

Was anyone watching? Did anyone notice?

Did anyone care?

The road noise continued, just as before.

Cars passed over the bridge behind him, too, all caught up in their little worlds.

The cop with his dog. The freshman, on her way to college, her car packed with living essentials. The pimped Toyota Camry with a load of gang members in it.

Alone.

He loosed the rope from his shoulder, dropping it onto the sidewalk, observing the dust that swirled. Picking up one end, he began tying it, just like his friend taught him in boy scouts when he was thirteen. A few minutes later, it was secure.

A teenager passed by on a bike, a Wal-Mart bag secured to his handlebars. Giving him a cursory

glance, the teen passed by, his face blank and thoughtless.

Very Alone.

He thumbed the rope softly before removing his boots, hat, and plain white t-shirt. Hanes. He always thought Hanes was better. Fruit of the Loom just sounded...wrong.

Taking his bandana out of his back pocket, he wiped the sweat from his brow and into his shaggy sandy-brown hair, now specked with gray. Being old wasn't so bad, he thought. If he could, he'd give it another run. And this time, for its money, he chuckled, recalling the meager paycheck he made. He never could dig himself out of the debt he had gambled himself into as a teen. And as an adult, actually.

It was a perfect fit. Snug, yet firm. A breeze licked at the back of his neck as he climbed. A car behind him honked and stopped.

But they were too late. He inhaled, close his eyes, stretched out his hands, and allowed himself to fall. This world wasn't worth the fight.

Hopelessness.

Cars screeched. People screamed. Cell phones rang. A dog barked. Then sirens. People were given, orders and giving orders. Chaos. Tears. Ambulances and more cops.

But they were to late.

Gone.

So Very Gone.

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His abundant mercy has begotten us again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled and that does not fade away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of God through faith for salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.
"In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while, if need be, you have been grieved by various trials, that the genuineness of your faith, being much more precious than gold that perishes, though it is tested by fire, may be found to praise, honor, and glory at the revelation of Jesus Christ..." 1 Peter 1:3-7

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." Romans 5:8

And they do not know...

Habit

I wrote this because of a friend once. Inspiration... you never know where it will come from...

Habit

The darkness is dark, isn't it?

Restlessness usually is.

Hardworking men forget

what life is like

apart from grease

and grime

and dirt.

They lose time.

Clocks are nonexistent

but to track responsibility.

tasks. chores. burdens.

Can you feel it?

The hot air in your throat

moving backwards:

stifling, suffocating.

Life-sucking heat that

leaves you without hope.

Or will or motivation or life.

It presses down on you like

an iron with steam engaged.

Pretty soon, you are left with

no lines. wrinkles. individuality.

You are withdrawing.

Climbing far into yourself

but far from your heart

to ignore it.

If you can't see it, it's not there.

...Right?

So you find yourself in a pool

of emotionless.

stagnant. oppressive. Black.

The darkness is dark, isn't it?

Parking Lot Romance

She had long brown hair. Unkempt, slightly wavy, thrown up in quick ponytail to lend more time to her daily duties, but most definitely long. She was pretty, with a tan, even skin tone, a skinny, toned body, and a delicately structured face which perfectly framed sharp blue eyes.

But she was haggard, he thought, as he watched her.

No kids in sight. No stress-causing husband, as her naked left hand loudly announced, and no nagging mother waiting with her at the front of the market. She was alone, and obviously exhausted.

He sat from a nearby Starbucks patio in the unbelievable heat and observed her. The slight dash of freckles splayed across her nose, her short and somewhat neglected fingernails, and the only piece of jewelry she wore: a cross necklace. Real white gold (if he had anything to say about it) with an inlayed diamond in the center. He wondered if she believed what she loudly and elegantly proclaimed around her neck.

Slurping the last drop of his iced soy latte, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and opened his Bible. But no matter how many times he asked for focus- for direction- his energy constantly redirected to the woman sitting on the curb across from him.

What was her story? She had an air of strength about her, as if she passed through fiery trials and survived... but only survived. As if she were still fighting the battles that her history thrust upon her.

Where did she come from?

Her slender fingers dipped into her canvas purse and emerged with a cigarette. She fingered it for a few minutes, staring at it intently, as if she could see death itself in the small white stick. Her eyebrows pursed and she bit her lower lip, ever so slightly, evidently deep in thought. He placed his Bible on the table in front of him, allowing his allotted Jesus-time for the day to slip away and leaned forward, readjusting so his back sat more comfortably on his slipped disk. Watching more intently than ever, he observed her eyes slowly close, her lips begin to move, her fingers fiddle with the cigarette. Two minutes must have passed. Three. Five. After what felt like a lifetime, her right hand abandoned the cigarette to her left hand and moved to her tan cheek, wiping away a tear. It then took another dive into her bag and retrieved the full box of cigarettes as well as the lighter. With great hesitation, her gaze drifted towards a nearby trash can. She stood, revealing the long, beautifully toned legs of a dancer, and walked nearer the garbage can. He stared, mentally noting the emotions that were passing through her face with rapid progression: fear, curiosity, anger, remorse, hopelessness, stubbornness, brokenness, confusion. She finally relented, tossing the cigarette and its companions into the trash can.

It was then that her tears flowed freely.

A simple scene, he thought. A smoker. Low-life trailer trash who spent too much time at the gym and the tanning booth, finally making a good decision for herself.

But was that really what it was?

She knew he was staring. She didn't care. He was just like the rest of them, she told herself. All of them. Judgmental, sizing her up and equating her with her mother's kind with disgust, or picturing her naked and at his mercy. Either way, she was used to it, and she ignored it. There were heavier things on her mind.

The Lord had been speaking to her, but not just in a "manner of speaking". She couldn't place how, but she could hear Him. Really hear Him. It wasn't an audible voice, however. There weren't any signs, no rushing winds, no booming thunder. Not even a small whisper. She couldn't place the source, or the why. Why He would speak to her.

No more cigarettes. No more midnight bottles to erase her memories. No more self-doubt, low self-worth, and no self-denial. She had a job to do, and God wasn't going to allow her to continue in the way she was in to get there.

She wanted to forget everything that she had done. She wanted to forget everything that was done to her. She wanted to forget.

And here God was, telling her that forgetting was the last thing He wanted her to do. Instead, He wanted her to talk about it. Talk about it to anyone and everyone who would listen.

Her scars, her nightmares, her ghosts and demons and skeletons and sins and pains drudged up for all to see, and criticize.

Really, Lord? Really?!?

So she sat, and she cried, and she murmured prayers, pleading that God would release her from this task. Images of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane played through her mind, but she couldn't stop pleading with her Savior to spare her.

I can't bear it. Remembering the pain is reliving the moment, Lord! How can I talk about it when I can't even speak about it?

Be still, child.

He moved.

He couldn't sit there, and he knew it. The Spirit that resided within Him was compelling him forward. He didn't know what he was to do, but he knew he had to move.

A hand fell gently on her shoulder. She started, opening her eyes and filling them with the image of the man who had been staring at her from the other side of the parking lot. He sat down with her, not uttering a word. He just looked into her eyes. Reading, analyzing.... and showing compassion.

Innocently, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held tight as he began praying for her. Her sobs escalated in volume, but his voice was steady, a calm stream of words directed to their Lord. And she heard Him in his words.

"Moses said to the LORD, "O Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue." The LORD said to him, "Who gave man his mouth? Who makes him deaf or mute? Who gives him sight or makes him blind? Is it not I, the LORD? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.*" "

But Lord, she thought, please, please send someone else. I can't do it. I'm not strong enough.

"Then the Lord's anger burned against Moses and he said, "What about your brother, Aaron the Levite? I know he can speak well. He is already on his way to meet you, and his heart will be glad when he sees you. You shall speak to him and put words in his mouth; I will help both of you speak and will teach you what to do. He will speak to the people for you, and it will be as if he were your mouth and as if you were God to him.*" "

She buried her face into the stranger's neck, soaking his collar with her tears. Finishing his prayer, he suddenly realized why God had sent him to that particular Starbucks, in the Texas midday heat, onto the scorching patio.

"My name is Aaron," he said, gently.

"Brianne," she responded, sobbing.

*Exodus 4:13-16

Letter to a Falling Brother

Beloved Brother,

I can't put you from my mind, or my heart. Memories of a sweet childhood race through my head: moments of laughter, of learning, of play. Each of these memories grasps at my heart; where once they gave me great joy, they now feed the ever-growing ache.

You were a sweet child. A generosity that time and time again surprised and delighted me was always in you. Brother, there were many times where you would sacrifice your earnings and your treasures for the pleasure of another. The Bible was not the book you kept in your closet on the highest shelf, but the book you kept by your heart. You were wholesome, with every potential for greatness that any child of opportunity had, despite your home life which was so tragically lacking in stability. You showed every sign of an overcomer, a conquerer of circumstance that few have the strength to fulfill. Now, it seems you have fallen into the majority, the sin-ridden many who rely upon themselves for salvation.

Your focus is ever on yourself. There is a mask that emerges on occasion now; a facade, parading as the generous giver you were as a child, but I see past the mask. Self-gratification is always your aim. Strokes to your ego are your primary concern. The friends you choose satisfy your insecurities, your need to feel independent, and most dangerously, your flesh.

The world has posed, flaunting its goods to you, displaying its disguised, contemptible features to you. It has exposed the raunchy amusement it offers to those who seem not to mind sinking to its level. The world has bared herself to you. The tragedy in your heart, however, is that not only have you chosen to climb upon her and take at a slow pace, pausing to relish each taste of her, but you have chosen to see the simulation of beauty where there is, in truth, none. She is more corrupt than your small mind, that anyone's small mind, could begin to comprehend. Her interior crawls with such hideousness, such repugnancy, such sin, that it is revealed on her devilish exterior, the very body you so eagerly ravish. And you see it not.

I do not hesitate to assume that your Bible lies somewhere forgotten. Perhaps you see it, and perhaps, when you go to church, you take it with you. But it is forgotten. The personal relationship you had with Christ has faded into the dusty, shadowy places of your heart and mind, taking with it the goodness and sweetness and innocence of the child I remember.

Every good and righteous thing that your hardworking mother, my parents, and the Lord has fallen from your mind. You think not of the wisdom they passed to you, that they tried to instill in you to prevent your fall. You think not of the scriptures and their meanings, though you could recite a dozen or more from your photographic memory.

I know I know I know... I can hear you recite those words. The words of dismissal, of disregard, to anything that those who love you desperately attempt to convey to you. If you were to ever read this, my words would fall on closed ears and an unreceptive heart. A heart that is now held in the hands of an adulterous, perverse, satanic world, far from the hands of a loving God who would do anything to wrap His tender fingers around your bleeding heart and clutch it to His.

All I can do is watch. Watch and pray for you, beloved. Watch as you prostrate yourself to a world who will do nothing but deceive and rob you. A world who will strip you of every pleasure in the long run, leaving you naked and in the dark. I almost desire to pray for that moment to come immediately, so you may all the quicker see how dark her intentions are, and how trapped, how ridden with guilt and grief and pain you will be. It is in that moment, I hope and pray, that you will realize how the piercing light of the Lord is irreplaceable, especially by the darkness that satan brings, no matter how disguised it is.

Brother, I love you. Every step you take towards darkness is another quake inside my heart, widening the gap between you and I, taking those treasured childhood memories and quickly replacing them with an ever increasing, painful, ache. I fear for you, and while every fiber of my being fights to scream out to you, to shout, to madly tear into you in an attempt to make you see the path of destruction you are on, I know that I can't. My words would fall on dull ears, a dull heart, and no doubt cause an irreparable division between us. Brother, I love you, and though destruction is not my desire for your life, perhaps it is the only way for you to rediscover how sweet, how fulfilling, the Lord is. To rediscover how light and easy His yoke is compared to the one you are choosing now.

I will always love you, and though I can't stop you from walking the wide path you want, I will be here, doing my best to stay on the straight and narrow, awaiting your return.

Your sister,

Riley