Moving On

When I first decided to start a blog, I had no idea what I was doing, except that I had a raging desire to write. I saw the movie Julie and Julia, and thought, "If someone in a movie was so successful with her blog, why wouldn't my experience be the same?" This was all the "direction" I had, which was no direction at all.


Like a philosophy major searching for the meaning of life, I was searching for the objective of my blog. I contemplated writing about life as a home schooled kid or my life in general, as well as challenging myself to different tasks and writing about their results. Unfortunately, no ideas, no prompts- absolutely nothing struck me with inspiration as to exactly what I should write about (hence the vague title, "Writing to Write").


After a considerable time spent thinking and procrastinating, I have finally come to understand what I want to write about. I now have an aim for my blog, and a plan to carry it out. This has been wonderful practice for me, an excellent learning experience. I'm ready to get serious about my blog writing.


My newly found direction came from God's Word. God has written the greatest piece of literature of all time, so it only seemed natural to go to him for guidance about writing. In his grace, he revealed Hebrews 3:13 to me: "But exhort one another daily, while it is called today; lest anyone  I plan to make and keep a writing schedule, to keep me from procrastinating. I pray this next writing venture will be more successful than the first one.  

 ^New URL: http://encourage-ment.blogspot.com/

The Difference

Every religion, every culture, every person has a path that leads them to the deeper meaning of life. Buddhists  take the "strive for perfection" root. Similarly, Hindus hope that if they do enough good, they can be born into a higher Caste than their previous life. Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, and Muslims are also centered around good works to push them further into the after-life. It seems to be a theme among religions: do enough good to outweigh your bad, and maybe, if you were successful in your quest for excellence, you might get into the place you want to go. The final decision will forever be up in the air, though, at least until your death.

Christianity is strikingly different from these religions, however. It is the one faith that puts complete trust in a deity outside yourself to save you from death. It requires no action other than the confession of belief. In fact, it specifically claims that Jesus, and He alone is good enough to procure a place for you in heaven, and once you believe, your eternity is secured. This is a vast change from trusting in yourself to do everything for a possible chance at making the cut.

Not only does Christianity guarantee salvation, it gives you the tools to truly be good, to truly help others. Nobody can really be good or righteous, no matter how hard they try, yet when you except Christ, He gives you the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit radically changes how you think; He frees you from hate, jealousy, rudeness and the like so you can love others without any hindrances.

If you enjoy working only for yourself, and are not constantly discouraged by your failure to outweigh the bad with the good, you would find happiness in any of the religions mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, you would still be unsure of your spiritual situation in "Nirvana" or heaven.

In my opinion, life is too short to live without assurance of your eternity, and life with Christ is an opportunity too valuable to pass up.

Not just baby sitting

Little kids take the simplest of games and fabricate an epic game of good vs. evil. A little boy can invent a shark  with fangs who floats. A girl can imagine a unicorn who shoots killer sound rays.

I baby sat two such creative children last Friday. An innocent game of chase became zombie tag, with each of us taking on our own zombie persona if tagged. Ashton morphed into a green, glowing Mario and Gracie transformed into a red-haired beauty "with a dress that was hard to run in" (her words, not mine). I, dusting off my inner child, changed into a bright yellow zombie with rainbow arms.

The game itself was basically tag, with a few minor altercations, and stretched on for a couple hours. At that point, I thought we should end the game, but imaginatively. I suggested Ashton shoot me, the zombie, with these newly acquired tubes. That returned me to normal while wiping our memories clear as well. For some reason, though, the three of us had a strange inkling that someone had sucked us into a video game.

We rushed to the house and found small misplaced. This confirmed our suspicions. Searching for a way back to reality, I found a switch. We were swirled through a vortex and and landed on the carpet with Game-boys lying next to us. We made it back alive!

I hadn't played anything so bizarre in almost six years, but I had an incredible time! I stepped out of my boring box and transported to a new world. A limitless world that defied the laws of physics; a world where realities incessantly shift.

Serving others dinner

Walking up to the doors, it smelled like the dentist's office. You know: latex gloves, toothpaste, a trace of bubblegum. This was odd, not only because it was not the dentist office, but because it was right outside the Reno Gospel Mission where the homeless and unfortunate were congregating.


The Reno Gospel Mission was smaller than I expected it to be. In fact, if I hadn't been looking, I would have never noticed it. It sat inconspicuously at the edge of some inconspicuous buildings off Record St. The front room was rather small, containing only a few benches on the right, a chair or two on the left. A man behind a desk ushered us through a hall to a cafeteria like space. This cafeteria was much smaller than I expected as well, fitting maybe 200 people if tables were rearranged.


My nostrils were greeted with the delightful aroma of spices, tomatoes, and beans. Enchiladas. My stomach growled, but I silently reminded him that I was a servant here, not the other way around.


The group we were planning to meet here motioned for us to join them.


"It moves kind of fast," Debbie explained. Some employees would set up the tables shortly and our job was to wipe them down and set them with napkins and eating utensils. Ladies would be served first, then the men.


As the women filed in and took their seats, the other servers and I lined up in a school cafeteria fashion in front of the kitchen. We then took the plates to the hungry while two guys from our group delivered the drinks, starting with those farthest from the kitchen and working our way to the front. We followed the same process with the men.


Traveling around the room, I got a good look at the various sorts of homeless people. Many-men and women- were toothless, had unkempt hair, and wore jackets that had gone out of style before the 90's. Some limped, some hunched.  Some carried themselves in an odd way that might make you question their mental state. They fit my idea of a homeless person precisely.


 Others were seemingly, normal. They gave credence to the phrase, "Don't judge a book my it's cover."


It became difficult for me while serving to refrain from judging unfairly. I saw many overweight people. There were a few people who had cell phones. Why were these people in need of handouts when they seemed to be doing so well? I had to fight the indignation rising up in my chest. After all, what did I know about these people? What right did I have to criticize them when I knew nothing of their background or their history? And regardless of why they were at the Gospel Mission, whether they truly needed to be there or not, I myself am hardly perfect. If I was, maybe I would have some license to question their motives, but I have never been, nor will I ever be blameless enough to make such a judgement.

Waking up

Sleep is just soo wonderful, and my bed is soo warm and getting up is soo painstaking. My dreams could go on forever. My eyelids enjoy remitting in their sockets. In other words, I'm lazy.

I've tried breaking this habit, but nonetheless, 6:30 rolls around and all my good intentions have disappeared. Millions of excuses pop in and out. Unfortunately, at that hour, my conscience is in no mood to argue. The little battle between the angel on my right and the little tempter on my left lasts seconds before I give up and fall back into bliss.

The thing is, I've never really felt obligated to get up early. My schedule is so laid back, sometimes it almost seems pointless to even try. What would I benefit from pushing myself from bed at 6 every morning?

Then I remember how much I could get done between 6 and 8am (which is when I usually wake). In two hours, I could be finished with English, science, and possibly Algebra 2 if I tried. That's most of my school work. I could finish the rest of it before noon. That would leave me with hours of day light free to do anything else I needed -or wanted- to do. My brain conveniently disregards these pros when feeding my laziness with excuses.

I have awoken early on occasion, and was glad I did. If I did it before, I can do it again, right? I just need a little discipline and some prayer.

And so I will try. If I shall fail, I will try again.

Just Did It

Watching TLC, a commercial for "My 600 llb Life" flashed on. I furrowed my eyebrows, scrunched my nose and tried to imagine how someone could let their behavior reach such an extent. What makes a person wait until 600 llbs to say, "Now I need to change."

The commercial equally depressed and motivated me. I may not be overweight, but I certainly don't exercise enough. I needed to do something, right then.

So I just did it. Cardio, sit-ups, push-ups, and squats- 10 min (15 including my Wimpy rests). Not a very long time, but oh! my chest. My heart pounded and my lungs longed for air. My throat felt dry; I needed water. I know, barely 10 minutes and I'm exhausted. 

I leaned over my knees as I caught my breath, then stationed my slightly less tired self in front of the computer. Time for some motivational phrases, since the 600 llb lady's image had somewhat faded after all that exercise. "Sweat is just fat crying"; "No one exercises, and then regrets it"; "Exercise is a reward, not punishment for eating." 

They worked. For another 10-15 minutes, I used my muscles to do something other than keep my butt on the couch. I felt the truth of that second motivational saying radiate through my drooping limbs. I don't regret working out. Now why don't I do it more often?

"Saline" Inquiry

Describe the taste of salt. Use as many words as you like to describe what it does to your taste buds without repeating the word or variations of it. Just try.

I was thinking about this the other day at the dinner table. (Obviously the salt shaker was the spark of my curiosity on the subject). What does salt taste like? This question deeply perplexed me and stole my thoughts from reality for a few brief seconds. Eventually the scent of my meal tugged me back, but I pondered salt later that night, as I laid in bed.

To my disappointment, that night brought me no epiphanies or brilliant revelations in regard to the crystal-like seasoning. I thus stored this query in the back of my cerebral's filing cabinet for later thought.

The following afternoon, however, I asked my father life's new most profound question: How would you describe the taste of salt? He looked to the ceiling for an answer, and finding none, replied to me that he didn't know.

Frustrated, I decided now was the time to consult the internet. This I hesitated to do. I had hoped to find the answer myself, but alas, my brilliance had limitations. It was time I faced that fact and turn to technology.

As it happens, the fantastic web supplied little on the subject. Dictionary.com and the Thesaurus had nothing better than "salty, saline, flavorful," and "bitter." Yahoo Answers had responses such as "salt is just salt" or "it's just one of the 4 basic flavors you can taste." A couple other, more technical articles, seemed to substantiate those statements.

So there it was. Salt taste like salt because it is just one of those tastes. Nothing more, nothing less. A very boring answer to what I thought would be an interesting topic. Maybe next time I'll consider something of more consequence, like world hunger or the fact that atoms are mostly empty space...

Rainy days

It's raining! Or at least it was. That's the unpredictable weather for you in Nevada. You can look out your window in the morning and hope for a sunshiny day. Mid-afternoon rolls around and suddenly the temperature has dropped 10 degrees, but it feels like more with the biting winds. You grab your jacket, scarf, and gloves, but buy the time you've prepared yourself, the clouds have cleared and all is well again.

Sometimes it gets depressing. I love a good rainstorm more than all the sunny days combined, and Nevada's bipolar weather constantly teases me. Sun, clouds, sun, clouds.......sun.

But when it does rain, time stands still. The very world becomes as clear as crystal as your nose picks up scents that city pollutants normally mask. Drop after drop lands on the asphalt. Soon the entire road is darkened by sheet after sheet of tears from the clouds.The plants and the soil inhale deeply, soaking in this rich nourishment God has given. The desert has thirsted long enough, and now it drinks in great gulps.

During a rain storm, it's impossible not to stare out the window because rain is perfect for sparking the imagination. It's the tranquility that comes from the knowledge that everything is allowed to stop for a few moments. This peace provides a moment for the mind to wander those thoughts of suppressed creativity as rain spatters the window. Everything that has been tucked away for a less busy time can make its reappearance, whether they are truly important, or simply daydreams.

Rain storms can be beautiful anywhere, I'm sure. But Nevada has a certain charm unlike anywhere else. The musical drops, the peaceful ambiance, the crispness of the air, and the smell of wet soil all contribute to this charm. Yet there is more to these storms: something indistinguishable in their nature, something only God could precisely describe.



By the way, it's raining again.

A little, homemaker preparation

Ahh, the joy of being home schooled. On a normal day, I would have to work on English, Algebra 2, Chemistry, U.S. & World History, Spanish, and Driver's Ed; but not today. My mom bestowed enough grace on me (and in turn my brother) to let us off the hook. We did however work yesterday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so that sort of makes up for it.


There was a reason for this gracious exemption: cookies. Yes, today was a cookie day, both the baking and the eating of. My cousin desperately needed my help in braking in her new mixer and was an event that had been mentioned months earlier. Now there were no conflicting schedules to prevent it from happening. 


Her husband had suggested we make Monster Cookies. The recipe called for peanut butter, rolled oats, chocolate chips, and M&M's. Just the mention of such a combination set my mouth to watering. Chocolate, peanut butter, and oats in a delicious ball of chewy goodness. We would definitely consider his proposal. She also wanted to try Florentine's. 


The Monster Cookies turned out amazingly! The melted chocolate and moist texture was everything we imagined them to be. It was no wonder my cousin's husband recommended them. We moaned with contentment at our first bite, savoring each flavor together and individually. Put these in the "Just About Perfect" category of life.


If only the same were true of the Florentine's. Cookie dough isn't usually so liquidy, but to each cookie recipe his own, right? The final product proved otherwise. The pan was coated with a thin layer of what were supposed to be round delicacies. Getting them off was a pain too, because as we tried to remove it, the Florentine's wrinkled up. They weren't coming off without a fight. They ended up being flat, hard, and caramel tasting. On the bright side, the dough tasted great.


Mother was rewarded for her kindness at the end of the day with a plate of Monsters and a sampling of the Florentine mishaps. How she could accept such a meager offering, I'll never know, but handled it with the utmost civility.