The theatah, the theatah . . .

{This post is dedicated to my darling, dancing partner, friend, one associated with the club “you two”, and a member of the “name-less” group. Sorry it took so long. But, give me some credit, I never forgot!}

       There’s magic in the air . . . or is that hair spray? There’s magic and hair spray in the air. The lights are dimmed to a sad, eerie glow. Audience hushed. Slowly, stage lights come on. To the crowd’s surprise, the gentle singing is coming from behind them. “Long live God. Looong live Go-o-o-od. Looong live Go-o-od. Looong live God” All five isles have actors and actresses leisurely strolling down the pathways, singing the same heavy-hearted song. Our Jesus has been crucified through our blind anger and unwillingness to listen. Sorrowful and ashamed, we make our way to the stage. My friend gives me a comforting hug. I smile, though I don’t feel comforted. Look at the ugliness we’ve caused. Sighing, I look out across the black sea of faces. But I don’t recognize it as a crowd. It’s merely a wall, separating us from our fantasy world and the reality of life.
        Suddenly energized and excited, my partner shakes me, jumping up and down and pointing to something behind us. I turn and gasp. It’s our Jesus! He’s alive! Smiling, he waves at us with a joyous and forgiving face. I’m suddenly jumping up and down along with my friend. Everything is okay now. He’s alive! He’s alive! The tempo of our song increases, “long live Go-o-od. Long live Go-o-o-od. Long live Go-o-od. LONG LIVE GOD!” With one bow, my partner and I are suddenly ourselves again. No longer the little, lost kids we used to be, we’ve been morphed back into the semi-regular Christian teenagers we are. But though we’ve been transformed to our usual selves, we’re still dancing partners. Even far apart, without having our faces with an orange coating of stage make-up, we are just that; partners. No matter the distance, no one can change that. And now, five months after the Easter play, we will be reunited once again! Ready to be a back up singer day-by-day, square dancer beseechingly, or some brat kid, I just wanted to let you know: my dancing shoes are polished and waiting.

Attempting poetry

     The phone rings,
  Oh, who could it be?
         I garantee,
       it isn’t for me.
This doesn’t count as your post, darling. It just hit me so I wrote it.

All Gussied Up

       Here’s the thing about being a girl: you never need a reason to dress up. Ever.
       It all started when we were little . . . After a couple hours of clothing the glorious Barbie, we think, “how come I can’t wear purty outifts like her?” It’s evident that this isn’t fair. So, what do we do about it? We throw open our closets, rip clothes off their hangers, and send blouses, skirts, and sweaters whirling through the air — all destined to land perfectly on the floor. Since, every girl knows: you can’t create a red carpet worthy outfit unless the articles have spent a good thirty seconds lying on the ground. We learned this technique from Barbie — all her clothes start out as strewn across the carpet, so ours have to go through the treatment as well. Also, (and I’m not positive as to why we do this, it might be the whole inner-Mom-organization thing coming out) we’re always certain to put everything away EXACTLY where we found it . . . where we found it on the floor, that is.

       Old or young, girls never grow out of the dress-up stage. We’re just more secretive about it. For instance, take the time when you don’t see a girl for the 4-ish hours it takes her to get ready. All you know is that she has locked herself in her room, the radio’s blasting, and unless the boom box is too loud, you can hear the crashing sound of drawers being opened and closed. What you don’t know: she’s parading around her room in a prom dress and heels, and the reason behind the deafening music is because she wants to sing love songs like Cinderella without having to worry about someone listening to her lovely vocals. This isn’t a time to catch a prince (or scare one away). This is a time to be a princess . . . and have fun doing it!
       Okay, sure, it might take us a whole 24 hours to finally emerge from our rooms before we’re dressed for some big shindig. But when we do, ya gotta admit; we look gooood.



       Do you mind me asking a very random question that has absolutely nothing to do with my blog post? How long has the spell check been available on our blogging? Am I seriously THAT blind?!

Bookworms aren’t wiggly creatures you find in soil

      I’m going to come clean and admit (incase you didn’t come up with this by using logical thinking) I’m a bookworm. Yes, I’m one of those people who are sometimes unsociable because I rather find a quiet corner and read as opposed to finding out who is boyfriend/girlfriend with so-and-so and whatever “normal” people talk about. I’m one of those folks who are unusually quiet, happy in their own little world, with a blank look on their face as if a meteor could fall from the sky and land five inches from their toe without them even flinching.

      Okay, I think I’ve made my point that I’m a daydreaming book lover (for those of you that don’t know me very well, I’m also a sarcastically sassy chatterbox and dramatically use my hands and facial expressions when I talk or tell a story. So, please don’t assume that having a conversation with me is like talking to a wall. With that said, back to the post . . .) Why do I like books so much? I don’t know, ha! It’s always been hard for me to explain WHY I love something; I just KNOW I love it. Clear as mud?
     Maybe it’s the adventure, the feeling of being someone I’m probably never going to be for about a half-hour. In a book, you can be a stealthy spy, valiant hero, princes trapped in a dungeon, brilliant detective . . . WHATEVER you want to be, and you can find that life in the pages of a book.

      I’d like to take a second and complain about the dumb mechanical devices that have been made so you can buy “electronic” books online and have them displayed on some screen. It’s REDICULOUS! You’re losing the great feeling of accomplishment when you hold the final sheet of a 500 page novel between your fingers, the AWESOME book smell that flies up and hits you in the face every time you flip a page, and hearing the crisp paper sound as you leaf through the first volume in a series.

      One final discussion (if you call me ranting on and stating my thoughts on a subject a “discussion”) and I’m out of your life (don’t worry, just for a couple hours/days). Do we need to take “good” care of our books? I mean, what’s wrong with seeing a paperback: pages flopped upward, corners worn down from being in a bag too long, and a note scribbled inside – is it a crime? My family (note: my family, not myself) has always been known for keeping their books in Grade-A condition – you could go to a Boarders, slip my family’s novels back on the shelf, and no one would suspect that the books have ever been skimmed through!
      Me, on the other hand, buy books from thrift stores. The novels are either worn-looking from their long journey to the shop, or become worn from the way I handle them. Now, before your imagination begins picturing me with a maniac smile on my face as I tear paperbacks and hard covers into millions of little pieces, “the way I handle them” means I don’t place them delicately back on the shelf, nor on a nice coffee table; nope. When I take a break from reading a book, I either put the novel back into my purse/bag or throw it up on my bunk bed for further reading before I go to bed.
      My question to you: is that wrong? Am I showing disrespect to the author by treating their work in such a way? Should I pick a nice clean spot for the book when I don’t use it? I want to be a writer. And if I were to browse a thrift store, find a paperback I wrote, and open it to discover a touching note from one best friend to another, dirty fingerprints, or tape bordering the cover’s edges so that it doesn’t rip, I wouldn’t feel disrespected, angry, or hurt at what I found. Instead, I’d be happy that I was able to share a moment with someone I’ve never seen or met as we both enjoyed the experience hidden in the pages of my book.
      What do you think? Have I completely missed the point that’s floating around out there? I’ll wait for your answer. In the meantime, where’d I put that book?


    I went to my Grandma’s funeral/memorial today. (Yeah, I know. What a way to start a post, right??) I didn’t know what to expect at the ceremony; whether it’d be boredom from a depressing monologue or discomfort from those mourning.

    Personally, I didn’t sense the feeling of sadness until the service began. But as speaker after speaker reminisced and smiled occasionally as the memories of my Dad’s mom returned, the small room in which we sat – though it had a massive window overlooking a beautiful green hill – faded to gray. Outside the window, the fog crept in followed by a certain emptiness in the air as family and friends, endeavoring to keep their composure, choked back the flow of tears. Several men cleared their throats and the sound of sniffles was heard from behind us.

    I didn’t know my Grandma very well. We would go to her house every year for Christmas but it wasn’t sufficient for a real friendship. I simply knew a couple facts about what her favorite things were (humming birds and teapots on the top of this list). But as I listened to people talk, I heard things about my Grandmother that I never knew of. I learned so many facts about her from this one-day than what I knew from fifteen years on earth!
    A couple of the people that spoke said that my Grandma meant a lot in their life; that she was a comfort to them and was there when they needed her.
     The most hurtful word in that (previous) sentence is the word “was”. “Was” is the word that sunk deepest into the hearts of the audience present at the funeral; the word that made their voices crack and quiver with sadness and grief. Because we know that people “are”, and people “will be”, but a person who “was” has finished their journey in this life and stepped through the exit/entrance door into an eternity of “always is”.

Grown Up

    What’s so great about growing up?? The second you hit high school EVERYTHING is about growing up. Whether it’s career, marriage, or education, it’s all based on growing up.

    Now, for you poor confused souls out there, I don’t mean “growing up” as in suddenly sprouting to be 6 feet tall OR being 18 or older. I mean it as in mentally. (Yes, I used the word “mentally”. Why does that word scare people?? Mentally. — That third “mentally” was just to bug you. I’ll come back to the subject now.)

    First, what does it mean to grow up?? Well, we know that it DOESN’T mean being freakishly tall (I’m not trying to insult any of you people towering over us shorties so don’t get defensive just yet) or that you’ve left the teen years behind. So, we can scratch that from the list of possibilities. What’s left?? The only answer I can think of is wisdom and experience. That’s it! THAT’s the reason why everyone is in such a hurry to grow up?! They want to learn from their mistakes and have good judgment??

    As kids, we (well, some of us) can’t seem to wait to grow up. So we make up ways to be a tad older. For girls, it’s wearing make-up, bras, having cell phones, and dating the “cutest” guy in school. For guys, it’s wearing boxers, using hair gel, saying the latest slang words, and dating the “hottest” girl. Did you notice a cross in the paths?? (Hint: it’s not the underwear)
    Dating seems to be the number one way for a kid to “feel” like an adult. But it really is just a way for a girl to be (what she thinks) “heartbroken” and a boy to feel “used” before they’re even teens! What’s the result in this?? Kids not being kids. What’s the fun in becoming a “grown up” so quickly?? There is none, people! What happened to squirt gun fights, silly string, and mud??
    Here are my final words on kids trying to be adults: don’t try to grow up before you have to, guys. (When I say “guys”, I mean boys and girls) You’ll have PLENTY of time to grow up in life but you only have so long to be a kid until it starts to creep people out. Believe me, you don’t want to be fifty when you suddenly realize you want to make a magical fiery land in your front yard or use the doghouse as a “Bat mobile” so you can catch the bad guys. Talking to yourself, running around the yard, and kicking the dog out of his home probably won’t sit well with some of your neighbors.


    Even if I only talk about the “young’uns”, there are the two extremes: kid’s wanting to be adults and adults wanting to be kids. Be content with who you are now, not with who you were or who you are going to be. A child having the one dream of being an adult worries people. And an adult wanting to be a child is creepy to some extents.


     We have recently bought ourselves a brand-new RV. Yep, you heard me. “RV”!! No “motor home” for us. No siree. From now on, we will point and guffaw (yes that’s a word) at those poor souls who have to live in a “motor home”, in those class “C”s. Psh, suckers.

     So we have now graduated to a moto–*clears throat* excuse me, RV. Now what?? After several comings and goings from the RV dealer for various problems, (they forgot to clean the carpet, leak in the roof, refrigerator malfunctions..etc.) it’s now time to take this baby out for a trip! We finally decide when and where to go and the next thing we know: we’re off to the races!!

    –DAY #1: We arrive, walk the dogs (one of which had already relieved itself in the RV), then go to “El pollo loco” for a “delicioso” and spicy lunch. After eating and running other quick errands, we’re back and stare at each other until one of us figures out what to do.
    Finally, someone decides we should go for a bike ride in the crisp winter air. =-) BUT… we have a minor set back: Dad locked all the bikes together and forgot the key at home.
    “How ’bout a walk??”
    Luckily, I find my bike is the only one not tied with the rest and ride next to the walking crowd. After fooling around at a park with little kids as our audience, and whirling my little brother around to a tipsy with a spinning tire swing, we begin heading back to our fancy “recreational vehicle”.
    Loving the wind, I speed up telling everyone I’ll meet them there. I ride to our spot to find that our RV is dripping, no, POURING water EVERYWHERE. Gawping at the scene for a second, I straggle back on the bike to tell my family the news.
    The rest of the day consisted of everyone drying out the kitchen and out-door cubbies using bathroom towels and a dog bowl until our hands were red and numb. I also managed to sink the new shoes I got for Christmas in the slippery mud. =-)

(But I dunked them in a puddle so it’s all good)

    –DAY #2: The carpet has just about finished drying in our new home on wheels but because of the dew and cold, mine and my older brothers shoes are still wet (we had left them outside to supposedly dry). Happily, resourceful me puts on her extra (DRY) converse and is ready to face the day.
     Today, we pile in the van to drive over to the new movie theater and watch the Chipmunk’s “squeakwel”. Only MY family will choose to go to the theater while camping. (On a personal note: I didn’t think the movie was that great. My family disagrees)
    After watching the movie, Dad and I drop off the crew at our RV and drive the thirty minutes back home to pick up a couple things (bike chain key, breadcrumbs..) and feed the animals. (Okay, I confess. Dad fed the animals. I just messed around playing the piano and clarinet. It was helpful…ish)
    Now that we had the bikes unlocked, we went riding in the freezing cold. I guess I really shouldn’t be complaining considering my older brother was in shorts. But that was HIS choice. I didn’t choose to always be cold. We then thawed out back at the RV while watching “One Night With The King” and eating junk food until it was time for bed.

    –DAY #3: Kick starting the day, we wake up to the sounds of excited dogs running (and sliding) across the floor. In their own doggy language, they must’ve found out that today is the day we head home (or maybe they knew that it was the last day of the year?? Either way they knew SOMETHING).
    After breakfast, the fam. heads out for one last bike ride before departure.
    Everyone then chips in as we slide, yank, and snap all our belongings back in place for the drive home. (We also found out that a pipe was blocked…but Dad told us that as long as we didn’t use the bathroom he can fix it when we get to the house)

    So there you have it! We have officially graduated! And from this point forth, we’re ridding in style. B-)



    Everyone knows that if you go to a baby shower and see blue that’s a national color for “boy” and pink means “girl”, right? In other words, we’re forcing the poor kid into a color before it has even arrived! (How mean!) Because of this view on color, you hardly ever see a little girl with blue bootees or a boy with pink. But is a girl wearing blue socks wrong?? Or boys wearing pink a crime?? Will the “SCAT team” (Special Colors And Tactics) suddenly bust through the window on ropes and point a gun at you?? No. Then why don’t we do it?? The only reason I could come up with is that not all bald babies are boys and the ones with hair girls. (Wearing the color is a help for others. Like a label announcing to the world “My baby is a GIRL!”)

    Before I stray away from my point, I just want to clear up that no, this article/post isn’t about putting blue socks on baby girls. It’s about the debated topic of pink for guys. (Before you people go into “defense” mode read the rest) Now, there are certain exaggerations…yes, wearing super tight (there is such thing as SUPER tight) bright pink jeans with a matching t-shirt is what I would call an exaggeration. (Unless your dream is to be a pink traffic cone) Also, if you have long-ish hair wear pink with caution* (and even though it might be a temptation don’t do pink v-necks!!)

Summarizing the “unacceptable”s and “acceptable”s for the confused:


-Super tight pink pants

-Super tight pink pants WITH a pink shirt

-Pink v-necks. (“Why??” you might ask, just don’t)


-Pink ties

-Shirts with pink stripes (if the shirt makes you dizzy, though, stay away)

-Solid pink polos (as long as it’s not BANG! pink)

There! You have just witnessed a generations long problem solved! (Do you feel lighter??)

* Once at youth group, we were looking for a place to sit. After scanning the crowd, I pointed to some chairs “over there behind those girls”. We plopped down behind them. Just about in the middle of our lesson, I realized that the tallest girl with perfectly flipped thick blonde hair and tight pink shirt was a guy!! (This is when I discovered the confusion so I’m writing this article to clear things up..)


     I love to write. I’m not sure if it’s because of my Dad’s encouragement of telling me how good of a writer I supposedly am or because I’ve kept a journal for the longest time…I just know that I love hearing the tapping sound of my fingers pressing keys on the keyboard, seeing the letters magically (well magically to me since my mechanic skills are zip) appear on screen, and knowing that what I write can never be forgotten since it is being documented at the same time it takes for me to think it up, quite a time saver actually.

     Writing is a lot like a wish or a dream. Whatever you dream could happen CAN in the pages of a book or the scrolling down of a computer mouse. And this dream can never be thrown away or forgotten. It will stay with you forever and always.

     I, like hundreds of others I’m sure, want to be a famous writer. I want what I write to touch the hearts of thousands, millions, all around the world. Hearts of people I don’t even know…people I’ve never even met or seen. I want to write books that bring these men and women, teens and tweens, closer to God. Books that make my readers cry, laugh, and inspire them to go the distance. My only question at this time of my life is how?? How can I set other hearts on fire when my own is blank! Yes, I know what I would love to happen, oh, what great things I could imagine… Autographing my novels in a Barnes-n-noble with thousands of people who know the book backwards and forwards and can quote my work better than I… But if it’s just a cute and popular story; does that really count?? Have I achieved my goal?? I would say I could settle…but I doubt I’d be contently happy. Because there would still be this part of me knowing that I had dreamt of something more.


     I want to thank all you who have taken the time to read what I have written so far in my blog. I don’t know if it’s any good, or worth reading for that matter, but I want to thank you anyway. You are a great encouragement!

The Scary Truth

    It’s about that time of year when the stores are filled with skeletons, goblins, and witches. You know the time has come when you suddenly slam into a dead thing at Walmart. Yes, it’s almost time for *spooky organ music plays* Halloween.

   For most people, it’s evident that saying “Halloween” isn’t Christian because Halloween is the holiday for the dead. Instead, we find that saying “Harvest Festival” separates us from the creepy, devil worshiping acts of other people. But did you know that “Halloween” first meant “Saint’s Day”?? A complete inverse of what most people think today.

   All in all, Halloween is a very touchy subject to speak of. But I am not talking about the pagan holiday. I’m talking about the evening when kids set out with empty 99 cent store bags with a mission to conquer the world and come back with a thousand pieces of candy. The night that has the disgustingly sweet smell of sweets in the air, chatter from hyper children, and the enchanting orange glow of Jack-O-Lanterns.

   But something has come to my attention that I must speak of. People have forgotten the joyous tradition of dressing up! Slowly, every year costumes are dissolving away leaving kids with a handful of candy and a pair of old and smelly blue jeans. They have lost the excitement of being someone that they could only dream of being; they have lost sight that for only one evening of the year they CAN be superman, a fairy, or a knight. Some people throw that great privilege away. Don’t let it be you. I’m Mysterious Rose, and that’s The Scary Truth.