Soap for Jesus

Darkness filled the street even as she gazed, crawling on and over everything in its path. It struck her, eliminating her shadow, filling her with chilled air. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and she gasped, feeling as though evil pervaded the night. Why was it this night felt so different to any other? She raised her gaze to the castle window once more...and the light flickered, and died. Had it died? Or had another, more evil hand dealt a blow to the King? She scrambled to her feet and ran towards the castle. Fleet of foot, swift as an arrow shot from a bow, but not hasty enough to escape six coal horses that galloped after her, hidden by the wings of the night. They surrounded her, visors unclosed, dark armour glistening by the light of a lantern that one held above his head. “One step too far, young Critak,” a creaky voice said. She looked up, eyes black and unreadable, standing out in her white face. “Not a moment too soon, Ahkrid” she answered. His horse sank on its knees with a str

Here's a quote from my friend Scott Rowley's Facebook page, regarding my home town. How very true! *chuckle*: "Loves the way Walsall can promote itself, lol. Walsall The filthy streets, the unwashed masses, the charming local accent that makes us sound as though we were born retarded and have been drinking turpentine every day since then… These are the best aspects of Walsall. There’s a new art gallery, grey and shaped like a box. Clearly a great deal of thought went into making it look as appealing from the outside as it is enjoyable inside. And a new bus station. Cost a small fortune to build, looks absolutely revolting, has slowed down traffic for miles around because the entrance is tiny and buses have to queue past the exit to get into the entrance — so a traffic jam can last theoretically until the end of time. Best of all, they didn’t realise until after it was built that it wasn’t big enough for all the buses. The crowning glory of Walsall, though, is its people. T

A smile can change the world. At the very least, a person's day. When I dress to please Sian, guys watch and I smile and it's flirting all the way. When I dress to please the Lord Jesus Christ and Jane, then I smile and a guy is watching my face and smiles back - and it's completely innocent and pure. There's glory in that. When I smile dressed for Sian, girls and women aren't happy smiling back. And they...act different. When I smile dressed for Jesus, they smile back and it's lifting their faces and a smile into their eyes. I was watching with active interest the things around me earlier, and suddenly started laughing... God is so amazing! A year ago, I was so wrapped up in my pain I wasn't noticing anything, just breathing from day to day. All I can remember is darkness and facts...and the first time I noticed the glory of autumn leaves that year. When He started to pull me out of it and Jay and C'rissie were telling me to focus on other things and st

Literally. These two quote are from yesterday. (Began 22-10-11 or 10-22-11) I put my little orange Testament from Texas on my desk yesterday and walked away to get some water. Ryan, my coworker, said as I went by: "Is that a Bible on your desk?" Me: "Yes, it's a Testament. Are you a Christian?" *hopefully* Ryan: "No, I like to call myself an atheist. But it's good to see some people have faith." -- I went to the water fountain and stepped aside to let coworker Becca go first. She responded by wriggling with helpless frustration and said, "Ohhhhh! I really don't like you!" Another coworker waiting laughed and said, "Well that's nice first thing in the morning!" Becca answered, "It's because she's so NICE! Always opening doors for people, etc." I walked away and grinned. Maybe, maybe, MAYBE, God is shining through!! :D -- Kushan is a Hindu. He worked next to me for a day or so. I was having a good day on

Posted blogs or video blogs? Both have something going for them. For video blogs, you see a person. You hear their voice, watch their mannerisms, observe their surroundings, recognise emotion, faint at accents, recall memories. It puts pressure on for instant thought, creative speech and expressive body language. In short, it contains a lot more of the physical person in a small confined space of time and image. Written blogs, however, can be long - as long as you like. They require extensive and interesting patterns of thought, creative writing and usage of words to carry the reader through to the end. Painting pictures with words and imagery is completely necessary to carry an idea or a thought that you wish to share. You use eyes and ears and heart to read into what a person is saying through their words. You use fingers to type it out. People feel much freer to express themselves when they aren't visually exposed. In short, writing blogs is supported by the mastery of conversan

They sold them every year. People in green and brown clothes and people in blue, smiling, with a box around their necks or in their arms, full of small red paper flowers. Other people came up and put some money in the buckets they had on their arms, and walked away with a little red flower that they'd put on. 'Course, not everyone did it. My family was something Daddy called "pacifist", and he hated the people in green and blue. Every time he saw one of them, he'd call us together and herd us past them as fast as he could. Still, that didn't stop my sister and I looking. In the end, Marissa stopped looking. She said that Daddy was right, and it didn't really matter. After all, it was just a paper flower that people wore a few days and then forgot about. It didn't seem to matter that much to them, so why would it to us? I didn't care about what everybody else did. It was the people in green and blue that I watched. And they were there, year after ye

11-11-11, whether British or American. Armistice Day. Veteran's Day. Remembrance Day. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, on the eleventh month, the Armistice was signed in 1918, "officially" bringing an end to the First World War. Since then, at 1100 hours on November 11th, two-three minutes of silence are held to remember the fallen who died that we might live today, and those currently serving and dying in foreign countries - whether we agree with the wars or not. The past three Saturdays I've been involved in selling poppies to the general public. The Poppy Appeal is part of a nationwide group that makes and sells poppies to the public, calling them to remember - and never forget. Across Britain, perfect strangers are united with one bond - a splash of red on their lapels or tops, calling them to remembrance. Tough biker jackets, upper class dainty scarves, a grubby child's little jacket; all share one common feature - the poppy. There's some coats t

I wasn't sure I'd put my bus pass in my bag this morning. I'd had to go back into work already to check with my "big brother" Mat whether he'd got the photo I was meant to give him, and then stopped to chat briefly with Chris (who I'll tell you about in the next couple of posts). So I was tearing across the road helter-skelter with my eye on the X51 (the bus I catch from work) when it pulled out of the bus stop. And it was raining. Oh well, more time to sing... The 51 pulls in. It takes about 20 minutes longer than the X51 to get into my town. Oh well...then I can't find my bus pass. Lord, You know I need to get home early because of cadets! I look up at the driver and shake my head, then sigh in exasperation as I walk over to the seats and scrabble through my handbag, trying to find my new bus pass - instead of the old one I pulled out twice. I pull it out...just as the next X51, not due for 13 minutes, pulls in. (13 minutes is a lot of difference in

I'm nineteen years old with a fairly unusual past. I have two names and two personalities (no, I'm not schizo). I'm British (half Welsh, 3/8 English and 1/8 Irish with a dash of Scots), redheaded and passionately love my country to being willing to die for her. I love America and Americans dearly to wanting emigrate there. America is "the Promised Land" in spite of its failures, as Britain is "the Land of Hope and Glory" to Americans. I'm independent and very dependent. I'm silent and talkative. I love CCM rock and choral orchestral pieces. I'm crazy about the Royal Air Force, a member/cadet of the Air Training Corps and planning to join later as an officer, but I want to marry and have loads of kids. (As an ex-feminist to a degree, God's done really well on that one!!) I adore military drill, both narrowly watching it done, learning it in depth and performing it with precision. My soul overflows into music and song, both listening to, si

Me: The next time they offer for me to visit, can I? Mom: Why on earth are you asking me? You tell me what you're doing nowadays. Me: That's only, like, with work and cadets. I ask about the rest of it, cause I know how you flip out - and don't ask me for an example, cause I can't think of any. I just know you do. Mom: Like what? Me: I don't know. :P Mom: You're nineteen, you've been to America and Ireland. What do I fret about now? Me: Well, you won't let me come home at night on the bus. :D Mom: That's something else. Me: *dies laughing*

A friend and I were chatting this morning about the pink blouse I was wearing. Friend: "Jay would flip if he saw you in that top!" (Yes, I do talk about you guys to offline people :P) Me: *winces* "Yeah..." And my thoughts sail back to the time I spent with the Lauser family and how...simple and innocent and safe it felt. And how something inside looked at their contentedness and ease in their style of clothing, and how I envied it. And also, how their clothing made them stand out as a simple, happy and obvious witness for Christ. Then ensues the conversation about how it wasn't about the amount of skin you showed, but the attitude of the heart, and that we can't really help the clothing that's issued us by today's society... Yeah, that's all right, but there's something more... I by no means dress immodestly, but some of my clothes could call for a higher standard - although I also by no means ever intend to go burqa crazy. But the girl who