Soap for Jesus

Lady. As a little girl, the word conjured up images of aristocratic society women with high piled hair, dainty hats and pretty Victorian-y dresses, complete with parasols and fans with refined accents. I was a very girlish girl, and deep inside had a longing to be like that. At the same time, strangely, there arose the wild me, the one with the crazy urges to do daring things, but that sat on them and hid behind long hair and long skirts. Then I joined cadets. I realised that the world of wild and daring antics didn't just belong to boys. And the tomboy in me jumped up and down on the girlishness as I backslid, sneering it for weakness. With backsliding and hardening as I hit the world full pelt came jeering at womanly things. I didn't need to be some man's meek little wife and everlasting baby factory. I was _me_. Individual. Strong. Able to face the world on her own. I was a woman. No lady. My actions degraded me from the Queen of Purity and Virtue to a tag-al...

Father's Day. Used to be a day when I'd go out and find a card and a present. Heh...dads. Men. They're so difficult to buy for. We'd usually buy him a tie. Socks. A shirt. Then this "Best Dad in the World" mug. Blue and white thick stripes with a "Forever Friends" bear face on the front with this blue bow tie. Then I grew older. I realised that my Mom had a lot of truth in what she said to my dad. I realised a lot of Dad's faults - and they weren't "general weak" faults. It grew harder to find a card for a man that wasn't...a real good daddy. But that showed caring and respect without eulogising him above the stars. Then everything exploded three years ago. I wasn't buying cards any more. I wasn't buying presents any more. Suddenly, I didn't even have a daddy any more. My flight lieutenant was the closest father figure I had and was very supportive during that time. But I had to handle Dad's birt...

Now I've posted one topic on the state of my affections, ready yourselves for a barrage of day-to-day stuff I notice comparative between the love of God and this earthly, God-given affection. :D One of my friends posted an interesting reply to my last night tweet, which was: God is so very good to me, that I'm so very in love with two wonderful guys. He said: You can't be 'in love' with someone you've never met. I'm guessing he meant I couldn't be in love with God. But again, I had to chuckle, because the guy I'm in love with now, I have loved for two years. I met him last year and spent a very short period of time with him, and that has been the one and only time in our lives, in our four-and-a-half year friendship that we've met. Oh yes, I can be in love with someone I've never met. I spend time every day or couple of days chatting with him. I talk about him. I think about him. I pray over him. I think of him when doing som...

Boys play house. Men build homes. Boys "shack up". Men get married. Boys make babies. Men raise children. A boy won't raise his own children. A man will raise someone else's. Boys invent excuses for failure. Men produce strategies for success. Boys look for someone to take care of them. Men look for someone to take care of. Boys seek popularity. Men demand respect and know how to give it. Boys go with the flow. Men stand out and make a difference - no matter how big or small. Boys want the benefits of adulthood and the freedoms of childhood. Men take on the responsibilities of both. I found this on a picture post on Facebook. And women? What are your thoughts on women vs girls? Can we make another post? :)

Sometimes I keep getting glimpses of how great God is. Particularly when I imagine this great world as a ball spinning on the tip of His finger. Or when I imagine a single breath from Him and all of this being created. He could've THOUGHT it into existence. Instead, He chose to speak an entire sentence. I was just hunting down one of the proverbs for another blog post, something I read in Mom's Bible as I ate breakfast, and it struck me. The intimate complications of PROVERBS. One book we struggle to understand. One book inspired by God, from the complexity of a human mind. One human. How many of us are there? Look at the blades of grass on a misty morning. Hazes dimming the sharp dark outlines of the trees, creating a golden blur for a morning sky. Blades of grass everywhere, coated from top to bottom with jewels of sparkling water. Tiny little blobs. Beautiful. Simple. ALMOST EVERY BLADE. In ONE tiny street. In one tiny town. In one tiny county. In one tiny country. In one ti...

It's interesting when I'm talking to some of my friends regarding some of their troubles. Time and again, I ask, "Why don't you talk to your parents?" Not that I don't want to share their burdens, just that - the older I get - the more I realise that parents have been there before. Because I have. And as I share my experience with my girls and my friends, my heart aches as I watch them argue against it the way I did once and watch them turn aside into the mistakes I've made. Mistakes are good in a weird sense. But they are heartbreaking. Perhaps even more so for the one who stays in the pain and yet can see all sides and what could've been if the person hadn't made that mistake and kept themselves safe from unnecessary pain. (Yes, I used the adjective for a reason.) Makes me aware of what God must feel like us - as He lives in us and has borne the burden and carried the punishment for what we're doing and the pain of it with us. Way more than w...

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...

One of my most favourite books of all time has to be Elisabeth Elliot's Passion and Purity. Elisabeth Howard Elliot Leitch Gren has to be one of the most inspirational and amazing women out - especially in the guidance area of relationships. The story of her husband, Jim Elliot, is legendary. However, less well known is the love story of Jim and Elisabeth. Embodied in the book Passion and Purity, it contains pain, hope, peace, struggles, tears, timeless God-given love and prayer. It talks about the concepts of releasing back to God, waiting on God, emotional battleground - in fact, pretty much every area that one could struggle with in relationships. This blog post is for Calleigh, Kiehl, Carissa, Rebekah, Anjelica, Kay and Holly, and Miguel, Nick, Matt, Jay and Miles from Passion and Purity. I’m including some of you not because you necessarily have relationship problems, but because you may find some of it a blessing in your own personal lives right now. Chapter 12: Holding Patte...

Sitting in front of the lectern the final day, watching Mr. S. stand there and thank us all for being part of OYAN, for being who we were, for wanting to change the world through our writing and being willing to let God use it, the word I'd been looking to describe him struck me. Humble. Most of us would describe Mr. and Mrs. S. as totally awesome, epic, amazing, pirate-ninja people, and lovers of writing - and writers. All of which is totally true. But there's something different about the Schwabauers that has impacted all of our lives in a way that most authors fail to. Sure, one part of it is that they created the most phenomenal writing curriculum out, because, not being content with creating his own people and world, Mr. S. had the passion and creativity and calling to share his gifting with others. Something that most authors wouldn't do, but would just be content to sit back and collect their laurels. Another part of it is that they have the most epic writing Worksho...

And again, while cleaning my boss's house... :P I noticed a fridge magnet that not three months ago I would have found hysterically amusing. (I promise I didn't look at it for more than a few moments! I thought while I worked.) And still, even now in a bitter mood or out shopping with Mom, I would still have an outward amusement and find some satirical agreeing comment. You see, that fridge magnet read, "Never let your man's mind wander. It's too little to be out on its own." Suddenly, the whole idea behind it struck me as wrong. Sure, in the environment I live in it's funny; as a non-Christian I would've bought about ten and sent them around to all my other girl friends who are involved with boys. I was a feminist. Unwittingly so. My friends called me feminist. I denied it. I believed all the right things with my head, but I held all men with contempt in my heart. And I believed very strongly that any woman was equal to a man, could toughen herself up...

This is a snippet of a short story I wrote earlier. I am thinking of including it in Snapshots. They had argued last night and this morning, bitter, fierce, sniping. Then silence reigned, a heavy, sullen blanket. She came back in from cleaning out their chickens. He pointed to the microwave. "Put it on for 30 seconds." She started the microwave, looking a little puzzled. It bleeped, signalling the end. She looked at him. "Take it out. It's yours." She pulled out a plate of toast. "Thank you." "See, what an evil father you've got. He made you some toast because you were hungry and feeling like you were going to faint." With an inward sigh, she cut two begrudged slices of cheese and ate it as a sandwich. She turned to the fridge and pulled out a carton of apple juice. With a brief laugh, she told him about last night at a meeting, where a friend had surprised her with apple juice instead of squash. "I was so pleased because apple juice...

As God has been working on me and things are changing in my life, as I start my last two years of being an Air Cadet and intend on missing a good section of that for the States, and as I do not blog that much about cadets, I have been considering whether to revamp my blog. I admit, I am proud of my identity as a cadet corporal. I still support our Armed Forces and will do so in any way I can. However, since the Boss left, I have grown away from 196, and I think I only still go for the sake of the past. I have no future with either the cadets or the Armed Forces - a fact which, once admitted, will probably shake loose a lot of my followers from Twitter who put up with my Christianity and follow me as a sub-member of the Forces. I am still a cadet for Christ, but the atmosphere is no longer untarnished - God knows whether it can ever become clean again, thanks to my stupidity with Cadet Rivers. I know God has forgiven me, but the fingers pointed and the sudden drop in language watch (min...

Even before I start, I know I will not express this clearly enough, or be able to tell everything that means love to me. But perhaps, the main point of this post is more of the subject line. What is love - to you? Think about it. God, becoming Man. Laying aside the majesty, power and glory, all of the advantages of His being God, to take on the dust form of His creation. To become the lowliest of men, out of sheer love. To save those from the despised walks of life. A man who puts aside comforts, advantages for himself, to honour another. To stoop to someone from the darker side of life, when he could choose someone better. This is love to me. What is love to you? God, Himself hurting for our pain, causing momentary, though strong (and maybe in earthly time, lasting for a long time) pain for our future good. Staying with us through it, holding us, sticking with us even though we lash out at Him for the pain. Even when we bring it on ourselves. A man who, although hurt by hurting, cause...

New favourite, by Michael Card. Unfortunately, I can't find a video anywhere of him singing this, so I'll just post the lyrics. :) Hope it blesses you too! Song of Gomer Don’t know what He sees in me, he is spirit, he is free And I, the wife of adultery, Gomer is my name Simply more than I can see how he keeps on forgiving me How he keeps his sanity; Hosea, you’re a fool Chorus: A fool to love someone like me, a fool to suffer silently But sometimes through your eyes I see, I’d rather be a fool. The fondness of a father, the passion of a child The tenderness of a loving friend, an understanding smile All of this and so much more you’ve lavished on a faithless whore I’ve never known love like this before; Hosea, you’re a fool CHORUS This God of yours would not have told To lift a love that you couldn’t hold And though time and time again I flee I’m always glad to see you coming after me Simply more than I can see, how he keeps on forgiving me The wife of adultery, and Gomer is m...

WARNING: EXTREME ADULT CONTENT AHEAD. IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 16, IT IS ADVISED THAT YOU DO NOT READ FURTHER. This shot into my head earlier. I don't really know why, but after a nightmare last night, followed by a hint from the co-authored book Raraavis/Shayna and I are doing with the problems I am working on with several friends right now, I think that's probably the reason. Those titles in the headline must have caught your attention. I confess, they were rather a strain to think of. Because the original title in my mind was "Stripper". Shocking, ja? Yeah, instant recoil off all of you. I can see it right now. Don't judge yet. My story idea is as follows. A young and pretty Jewish girl gets arrested and carted off to the camps. During the selection process, she is taken by the officers to serve as a whore for them. She fights to survive physically, although dead within. After the war, she is treated as an outcast by all of her people, and, refused a job, resort...

Ignoring combats*, which I hate because 1- they aren’t smart and 2 – they are army clothes, there is one piece of my uniform which I hate. Not with a passion, as I do camos*, but I really don’t like my RAF jumper. It’s one of the biggest ones on the Squadron, about four sizes too big, with a neck that gapes around my collarbone, sleeves that need to be doubled up, and a hem that also has to be tucked under as it reaches to my knees. It’s a good, thick blue grey wool, with a pocket on the sleeve for a pen as well as having the blue-grey shoulder patches with epaulettes for brassard and rank slides/flight tapes. In the icy blasts of winter, it provides a wonderful warmth. But for all of its serviceable self, most 196 girls – definitely myself, any rate, and my mother – hate our jumpers. Why? Because they literally hang like feed sacks. They don’t give a hint of a shape or a figure, and when you’re used to walking round in a smart blue shirt with sleeves rolled up, a belt around your ...

I know this isn’t a usual way to regard sisters. :P The average are considered to be pains in the neck. But as usual for me, washing my hair this morning provoked an idea, inspired as it was by my story that I started once – ‘A Bouquet of Flowers’ – and my thoughts dwelling on my sweet sister Kiehl. I have had many sisters over the years I’ve been on OYAN as well as one in real life. I haven’t compared them all to flowers, and my apologies to those I haven’t mentioned. Seriously, this is not detrimental to you in any fashion, and I love you dearly ~ Steph, Samii, Janae, Lindi and Lydsie. I need to learn my flowers a little more before I compare you. ;) However, the ones who I have got to know very well recently – personalities and otherwise – this is my tribute to one of the sweetest gifts God has ever given me – my own bouquet of flowers. Kiehl is a violet. Sweet, shy and retiring, giving admiration and tribute to others but not seeing her own beauty and worth in the eyes of God ...

WARNING: I'm not sure about the appropriateness of this for guys...so if you think it's bad, stop reading. Okay? I read Jay Lauser’s excellent post on A New Kind of Modesty (which you really, really, really should read, though I won’t post it up seven times like my big sister C’rissie :P) yesterday, and thought I would like to blog my struggle and weakness in that area for...encouragement? General opinion? Not quite sure, although it certainly wasn’t out of self consideration. :P Then I read C’rissie’s post connected with Jay’s, A Rant on Modesty ;), which you can read here . And decided that I felt too embarrassed after reading that, because they were both so good and covered the ground enough, so I wouldn’t. Well, this morning, I changed my mind. (Although after rereading it again just, with all the comments, I feel quite small about posting this...*hits send before I rethink*) It’s not too often that I gain a victory over my worldliness to be happy in the clothes I’m weari...

Women I admire. This has long been a subject I wanted to cover, but I haven’t done it ‘cause I’m scared of missing one. :P There are women who I admire simply for their singing talent. Like Julie Andrews, Charlotte Church, Susan Boyle, Celtic Woman (music group), Barbra Streisand. And there are women I admire for their dedicated single purpose of mind and devotion to God and/or a cause, even to the sacrifice of the opinions and regard of family and friends, and that of their heart’s dearest wish. My list so far comprises not only of dead women, but one fictional. I will blog more on her later. Florence Nightingale: A high society girl, Florence did not use her influence in society to become an empty-headed doll looking for an advantageous marriage, but went totally against the accepted rules of her class after her heart turned towards God, forsaking the comforts of her well-to-do life, training herself and other women as nurses and serving British troops in the Crimea. She never marrie...