Soap for Jesus

Dear World, It's me. Well. Not really. You don't know me. To some I'm a clump of cells, or to others I'm a living being from conception. You've yet to meet me, but I'm a baby growing inside my mommy. I'm supposed to be born in a few months, but there's a word she's using. Abortion. She says it with a pained voice, but at the same time, it's disgust. Disgust towards me or the abortion? Doesn't she want me? I'm a girl! I want to wear dresses, run through the yard and tackle my daddy when he comes home from work, and pick wild flowers for you, mommy. I keep growing, and I'm moving too. I feel mommy's hand next to me and she sings to me. I can hear her and daddy's laugh. They sound happy for me to arrive. But why does this abortion keep coming up? Don't they want me? I just want to see their faces... Won't you keep me? Adella ~ Dear World, My name is Adella. I'm sixteen years old and am a survivor. O...

Staring blankly at the screen, or out the window, coming back to myself with the realisation that the words are pounding through my head; "He's gone. He lied. Like all the others. And he's never coming back. He's gone. Forever." Biting down on my lip to escape the moan as the tears well up in my eyes again. I grab the mouse and click onto the next comment, head held proudly, not going to let the row of colleagues sitting facing me see my grief. Too late. The tears splash down my face, making sharp cracky sounds as they hit the paper I'm working from. Ash, my colleague next to me, laughs a bit uneasily. "You were crying yesterday. Isn't that enough now?" He's half teasing, I know. I answer with a half smile, "For a broken heart? Na. I'll be crying for many days yet." "Many days...?" He let his voice trail off. Yeah, not many people are getting this. "It's just normal boy/girl stuff," they say. "...

For the third time, this year, God willing, I hope to set foot on American soil. A place where my kinsmen emigrated, my ancestors fought, and my friends live. Each time has been a miracle - the kindness shown me by friends who both gave and anonymously sent money and my boss Lisa who invented jobs to pay me so I could go in 2011, and by American friends who took me in and also paid for me as I went across the States. The gracious miracle when my wages were higher than expected last year, 2012, figuring just enough money to go to both Ireland and America and cover our rent while I was gone. Now I'd like to share with you the miracle of 2013. :) God. Is. Amazing. And He provides. Like, when you don't expect Him to. This year's trip to OYAN was a lot weirder than expected... My colleague Jess Phelps (we are starting to interact a lot outside of work - she and Stephen are my two best friends at work) and I started kidding around about me taking her with me to Ame...

You know those points in life where things just hit you? It came to me as I was washing up in the kitchen, snuggled in my fluffy grey dressing gown, the electric light off and the warm glow of the sunset fading in through the window, Michael Card's Celtic music playing in the background. I'm 21. And finally life seems to be coming, in a way. So many plans and hopes and dreams buzzing through my head, so much that is likely to and so easily can be smashed. "I'm fine on my own," I said aloud, laughed, looked up and sighed. These moments where I'm the only one in the house and can talk out loud on everything with God - cause He already knows it - and know the intimate closeness of Him in my spirit. "No, I'm not. But I'm okay with that. You're here, and You'll be with me until the time is right." Marriages are sprouting up all around me as my friends begin to pair off, and the middle-aged-21 crisis struck me. Not so much because...

As Time itself drew to a close in Earth's final days, the system of life seemed to have gone back several hundred years. Feuds, wars between kings and knights that fought on horseback...beheading as capital punishment had become ways of life once more. One could almost believe that old TV shows and films, like Doctor Who, were a reality, for there were upon the Earth many strange beings, the like of which had never been seen from the dawn of Time until now. There arose a great and powerful Dark Knight who rode through the land, calling all the people who dwelt there in apparently ordinary lives to arms. For a millennium, the world had lain quietly under the guidance of one King who reigned supreme in Jerusalem, capital of the much torn land of Israel. Yes...the problems of the world had centred around this one small city in one tiny country, as the book of ancient prophesy had foretold it to be a stumbling block. And once more, a King reigned in Jerusalem as had not been his l...

I woke up this morning not feeling very good. Well, I usually feel physically great after a lie in, but not mentally, especially when waking at 1pm. About half an hour later, Mom was just about to go out. "Sian! There's a parcel down here for you." I let out a shriek and bolted downstairs, as I was expecting one...although I had no idea what was in it. (I love surprise parcels, sometimes. :D) "It can't be the one you think it is...it's from Preston!" Mom said. I blinked, knowing the Hodgson girls hadn't sent me anything! Surprised, I tried to detangle the brown tape from the parcel, but it clung tightly to the lighter brown paper. The parcel was long, brown and slender - not like I was expecting. Though I didn't know WHAT I was expecting. :D Finally ripping the tape off, I managed to start unrolling it, and eventually reached the bubble wrapping. Now, if you're anything like me, bubble wrapping is half of the present. ;) I s...

We cheered on the Olympians, and still more the Paralympians, with pride in our countries and awe at their amazing achievements. Those guys (and gals) sacrificed years and time and money and strength and purpose to one goal - to compete here. As Christians, we have our own Olympics to run. Our goal - which is Heaven, our struggle - which is life. And we are commanded to run in such a way as to win the prize - the prize of the upward calling of God in Christ Jesus. I went to the opening of the Baptist Bible College in Telford area today. The guy who preached was Pastor David More. He talked on running the race. But not so much the beginning, as the ending. We need to end well. Many people, he said, start off enthusiastically and with zeal. But not so many end up finishing well, because they didn't run with dedication and purpose. We need to set our sights on Christ and following Him. That must be our goal. We may change immediate goals and our lives turn around in the me...

It is so hard to express what this week has meant to me, that I'm going to post up a blog post from a note on Facebook, written by my brother Miguel, and a link to another written by my twin sister, Kiehl. I know...cop-out. ;) Please, please read them. And for what is in my heart regarding OYAN? And when the Spirit of God is in so many of us in one heart, one mind and one goal...then let there be LIGHT. And there will be dynamite. #OYAN I had to laugh tonight when someone told me that OYAN's focus on "religion" was "a big flaw", and "undermined OYAN's value." Oh. My. Days. How can people be so blind...? How can they not see that we would never be so bonded if it weren't for the love of Christ? How can I express the frustration I feel as I remember that 1 hr 45 mins prayer meeting on the last night, and how God moved in and through and united and calmed us and gave us that vision for the future? From Heaven to Earth by Miguel Flor...

No, it's not the Apostle. No, we haven't taken in anyone by the name of Peter, and yes, I'm still single and living under my mother's roof. Before y'all panic. For the past three years, I've undergone severe writer's block on "my novel", Born From Death. As some of you are aware, it was based on a conflict at my Squadron between a few cadets and myself, regarding Christianity, indecent talk on the Squadron, blasphemy, etc. In retaliation and the only method of revenge I could, I decided to write a book where my main antagonist was born again. Thus...Born From Death was born. Chapter 10 was written. Then sections from 2, 1, 11, 5, 12, 9 and 3. The plot was fitting together beautifully. I gave the book to Christ and asked Him to write and use it for His glory. Then the unthinkable happened. I fell in love with the guy my main character, Peter Westcott, was based off. And he left the Squadron one beautiful, painful month later. An...

Once upon a time, there were two men. They were born together, lived together, ate together, worked together, slept together. They were Siamese twins, perfect reproductions of each other in every mannerism. Except two things were strange. They looked the same as one man. Each had exactly half of that one body that they shared. The one had been born years before the other, corrupted from what it was meant to be. The soul that they shared was rotten through, but there remained within a touch of the original design, a thread of what it was meant to running through its core. One day, the breath of the original Designer, the One Who made the whole man with the perfect soul before the Corruption fell upon it, stirred the dust and bit through the grit on that soul. He brought it to life, once again, and the original Soul, faced with the choice between the Old Familiar, that is and never should have been, and the New Unknown, which is ageless and timeless, chose the New Unknown and reached out...

This short analysis of the book was written by a lady called Rebekah , who I give full credit to - being too lazy and idle to write a small description myself. :P "A "fairy" tale about three daughters and their fathers. At the birth of each of the girls, they are given a loom and golden thread on which to weave their ideals of the prince who will come for them, for a prince will come for each girl. The looms grow as the girls do, but their fathers have different responses to the looms. One father laughs about it, and teases his daughter as she weaves about her thoughts of young men. She fancies many boys, and gives them the mantles she weaves. However, her standard was not that of the prince, and when he came for her, the mantle of her ideals did not fit him, and he went away. Another father hides the loom, and she finds out about it from the previous girl. When she asks her father about it, he becomes angry, and tells her she is too young to be thinking of weaving on he...

So. I wrote this random little skit today in between calls. (Yes, I was dialling! Just scribbling at the points when the phone was ringing.) This is taken from the perspective of a snobbish receptionist (ie, briskly efficient that disposes of researchers as wastes of precious time) and an interviewer driven mad/crazy by no surveys, non-stop calling and rude refusals. R: Receptionist I: Interviewer M: Manager (Interviewer stops banging head off the desk, assumes a calm air, picks up the phone and dials.) R: (pleasantly) Hello, this is Denise Arrington-Smith, secretary to Lord Harry Poncenby of the Willoughy Estates Learning and Support School. Can I help you? I: Hello! My name is Emily Willis and I'm calling on behalf of the Sunday Times. Can I speak to Lord Poncenby please? R: (suspiciously) Oh, I'm sorry...what did you say your name was again? I: (politely cheerful) Emily Willis. R: And your company name? I: I'm calling on behalf on the Sunday Times. R: Is that where you...

I'm presumin' we're going to be eating these for Christmas dinner. :D Mom and I have looked after these potatoes since Uncle Peter planted them for Mom. Mom's becoming quite a gardening person again now. :D Mom's done the majority of the caring. I've watered them a couple of times, done the hoeing (to my knowledge) and for the past six weeks have been trying to find time (in daylight) to dig them up. Reasons being, I work 9-5, Monday to Friday. It's dark when I leave home at 0730 and dark when I return at 1820. Saturdays I've been out with cadets or doing something else. And Sundays is church or something else. Today, I got a half day's paid holiday from work. :D So from 3 (when I got home) til 4:30, I dug up two of the three rows of potatoes. :D This is me swinging the hoe into the dirt. I swung it so hard a couple of times that sparks flew off the rocks...yeah, it surprised me, too! :D The rocks and the potatoes looked so alike at times I got confu...

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...

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...

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...

For the past four nights (excluding last night) at the Beals' house, I have had extremely weird dreams. The first was regarding an old friend and I - we were touring England, and a steam engine and another guy were involved. Not much more I want to recall. The next two I can't remember, but the fourth was so weird I made a point of trying to remember specific points and write it down. My Dream 09-07-11 There was this train station I was at...a train from America to the UK. It stopped in front of some big glass panels, white framed, with sliding doors. I was in a sort of wide area that lead to it off a corridor. Mom and Dad were there, with my Uncle Pete and I seem to recall something to do with or someone like Bill Jackson. I have a vague recollection of me having some kind of stuffed animal, probably missing Harry Kyle. I was off somewhere important, the atmosphere had a kind of urgency around it and I felt very sure of where I was going and that I wouldn't be back for a l...

WARNING: NOT FOR YOUNGER OR INNOCENT READERS. Wrote this for Snapshots. Opinions?? 'She stared at the screen, tears pouring down her twisted face. "What does he know, or care?" A little voice inside of her whispered. "You're just another human...a worthless body, a lazy, selfcentred bitch. She's right...everyone who tells you that must be right. Because you see it in yourself. You lazy, good-for-nothing, cutting harlot." Burying her face in the crook of her arm, she sobbed quietly into the cushion on the arm of the chair, trying to suppress the louder sobs that would bring down her already angry and weeping mother. She raised her soaked face and studied the computer screen again, reading the type that a faceless person had sent, begging her, pleading with her not to cut. Glancing down at the knife on her lap, she pulled the kitchen towel out, ready to soak up the blood when she'd made the cut - or two - that would send her into a state of shocked num...

Hey guys, check this cut from my first chapter of a new novel - No-Win War. :D Critique away! No-Win War By Jane Johnson Chapter One “We’re at war with them, as far as I’m concerned,” I said, my voice flat. “Always have been, and always will be.” The two of them stared at me. I read faint disgust in their faces as they bowed their heads and backed out of my room. “Ole Habo. He just doesn’t have an inkling that times CAN change.” “No; he’s too stuck in that past of his. We’re a new generation, and things can be different. He’ll see, someday.” “What did you say?” I called after them, but they had moved beyond hearing range. With a weary sigh, I turned and shuffled back to my cosy leaves. The very fact they called me old signified that this new generation that I didn’t really know had lost respect for me. Why do they even bother coming to ask advice? All they do is mock at it, even though I know better than they, and then go and pass a contrary decision in that new fangled Parley-ant of t...