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...

When people ask me what I am, among the first words I use to describe myself is "author" or "writer". "Oooh! What do you write?" "Well, historical fiction mostly, started a bit of fantasy and my own autobiography." (That last usually gets a lot of laughter!) "Are you published?" "Well, sort of, yes." "Are you going to write a book about BMG? (My workplace)" I have to laugh at that one. "Maybe," because all experiences can be used. Then they go off into detailed descriptions of how I could use certain people and feature them and hide names, etc. So why am I writing this? Because I was thinking about it the other day. As life has gone on, and my friends and I have grown up, I am technically no longer recognised as an author in writing circles. I have little time in the current scheme of live to do more than scribble a few lines here and there, a few story ideas to be worked on when I hit that wond...

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...

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...

(As most of you know, I'm in Overland Park, Kansas, staying with the Noe family for the One Year Adventure Novel - OYAN - Workshop 2012. Today, June 23, is the day after the workshop ended.) Sarah Noe is wearing a very cool t-shirt. It has on the back "Live, Move, Be", and a Scripture reference in Acts. I likey. I'm struggling to find words to say what's in my heart, so for right now, I'm just going to type out the little speech thingie I gave last night just before the final session ended. I was shaking, writing this. I wrote it and struggled with words, and re-read to find out that it said a lot that struck the chords inside of me, but nothing that really seemed to say my deepest emotions. I debated backing out of reading it...and the only reason I wrote it was so I'd stand less chance of crying on stage. I prayed God would bless it and that it would be used to bless, but it felt totally inadequate and I wasn't expecting Him to. I know this...

Not in chronological order. ;) _ On deciding to work on BfD, I found the second book and took it to work with me yesterday. I was chatting with Navpreet (my adopted daughter) about it casually during lunch break, and she asked to look at it. When she started to read it, she got so caught up she lost track of where she was. One - WHOOPS. Two - YAY! _ For the last two days, I've worn my OYAN t-shirt to work. It's amusing walking down the street and watching people read it. So were my colleagues at work - and liked it. (Yes, Mr. S., I'm attempting to infiltrate the whole of Britain with OYAN. Slowly. :P) This morning, carrying four heavy bags and hurrying towards work, I passed a guy who read it out loud as I walked past him. "My villain can beat up your villain?" And started laughing. I grinned. "Yep! And no arguing about it!" That was funny. _ After almost two years of waiting (cause I even got my close friends' names out of h...

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...

It's painful. And it's sore. It's so sore I spend washtime dabbing water on portions of my skin because if I shower properly, I end up crying with pain. It's inherited genetically. I remember Daddy telling me his started when he was 19. It went all over his entire body - including his face. He had the wet kind - weeping, they call it - on his face. He had to go to work every day like that. And he said he felt disgusting, like a leper. Until he took aloe vera tablets, which reduced his eczema to some kind of controllable level. It started when I was a kid. Behind the backs of my knees and in the crooks of my arms. Then it faded until I only had it occasionally on the elbow of my right arm. Last year, it flared up again. REALLY bad. On my arms. Then I went to America. It was bad when I arrived. Came back a little in Oregon due to the dryness of the air. But otherwise, it was cleared. I forgot I had ever had eczema. Then I came home. And started work. ...

It's an interesting title. For a blog post. It'll be even more interesting as a film - if it gets made. “To Turn Back Time” is the story of John, who has just graduated college, when he wakes up one morning to discover that his long deceased father is alive. After getting to know his father—something he’s longed for his entire life—he discovers his dad’s presence isn’t the only thing that’s different. The rest of his family has changed too, along with his own ability to help his girlfriend Alyssa through the death of her mother. In the end, he’s faced with a terrible choice: to stay in the world where his father lives and lose the man he’s become, or give it up for the sake of the love of those around him. The story of “To Turn Back Time” is intensely personal to writer / director, Keifer Lucchi, who lived through the death of his father at the age of seven. As memories and buried emotions started to resurface, Lucchi allowed himself to deal with what had happe...

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...

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...

It's 10:54 am. Probably be later by the time I finish writing this. Thirty (yes, thirty - I was counting) thirty Peppa Pig episodes later, I carry my finally sleeping (yes, I know, Mr. S, OYANers. Adverbs.) Okay, I'll stop interrupting myself cause it's getting annoying. Thirty Peppa Pig episodes later, I finally carry my sleeping nephew upstairs to his bed and tuck him in, praying desperately under my breath that he will not waken. Today's not been a good day from start to finish...woke up late, accomplished little and what I did accomplish wasn't what I'd particularly aimed to do. People I wanted or hoped to talk to, things either went wrong in the conversation or else, as with tonight because of babysitting, I didn't get online until a few moments before my friend went offline - so we were able to exchange goodbyes. It's also one of those terrible days when I lose words. When I can't really pry deeply into someone's heart or attempt to reach o...

One of my favourite things to do is to post a new post. And then, to share it. On Facebook, on Twitter, and on various chats. Then I sit and watch for a couple of minutes with my finger on the refresh button. I love Feedjit. :D It's so fun to watch the visitors start coming!! "New Bern, North Carolina" "Woodbridge, Virginia" "Belfast, Northern Ireland" "Moscow, Russia" Within minutes of posting. O.o My mother saw her grandfather once before his death. George Edward C was born in c. 1889. What would he have thought, I often wonder, if he could see his great granddaughter "slamming up blog posts", "Facebooking and tweeting", "emailing", "using a laptop", "typing" on something that wasn't a typewriter, talking about "gigabytes"...and what could a "website" possibly be? FLYING in a "jumbo jet" to a country that took months to sail to...flying's just been inven...

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...

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*

Pray without ceasing. If any man comes after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me. He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to save what he cannot lose. In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God, in Christ Jesus, concerning you. I'm waiting on You, Lord, though it is painful. I will serve You while I'm waiting. It was then that He carried you. Give up trying - and watch God do! Let go. Let God. Follow me even as I follow Christ - and never otherwise. I love bends in road. There's something so alluring about them. Expect great things from God, attempt great things for God. Ich Dien (I serve) for His glory alone. He that saves his life shall lose it, but he that loses his life for My Sake shall find it. Never was so much owed by so many, to so few. How much more is the debt that mankind owes - to One? What shall it profit a man, if he gains the whole world, and loses his soul? What will a man give in exchange for his soul? Chosen of Go...

To those who requested it: herein lieth the letter I wrote at age 15 and 9 months to an imaginary future son. March 4th, 2008 To my dear eldest son, Scott David, Your mother is only fifteen, nearly sixteen as she writes this letter to you. I am foolish, and don't know much, but I thought I should like to write a letter to the boy who, perhaps, will one day be my son. Maybe you will come to me through adoption, maybe through the sweet-bitter joy of giving birth, and maybe you will always stay - a child of my imagination. I wonder what it will be like to look down on a tiny baby face, or perhaps that of a young boy, and say, "My son!" My heat seems to thrill as it whispers the words. I wonder what you will look like. Will you have golden hair, black hair, brown hair or my red hair? Perhaps it will be as vivid as mine. Will your eyes be blue, grey, green, brown, hazel or a mix of two or several? Still, that will not matter as long as you are strong and healthy and what God...