Go Tell It On The Mountain

Alright, so at work today, I was bitten by the vermin of Holiday Cheer. 
I'm not sure how many people know this, but I used to LOVE Christmas. I didn't care so much for the gifts, or the money or any of that sort of stuff. I loved sneaking out the back door of my bedroom and sneaking down the spiraling staircase that ran behind my bedroom (which we didn't know existed until we realized my bedroom had TWO doors) and just stand in my livingroom and watch the lights on the christmas tree twinkle. I loved the smell of cinnamon and the sound of Christmas music. I loved the bustle, and the sounds of my family laughing. I loved how we probably had the ugliest Christmas tree on the block, because it was decked out with 25 + years of sentimental decorations - ever dough wreath, candy cane reindeer, and glittered styrofoam ball my brother and I had ever made. It was quite a sight. I could've cared less about presents, to be perfectly honest. I mean, I'm not going to say I hated getting gifts or anything, that part was great. The thing is, I can't really remember 99% of the presents I've gotten over the years, but I can recall what my house looked, smelled and felt like every single year. 
Then my mom died, and none of that really mattered to me anymore. My brother doesn't seem to recally care about it anymore, my dad doesn't even get a Christmas tree, and the ornaments my mom had been saving since well before my infancy went MIA when she did. For the past 3 years, it's been like Christmas didn't know how to survive without her. 
Today though, as I watched people Christmas shopping for their loved ones; grandmothers asking me which picture books their granddaughter may enjoy (Paper Bag Princess for the win),  little boys spending their allowance on a velveteen rabbit for their sister... or men and women alike desperately scouring the racks for cookbooks with the PERFECT Christmas dinner recipe, my teensy tiny black heart gradually warmed. I guess it's pretty lame that I was softened by mass consumerism, but it just reminded me why I loved the Holiday so much in the first place. Not because of the gifts, but because of the looks I saw on each of faces I saw today. Their compassion for their families, their joy for the season, or their heart being warmed by mass consumerism. Praise Jesus, because even though your brilliant birth is being horrifically overshadowed, you ARE love. And your love is shown on each of your childrens' faces. Your love has warmed my heart. 

An excerpt from the blog of Debora Cahn

A word about diaries.  When you find your mother’s diary, don’t read it.  DON’T READ IT.  I tell you this from experience.  I found my mother’s diary.  Not really a diary, a suitcase full of stuff she wrote for a writing class, but one of the assignments was to keep a journal, and my sister said DON’T READ IT and I read it, and I’m telling you.  DO NOT READ THE DIARY.  If they thought you should know, they’d have told you. But more importantly, I say this to the diary keepers of the world:  What the hell are you thinking?  You really think nobody’s gonna find that thing?  You really think that the box in the back of the closet is a secure location?  That an old sweater and a pair of long underwear’ll throw everyone off the trail?  You’re dead, and your poor child/spouse/best friend is tasked with going through your stuff, and they see the box with the sweater and the long underwear, and they think, I’m not going to touch that pair of long underwear, it’s clearly a box of old winter clothing, let’s just close it up again and bring it right over to Goodwill.  No, people.  Anyone who hasn’t had a lobotomy is going to move the long underwear aside, and find the diary, and read it.  And let me tell you, that little tiny lock can be picked with a bobby pin.  If you feel you must put your feelings on paper, destroy those pages once a year.  If you feel you must have a way to reconnect with your younger self, run the bonfire once a decade.  And when you find yourself visiting an oncologist or cardiologist with some regularity, take it as a sign to THROW OUT THE DIARIES. 

Always Love

To make a mountain of your life Is just a choice 
But I never learned enough 
To listen to the voice that said
Always love; Hate will get you every time
Always love; Don't wait til the finish line

Slow demands come around 
Squeeze the air and keep the rest out 
It helps to write it down
Even if you then cross it out 

Self-directed lives 
I want to know what it'd be like to 
Aim so high above 
Any card that you get dealt you 

I've been held back by something 
You said to me quietly on the stairs, 
I've been held back by something 
You said to me quietly on the stairs
You said 
Hey, you good ones
Hey, you good ones

Always Love 
Hate will get you every time 
Always love 
Hate will get you

First Day on a Brand New Planet

"Most of our life is a series of images. They pass us by like towns on the highway. But sometimes a moment stuns us as it happens. And we know that this instant is more than a fleeting image. We know that this moment, every part of it, will live on forever."

Burnt Love Letters

Okay, so in XLR8 we read this book called "Renovation of the Heart". It was a controversial book, to be sure... half of the people hated it, 3 or 4 of us loved it... Jennifer Cross didn't even end up writing her essay until the second day in Chiliwack, and she still hadn't even read the book (I'm outing you, Jen!). 
When I read the book, I took notes. It was during Christmas vacation, and I sat in the guest room at my aunts house with the book and my prayer journal and I took notes on everything. At the end of each chapter, it had all these "Steps to Renovation", like meditating on certain scripture, and committing yourself to being a psalm 1 person, rather than a Romans 1 person. Rules, basically. Which is, I suppose, why the book was such a controversy. I don't think it was the intention of the author to make it look like we had to do these things to become Holy. I just think he saw it as one of those "Well, it definitely couldn't hurt" things. I highly doubt the man was convinced he was God or anything. 
The point is, this weekend I've spent a lot of time talking to Vangi. And not just ridiculous talking about being in love with Patrick Dempsey, or videos I may or may not have of her bum from XLR8's past that I can blackmail her with. We really talked, which we haven't done since... honestly, I have trouble believing we have REALLY talked in over a year. I told her about things I'm scared of, about my relationship with Jesus. All my lies about how Jesus and I are close, just because I read my bible every day and do devotions and pray for my loved ones. Because I haven't talked to Jesus in ages. And I can blame that on anything I want. I can say it's because our group of friends have changed. I can say it's because Caitlyn Spence moved to Vancouver, or our youth pastor abandoned us, or I didn't have anyone to keep me accountable. But none of that has anything to do with it. I'm sure it doesn't help, but those are just excuses. I'm not close with Jesus because other things HAVE become more important. I can say Jesus is first in my life, but if He was, I wouldn't be having this problem. And I'm scared that the reason I can't pinpoint the thing that is coming between us is because there are too many things.
Anyway, in the book, one of the "Steps to Renovation" was to write a letter to Jesus.
So that's what I'm going to do. That's what I have to do.
I used to write letters to my mom a lot. Probably once a month I'd write to my mom and fill her in on my life, and my hurt, and the secrets that were killing me to keep inside. When she was alive, I used to tell my mom everything.
It used to make me feel better, to think that my mom saw what I was writing, and that she knew what was going on. That years after she died, she still could "know" me. 
I want Jesus to know me again.

SALVOLOVE

So today at church I spearheaded a prayer meeting for the Internation Day of Prayer for the persecuted church. I didn't really know what was expected of me today, just that it was something I had to do. I have never been so in love wth my corps before. Major Martin made an announcement that I would meet anyone interested on the stage after the service and have a half hour or so of prayer and discussion. I was actually really nervous, until one of the older ladies in our church introduced me to her friend, who looked at me and exclaimed "you're right! She has such a lovely smile!" I was so moved during the prayer of how important this was to a lot of people in my church. There were about 15 people who stayed behind with myself and the Major, and so many of them were so passionate about it, and about 10 of them were driven to tears. I felt a little uneasy at first, being the only one under 50 in the mix, until I was joined by a young mother and her 6 year old daughter, who also both took part in the waterworks. 
One of the highlights of my day was, as I was getting ready to leave, two older women approaching me and saying, 
"If you ever need to talk about ANYTHING, or need prayer or any guidance, just know that we love you very much and we are always here to talk and love you."
I just feel that everything in my life is such a phenominal blessing.

And yeah, I love my corps.

Paint it Golden

Run away from money
Quit your job and climb a tree
One with hearts instead of leaves
Build a sandcastle big enough for us to sleep
Paint it golden with the sunrise

Cause we are
Like a wingless bird
Crashing down
To the helpless earth
And if something's gonna break it
See it all around you
Feel it in your body
You'll be hiding in the shadows
Where love is still alive
'Til all of it is burning

Through a field we're walking
Empty as the open sky
We escape from all the troubles
Found a waterfall and
Took a dive to cool our skin
Finally we found this feeling

Run away from money
Quit your job and climb a tree
One with hearts instead of leaves

The pros and cons of parachute repair

Sometimes my walk with God reminds me of music.
I know how to play 3 instruments; the alto sax, the clarinet, and the recorder.
(As far as skill goes, it's not exactly in that order.)
In grade 4, like the majority of students of my generation and general location, I got to
embark on the arduous and toilsome task of leaning an instrument.
For the young students in BES, it was the recorder.
Sometimes I'd wonder if my little plastic recorder could even be classified as an instrument.
I definitely wouldn't call the sound that came out of it 90% of the time "music"; just noise.
Yet every day, we'd march into music class and practice until the pads of our fingers were
imprinted with the shape of the little holes, and every night I would practice until the awful noise
coming out of it wasn't half as awful.
In hindsight. I would like to apologize to my mother, father, brother AND dog for invoking that torture on them.
(I also extend the remorse of my music teacher, Ms.McLeod. Really, it was her fault, rather than mine.)
When I moved up to middle school, we got to choose REAL instruments with which to inflict pain. My newest weapon of choice being the clarinet. Now, after you discover the secret of playing the clarinet without it tickling your tongue, it's pretty much smooth sailing from there. The rest is learning the notes and making The Face. The Face is pretty much what it all depends on. Strong chops. You learn pretty early on that if you don't get a proper hold on The Face, the noise that escapes is rather recorder-esque in nature.
I suppose it's like that for most instruments, there's always those one or two things that determine what comes out. In grade six, the majority of the fruit we reaped in band class were bum notes. I again extend my deepest sympathies to my parents, and even more so, my then-sixteen year old brother, for having to sit through some of those concerts (Mostly my brother; dragged there by force).
However, as the months and years wore on, the noise escaping my instrument seemed to improve for the most part. By highschool, the concerts were actually pretty enjoyable. I suppose practice at my house was a tad less nerve-racking, as well. Overtime "Hot cross buns" became "La Belle and Le Capitaine".
Regrettably, there was a year or so when I just wasn't interested in practice at all, and I fell behind quite a bit. I wasn't nearly as bad as when I had started out, but it seemed a lot worse, because I was making a lot more mistakes than my peers.
I loved the times in band class when I wouldn't be playing, and I got to sit and listen to the symphony surrounding me. Every once and awhile, there may have been a bum note, but in the grand scheme of things, it was true beauty.
See, I kind of view my walk with God like that. Maybe when you first start out, or maybe half way through like me, the music you make with God isn't at its best. Maybe it seems like all you're making is mistakes, if you compare yourself to those around you. However, if you work at it, if you practice each day and you focus on making that beautiful music again, it gets easier.... you start to make a few less mistakes, and in time, you're part of a brilliant orchestra. It's not always perfect, we all hit a bum note sometimes, even the most incredible musicians have their bad days.... but in the long run, the music can be breathtaking.

Love as a Verb

So I'm currently reading Joshua, because I decided to real Samuel, and it starts with "After the death of Joshua", which made me realize I don't know how Joshua died. I mean, it's perfectly reasonable to assume he died; if he had not, it'd be fair to say I'd be more than a little shell shocked. Anyway, I decided to read Joshua. It was upon doing so that I became exceedingly grateful that God, for the most part, grew out of His "smite" phase. I mean, He was just offing people like none other back in the Old Testament. I guess having a son softens you up a bit. I bet Jesus is sitting next to Him saying "Dad, chill out. Deep breath. Count to ten. Give 'em grace." I know I could definitely not be so forgiving. I mean, growing up, I had an ant farm. It was super gross and my mom hated it. It was a terrible present from my cousin. Now I took care of those ants and fed them and watched them, and had some sort of wacky power over them, I guess... and if they would've like, caused a revolt, I must say, I would've been deeply hurt. Now if they'd mocked, tortured, and killed my son, carried him into their little tunnels and completely ostracized him, I would have done nothing less than throw their stupid plastic box right out the window. But loved them? Fat chance. (not to mention they were ants).
To be fair, I only had that stupid ant farm for maybe a week before I realized how completely boring ants are. Now, we as humans, I guess we're not so boring... but just think of how tiring it must be to watch the people you created and raised and took care of and built a wonderful home for repeatedly mess up and slander you and break your heart thousands of times over?
Much worse than watching my ants crawl through the same tunnels day in and day out and not GET anywhere. You see, I didn't create my ants, I didn't even really care for them much... and they probably weren't even really aware of my presence in their little ant lives. We're not like that. We're aware of God. I didn't give my ants a little ant Bible, I didn't perform little ant miracles. God is a constant force in our lives, and yet we continue to hurt him... and he just sits by and waits. He loves us so much that he just waits. Waits for us to smarten up. He has a lot of faith in us, for a group of people who don't seem to put a lot of faith in Him.
What I was getting at originally, I think, is that I'm so grateful that God isn't quite as vengeful as he used to be. And we should all be grateful. And show our gratefulness by just listening to Him, for ONCE. Because eventually, even though you don't think it matters much, (since we have SUCH a forgiving God), one day it is GOING to matter. One day, God is gonna go all Old Testament on your butt.
Alright,
That's all I wanted to say.

The remedy

"I just don't want to do or say anything else remotely moronic"

"I'm afraid that once your heart is involved, it all comes out in moron"

My Desperate Eyes They Grow So Tired

So, when I read a book, I know it's a good book because, even if it's fiction, it CHANGES my LIFE. I feel things I haven't quite felt before, I'm pulled in all directions.
I have 3 or 4 books in particular that do that to me.
The first is "One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies" by Sonya Sones... not because I relate to the character in such obvious ways, but because it's written so eloquently, and, although a work of complete fiction, actually helped me with some of my "mom" stuff.
The second is "The Truth About Forever" by Sarah Dessen... who is, legit, my favourite author. Furthermore, she wrote the books that my favourite movie is based off of... which I found out only weeks ago. Intense. I love this book because the ideas are so profound and I love how the character grows through these people around her trying to get her to be a certain person, and then an entire different group can obscure her view on life to find who she really is. I just love it a lot.
The third is "Before I Die" by Jenny Downham... it's probably the most moving book I have ever read. It's about this girl, Tessa, dying from cancer, who writes a moving list of things to do before she dies. She ends up completing quite a few... doing something completely out of the ordinary, steal her fathers car, spend a day showing her little brother she loves him, get her parents back together, fall in love... the last few chapters of her lying there while she listens to her loved ones talk to her, but not being able to respond, are heartbreaking... but it made me feel truly alive.
In the novel, Tessa writes letters to her best friend, her best friend's baby-to-be, her little brother, her boyfriend (promise me you'll travel and go to school and fall madly in love) and her father... his also included her burial requests (in a nature reserve by a nice tree that they can visit and maybe picnic next to), rules for raising her little brother, and a list of songs to be played at her funeral... and to use the money in her sock drawer to go and get wasted after, if they feel they must, as long as they don't scare the kids.
Anyway, the point of this post is, in a completely unmorbid way, to make a list of songs I'd want to be played at my funeral... because they kind of speak my life... I don't know.
I just think it's a beautiful thing. Death breathes life and whatnot.

So if you find this years from now, whoever you are, keep it. It's important (hah)


Life in Technicolor - Coldplay (no words, but lovely nonetheless)
All The Trees Of The Field Will Clap Their Hands - Sufjan Stevens
The Unwinding Cable Car - Anberlin
Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin (Just for my mama)


...there may be more when I'm not so sleep deprived.
But this is all for the time being.




All The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands

If I am alive this time next year,
will I have arrived in time to share?
And mine is about as good this far.
And I'm still applied to what you are.
And I am joining all my thoughts to you.
And I'm preparing every part for you.

And I heard from the trees a great parade.
And I heard from the hills a band was made.
And will I be invited to the sound?
And will I be a part of what you've made?
And I am throwing all my thoughts away.
And I'm destroying every bet I've made.
And I am joining all my thoughts to you.
And I'm preparing every part for you

puddles

I still remember how much it hurt when I realized you were going to miss my 16th birthday. We'd planned so much for it, but I guess all our late night conversations disappeared when you did. And now, I realize you're going to be missing my 19th birthday, too. It's still so surreal, that I'm having all these experiences and you can't experience them with me. That I'm growing up and you're not here to see it. Whenever I think about it, I always see the same image in my mind. We're walking in front of our old house in youbou and you're smiling and it's raining, but it doesn't matter... I just keep jumping in puddles while you just keep on smiling. And that's when I can't wrap my head around the fact that you're missing all of this. That you're actually not standing there smiling while I grow and screw up and jump in some really big puddles. Because when I think of that smile, it doesn't seem possible that you wouldn't be here forever. But what about life really makes sense anyway.

polaris

I feel that when I'm old
I'll look at you and know
The world was beautiful

Mama Gothel

Little monarch sits high in her tower
Peering at the hysteria playing out below
Ash-hued locks fall across her pale porcelain face
As she gazes out at the mighty windmill
Looming upwards like a protective parent
Of which she'd never known
She stands as tall as her paltry frame will allow
And she spins
And she twirls
Around and around until she up and takes flight
Higher and higher
Above the ample archways
Beyond the battle still raging below
Casting away the conceited crusaders
Dismissing the diabolical dragons
Escaping the ever afters.
[END SCENE]

Molly Woodford

Scarlet

Is this what was prayed for?
Thiefs made of our fathers
Our brothers turned to liars
Fallen tears like fallen snow
Cover the blackened asphalt
Until it is wholly what we see

Is this what was worked for?
To have gashes scab over
Until all we have to show of our efforts
Are barely noteworthy scars?
Cry out for triumph
Pray on every fallen tear

Lift arms and raise voices
Palms stretched upwards
Are leering satellites
Singing til our tongues are parched
Dancing til our feet give out
Until voices erupt, shatter windows
And tear open scars; reopen war wounds
The battle is not over
The carnage has only just begun


Molly Woodford

Wrong Body

If I make it to heaven
I may be as bloody as hell.
Would you still take me?
I'm afraid that you might say,
"Depart from me, I never knew you."

I'm in the wrong body.
I'm in the wrong body.
I'm in the wrong body.
I must have stumbled in.

All the love I want to give,
Gets caught between every rib.
What does that make me?
I have good intentions,
But no exit for them to come out right through.

I'm in the wrong body.
I'm in the wrong body.
I'm in the wrong body.
I must have stumbled in.

immortality

Hands placed, palms open
Pushing out, pulling apart by force
Strangled cries break the lull
Screaming
Can You hear them screaming?

Your grace and strength
How sweet the sound
Those chords don't play here anymore
My ears ache, they bleed
All that is left is a faint and dismal ring

My eyes are burning
Crimson fiery coals
My feet are heavy
Dense and burdened bricks
How can I reach them
From high on this tower?

I strain
I stretch for You
But my vision blurs
My legs grow weary under the weight
How can I see You
With eyes cast downward?

They bend and break
Their figures shrink into obscurity
The higher I climb
How long 'til I fall?
Like the proverbial King Kong
Swerving and swaying
Caught in the crossfire

Molly Woodford

the quiet things that no one ever knows

Tonight I was doing that thing where you're so sensationally lost and void that you absentmindedly click on random icons on your desktop. That was when I came across some very ancient playlists. One of them was from back in grade 10, and when the first song played, I actually felt like I couldn't breathe. It's a pretty scary experience when you genuinely feel yourself getting sucked into the past. It wasn't like a walk down good ol' memory lane, it was like I was getting pulled apart and condensed all at once. All of the sudden, I was 15 again, I was sitting at my computer desk at my grandma's house, in the room that was far too big for someone who just wanted to shrink away. I remember curling up in a ball in that computer chair in the dark and talking to Chris until 3am, when he finally couldn't do it anymore and would go to bed. After that, I would just... Sit there, until it was time for school. I remember the smell of the room, the smell of the shampoo I used to use, the exact temperature in the room, and hearing that song.
It's bizarre, I remember so little from that time, never a full day out of those 6 months... And yet one song can dredge up so much that I apparently have worked relatively hard to forget.

We saw the western coast
I saw the hospital
Nursed the shoreline like a wound
Reports of lover's tryst
Were neither clear nor descript
We kept it safe and slow
The quiet things that no one ever knows

So keep the blood in your head
And keep your feet on the ground
If today's the day it gets tired
Today's the day we drop out
Gave up my body and bed
All for an empty hotel
Wasting words on lower cases and capitals

I contemplate the day we wed
Your friends are boring me to death
Your veil is ruined in the rain
By then it's you I can do without
There's nothing new to talk about
And though our kids are blessed
Their parents let them shoulder all the blame


I lie for only you
And I lie well
Hallelujah

things I gain from late night buffy the vampire slayer episodes

"Passion... it lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us... passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have?
Passion is the source of our finest moments; the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief.
It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank... without passion, we'd be truly dead."