Our Potential

I believe we should never settle for second best because it will never leave us satisfied. We are called to live out radical faith; not just say a bunch of crap, but to live a wild adventure, doing things we never dreamed possible. Lately, I've been listening to a band called Sleeping Giant, who call themselves that simply because that's what we are. We have loads of potential, power, and boldness stored up, but we're asleep. They believe that once we wake up, that's when we'll shake up the world. We have the ability to, but we lack the motivation. There's a Bible verse that says when we wake up, that's when Christ will shine upon us. I believe God isn't looking for people who are asleep to do His work, but people who may be weak or broken or scared, but know that being obedient to Christ despite those things, is a reward all on its own. All throughout the Bible, God calls the most unlikely people to be about His business, while asking them to do the most insane, intense things. They were all pretty freaked out, but believed in a God who was bigger than their issues and knew He was faithful to bring a work to completion. He called a pure man to marry a prostitute and a prophet to lie on his side for a certain number of days depending on the number of sins the people of the city committed. He called a man with a speech problem to be the leader of a vast group of people. He called a young guy concidered a nobody to be the king of His people. He called tax collectors, adulterers, sinners, cripples, lames, etc. his friends. He talks to the nobodies, loves the outcasts, comforts the broken, heals the wounded. He even will use our biggest weaknesses to show others the power of His love for them. He desires boldness among us. He desires wholeness, and won't settle for anything second best for us. If He sees this immense potential in us, why do we continue sleeping when we could be doing the coolest, most radical things on this planet for His glory?

Someone Who'll Never Stand You Up

I've just been thinking, and it sucks when a good friend of yours stands you up. Especially when it's not just one time, but it's so often that you've just stopped trusting your friend. You begin to stop putting your trust in them and eventually get tired of waiting around for someone who'll never show up. This has happened to me too many times where someone has said they would come in ten minutes, so I'd rush to get ready and wait by the door for hours, but they wouldn't come. What sucks the most is not even getting a phone call to say they can't make it. I've gone certain days without doing homework because I would spend the whole day waiting for a friend to pick me up. Although this can really hurt, the cool thing is, there is a God who keeps His promises all the time. He doesn't just say something, and that word means nothing, but His word is always 100% genuine and true. He promises to come back again, and He intends to keep His promise. He's not like that friend that never shows up. When you call, He's there right away. You don't have to wait hours to talk to Him or make an appointment just to hang out with Him. I think it's real cool knowing Someone who's completely trustworthy and will never let you down.

The Vast Field

The hideous smell perked up as she tried to hide its revolting and malignant odour. Her parents had always raised her to know right from wrong. It was like she heeded their warning and went ahead with her loathsome deed. She had steered away from the path of wisdom and took the thorny way. Voices were drowned as she listened to the hateful aspect of her flesh. There was no forgiveness for her crime. It haunted her night and day. She could have been accused as a heretic if she lived in the past. She wondered if grace could be enough in her time of despair and reproach. Tears poured out of her eyes as though a faucet had sprung a leak and a thousand plumbers couldn't fix the problem. She bowed her head in utter shame and vehemently began to scream her distress. No one could hear her. This was the greatest sadness she had ever known. To look up, and see no one there. To know no one had sympathy for her pathetic needs. The King's princess had lost her way and the crimson dress of saphron was tattered and torn.

The field was vast. Full of endless possibilities. Full of hope. Happiness... the perfect place for death. The sky was the limit. If she ended it now she could be seen as a martyr- sacrificing herself so others wouldn't have to suffer the same fate. Her bottle of aspirin seemed like the perfect solution. The perfect cover-up. The purest way to end her suffering and bring about her demise.

She contemplated with her emotions, jumping back and forth, while the demonic voices grew louder and their armies strengthened. It was through this agression that she noticed her hand. Her right hand. The simplicity of it awed her. The complexity in its structure seemed fathomless. It was at this hand that she stared and examined for hours. The lines. The texture. The colour. It was a part of the body that had the potential to do a lot of harm, or it could honour and serve those around her. She only had to make a choice.

It was then that she thought about forgiveness. She thought of the freedom in being released and how much she ached for that feeling. Maybe all she had to do was ask for it. Maybe the choice was her own. Free will. As she felt the lines in her hand, she slowly felt peace. An elixir of life. A concept she couldn't grasp, but a state she wanted to reach.

Her tears had slowly stopped pouring. Forgiveness seemed closer and closer. Her heart of brokeness could mend. Grace could be received if she just opened her hands and lifted them to the heavens. As she silenced the violent noises in her head that were creating a genocide, a quiet whisper could be heard:

"Beloved, you are Mine".

It echoed. It got louder. It repeated until it consumed all the guilt. Until victory was achieved in the bloody war. It filled her with joy. The voice got so loud that no other voice could be heard.

The steeple could be seen a few miles away. A promise of hope. A covenant of forgiveness. Out of the despair she rose, never to look back again.

The Princess' Demise

My doll still stands on that corner shelf.
I loved her and played with her everyday.
Her dull, lifeless, black eyes mirror my life now.

I would run for miles to the middle of nowhere.
Braid flowers in my silky, raven hair.
Friends told me I was wonderful.

Smiles were always put on my face.
All of Mother Nature looked down upon me with radiant joy.
I was the princess living high above the peasants.

My white dress would flow in a field of yellow daisies.
These dark eyes gleamed with joy.
Happiness always flowed out of my breath.

The hue of passion was sown on my breast.
I was royalty in a desecrated world.
My tiara was adorned with baby’s breath.

Though I was not like everyone else,
I looked the same as everyone else;
Bled the same colour as everyone else.

Life was mine and I was Life’s.

I would hurt, and my Daddy would pick me up.
Lullabies were sung into my ear as I lay down to rest.
Sleeping, sleeping, I dreamed dreams like everyone else.

My uncanniness brought along a forlorn presence.
This realization made me view things differently.
Maybe this is where my demise began.
Soon, my dress was torn and stained in blood.
My tiara was thrown off my head.

I was no longer Life’s, yet Life was still mine.

Her Hero's Lament

A piece out of a collection I'm trying to work on.

I.
You loved me.
Do you remember?

I was your hero.
Somewhere I failed.

You hid.
And I searched.

I had not the power to find you.
It could not be the same.

Your heart was cold.
Your body quivered.

The man did not stand behind you with his gun.
Though I couldn't be your hero.

II.
Your education won't save you.
I may be dumb, but that one's easy.

What are you without love?
Ha, cast that mountain to the sea!

Listen, listen.
I'm waiting.

Come home, Princess.
My heart is empty.

Smile wide and feel safe.
The door is open -
I'm waiting.

Skeletons of Suburbia

This was inspired by a story I heard once.

I
Passion hurts.
To be passionate, you must leave something behind.
It is rewarded by spitting and evil, haunting stares.
Death waits at every corner.
Muscles ache where they never have before.
Your fragile body longs for comfort.
The city lights keep you safe and far from danger, but not for long.
This is where thousands make their home.

II
My house was clean.
It was far from the nightmare of my past.
I no longer woke up to hear the orchestra of death's devastating screams.
I was no longer called those hurtful, degrading names.
But something wasn't right.
I needed to leave safety behind.
My bags were packed and I hit the streets.

III
Up and down those roads I walked.
No where to lay my head.
No money to stop the hunger pains.
I looked into their eyes for a little compassion.
But there was none.
They walked away and went on with life.
No longer did I have my comfortable bed.
No longer did I have the sweet lullaby of my mother.

IV
I just kept moving.
Kept pursuing passion.
I am broken.
Abandoned.
Lost.

V
No one has to care for me.
I was their product.
Their guinea pig.
I am a Skeleton of Suburbia.

One Man's Pursuit Pt. Two

As he opened the doors leading onto the street, he was bombarded with exotic smells, luxuriant colours, and people everywhere talking on their Blackberry’s. The young man had entered a twilight zone, but soon felt right at home with the Urbanites. People in the city seemed to be just like him; lonely and insecure. Although he felt this way, he couldn’t help but be moved by the life of the city. His feet lightly tapped as he walked past street performers, and his pocket change added a nice rhythm to their melodramatic tunes as he threw it into their cases.

Seclusion was one way to live life, but there was something about the city that brought colour to his cheeks and filled his lungs with tasteful air. Life couldn’t be lived hidden under a box, and he was slowly learning that he needed to find some way to make a difference. Philosophizing about everything didn’t mean change would happen. Revolution had to begin within himself.

The sidewalk became more crowded as he headed towards the market, and so he began to walk on the street, blocking bike riders and skateboarders who yelled at him to move. A man was drawing some sort of picture on the sidewalk, and he realized this was why so many people were concentrated in this area. It had to be something controversial because a lot of yelling and chaos was beginning to take place. As he made his way closer, he saw a picture of two bloody hands drawn with chalk. Although he had little Sunday School knowledge, he assumed the picture represented the hands of Jesus. The artist left no inscription underneath his picture, but made his statement without being Pharisee-like. He was amazed that this young artist, who was probably a few years younger than him, was making this bold statement of his faith, but wasn’t condemning anyone who spat on his picture or told him to go die for drawing such a controversial image in a diverse city. The artist walked away, and it was finished.

The young man began to ponder this image in his head and thought about why the artist would have chosen that picture to represent his faith. He began to compare the artist to J.P. Andel, and saw a striking resemblance in how both men chose to live their lives.

He walked onward, noticing the breathtaking sights that demonstrated how people lived their lives each day. He was always curious about what got people going every morning and what gave them a sense that their lives were meaningful. He saw a sign being waved a few blocks away and decided to see if the sign would bring any revelation to his wandering mind.

A well-dressed man held a sign that proclaimed, “The Love of Jesus is for All”. The man held this sign with much dignity and pride, and the young man couldn’t help but smile and take a pamphlet from the young woman accompanying him. He glanced over the paper quickly and hoped it would shed some truth on his situation. He stared at the man for answers, but he only continued to raise his sign higher and shout the words out with fervency. As the young man began to pretend to read the pamphlet in hopes that the old man would put down his sign to share his faith with him, a man in tattered clothes and a dirty face walked past the uptight, well-dressed old man with a hearty smile, mouthing “God bless you”. The old man finally put down his sign, and instead of welcoming the dirty man into his circle, gave him a look of complete disgust and hatred. The young man felt degraded after seeing this act, feeling like a hole had been pierced into his heart. He wanted to slam the sign over the hypocrite's face and teach him a lesson, but he decided to hold his anger and continue to walk. He believed his atheism was more logical at that moment because he could love someone without being told to by some ancient book.

His feet slowly stopped tapping to the rhythm of the trumpet he heard in the background, and he began to mourn for the old man’s loss of sympathy. He eventually made it to the business district in the city, feeling bewildered and out of place. He did not fit in with the men and their pin-stripped suits or the women with their Coach handbags. No one seemed to pay any attention to the man on the corner selling newspapers. With brokenness in his eyes, he languidly asked people if they wanted to purchase a newspaper. No one gave him a second glance. They continued to walk on, texting on their cell phones, having no care whatsoever for the man standing there longing for a little attention.

The young man pulled out the extra change from his pocket and approached the man to purchase a newspaper. The man was so touched by this, and couldn’t stop thanking him. He decided to start a conversation with the man, and suddenly had this burning sensation in his heart after listening to the man’s story. He thought about how other people would treat the man after they heard what brought him to the streets in the first place. What broke his heart was the thought that no one would ever have the love or the time to talk to ask him this question. Their lives were much more important than someone else’s. He slowly started to walk away while shoving the newspaper into his backpack. He never wanted a newspaper in the first place, but he wanted a chance to listen to someone who just wanted another human to talk to. Although the young man took more pride in the way he dressed compared to the newspaper seller, he knew they both had more in common than he would ever have suspected.

After spending much of his life reading books, he believed he understood human beings. He thought they were all the same: selfish, unhappy, and full of pride. His philosophy whispered that to him everyday. Though that was his interpretation from the books he read, he felt it was true after observing people in their natural habitats. People like to think they love others, but he knew human love never sufficed.

He recalled a lecture from one of his first year university professors who taught him that each of us long for a home, that we are all homeless. He believed people knew this deep down, but were unwilling to admit it. Their masks had attached themselves too tightly to the face, causing any sign of genuiness to suffocate.

The young man was disheartened by the acts he had already witnessed and believed it was time for it to end. His search for purpose had been in vain. Purpose could not be found. The only purpose people would ever find in life would be after death. Death had to be the answer. Every great artist, thinker, and writer eventually died. Humans were mortal. He needed a plan. He knew the train schedule like the back of his hand, and decided at approximately 5:23 he would walk along the tracks, hoping to meet the 5:34 train. He set the alarm on his favourite silver watch to 5:23, and sighed one of those relieving sighs that comes when you know the end is near.

He had been in the city for a few hours already and decided he should get something to eat before he met his demise and have his own “Last Supper”. He loved how everywhere he turned there was a Tim Hortons right in front of him. He opened the door of the nearest franchise, and gave a joyous quiver as he breathed in the sweet aroma of roasted coffee beans. He waited in line, tapping his foot to any beats he could hear, and placed his order. He sat near a window, placed his iPod to his ears, and immersed himself in sweet melodies. After finishing his meal, he grabbed his extra-large “triple triple” and walked out the door. An old man in a wheelchair with a tiny dog stood outside the entrance holding a ripped coffee cup and mumbled to himself. People threw change into the cup without glancing at the man once. Their good deed had been done for the day, and there was nothing left for them to do. The young man stood there in utter shame and shock. Hypocrisy had gone too far. Compassion seemed lost in this cruel world. He approached the elderly man and smiled a heart-warming smile. The man asked if he could spare some change. He had none to give. All he had was the silver watch that was his pride and joy. He worked hours and hours to obtain that watch as a teenager. He hoped it would one day lead him to his great destiny. As he stared into those lifeless brown eyes, he knew what his destiny was. He stopped his time-for-death alarm, slowly pulled the watch off his wrist, and placed it into the withered hands of the old man. “I have no change”, he whispered, “but what I have, I give to you”.

The old man shed a tear of delight, thanked him from the bottom of his heart, and repeated, “God bless you”, over and over. The young man’s heart was heavy, and tears burst out of this aching pain. Withered hands dried those tears and the young man fell beside his new kindred spirit. The two were now equals. They were both homeless.

The young man finally found genuine purpose. A glimmer of hope in a smog-filled city. His search was not in vain. Death was not the answer. Philosophy was not the answer. The truth lay in the life of J.P. Andel, the work of the young artist, the smile of the ragged man, and the hands of the homeless cripple.

Instead of riding the 5:34 train to his death, he boarded at 5:24 with the other passengers, arriving at his destination filled with life and love.

One Man's Pursuit Pt. One

A rough short story written out of boredom.

The rusty tracks glimmered in the ancient sun, while travellers lost their composure facing the harsh elements. Women sighed in anxiety as their well-done, business-like hair flopped and flattened in the heat and humidity. Men ripped off their suit jackets as though they would not live to see tomorrow and expected some divine intervention to take place. Drops of sweat formed puddles around the travellers’ shoes, ruining the expensive Italian leather that paychecks were spent on in order to have a sense of demeanour.

As the train pulled up to the station at precisely 12:43, the travellers poured into the train and filled every possible seat. People wrestled to be near the vents that were blowing holy, soothing air to the dying troops of a mid-July afternoon.

Among this chaotic mess, a young man sat calm and quietly, ignoring the fact that his cheeks were crimson red and he was weary with heat. He was considered different from everyone else, but he never saw the point in conforming to be like other people. Mankind no longer took pleasure in tradition or culture, and was so concerned with mundane activities. Society had become a wasteland, and he wanted nothing to do with any uncivilized acts.

As the train began to pull away, he took out his newspaper from his black, Jansport backpack and made himself comfortable as he stared out the window for a few brief seconds, reminiscing about past experiences and what he might discover in the day ahead of him. As he sat pondering, he began to philosophize about the motion of the train moving along the tracks. The young man was always mesmerized by the synchrony of the train. As strange as it was for other people, it gave him a sense of adrenaline rush. He took pleasure in the fact that the train always moved perfectly along the tracks and was designed to allow hundreds of people to reach their destination, safely and comfortably.

As his thoughts died down, he turned away from the window and gave a soft chuckle over his whimsical thought. He opened his newspaper straight to the obituaries and began to comfort himself in hearing about the deaths of other people. Those who knew about this abnormal habit thought he was morbid and depressing, but though he could be, he also saw it as an encouragement to keep on living even when he obsessed over death. Something inside kept telling him he needed to keep on living. That somehow life was possible after death, and living life joyfully on earth was better than spending eternity in an abyss.

He read, and was heartened by the death of Mr. J.P. Andel who was said to be “the loving and gracious father of Betty and Clara, and the revered husband of Norma Andel”. What inspired the young man most was what it said at the bottom of the column: It should be written on his epitaph, “Lover and Servant of the Most High God”. The young man didn’t know what to think about this statement. It contradicted everything he believed in, yet the words poured into his heart and mind, burst a blood vessel of rational thought, and sent a tear dripping down his cheek. He could no longer keep his mind in perfect opposition and needed to clear his thoughts with a purely philosophical and empirical journal. He found logical comfort in the words of Thomas Kuhn, and although he didn’t believe his theories, he thought it would be the perfect way to ration any conception of God and metaphysical nonsense.

People slowly rippled off the train as it stopped at each station, and the young man could finally place his red old school Vans on the chair across from him. Comfort was the elixir of life for him. If he lived in the world all by himself, he would spend his days sitting in the grass, drinking coffee, and reading an academically challenging novel. He knew he could never have it his own way because he understood the fact that people had duties to uphold, making life a “zero-sum game”.

The train finally arrived at his destination, and he slowly lifted himself off the seat and meticulously made his way down the stairs of the train. He really had no reason to be where he was, but he enjoyed spending time in a new location, seeing people with all kinds of stories and backgrounds. Everyone seemed to be rushing off to some unknown place, but the young man found a seat inside the station, and watched people live their meaningless lives. He strongly believed life was purposeless - all his heroes had told him that subconsciously – but he hoped that today he could prove them wrong, and find the greatest scientific discovery of all time – life has purpose.

The young man was a philosopher. Philosophizing was what he did with his life - the only thing that already had meaning. He took philosophy in university and fell in love with all kinds of concepts and ancient philosophers. Rousseau was his hero. He idolized the man. Rousseau’s beliefs forced the young man to believe that the only way to become a genius was to live a life of solitude. It was uncanny, but it was how he lived his life since his second year of university.

After thinking for several minutes, he finally decided it was time to see images outside of the station. Absolute truth must be waiting out those doors. He was in pursuit of purpose. All he had to do was search for it. It was time for him to step out of his comfort zone, and walk around.

Oh...

Oh, Life. You are weird. Yet so cool.

The End.

Lessons By The River

I'm currently listening to a song called "Poor Man's Son" by Noah Gundersen, and certain lyrics in the song reminded me of a powerful short story I read by Flannery O'Connor. The lyrics say, "Oh brothers, let's go down, down in the river to pray". In this story by O'Connor, entitled "The River", a young boy interprets a preacher's words wrong by believing that to get to Heaven, he has to swim to the bottom of the river. The boy tries to go down farther and farther, but he's eventually pulled down, and drowns. It's funny how words are interpreted in a wrong way, leading to an injury, or in the story's case, death. It's hard to know what's true when there's so much to believe, and sometimes it seems like the only way to understand something is to trust your own judgement or make something up that sounds reasonable. Human reason fails to suffice though, as we are imperfect and can't always see the larger picture. I believe we need to trust that God knows what He's doing and learn to ask Him if we don't understand something. The little boy in the story may not have died if he asked someone what the preacher was trying to say, instead of taking matters into his own hands. We need to slow things down, knowing that God has a bigger picture in mind. The cool thing with this is that God will always respond. It may not be immediately, or the way we'd want, but He listens and answers. He is constantly teaching us new things, and we just need to open our eyes to see what those things are.

The End.

Nothing Serious

First entry.

This is nothing serious. Just somewhere to publish things I'm learning or things I have written. So, yeah. Never take things too seriously. It causes too many problems, and life needs to be enjoyed without freaking out every second.

The End.