He was betrayed by a kiss. He was disowned by His closest friend. He was mocked for Who He was, beaten because He wouldn't defend Himself. He was found innocent, yet condemned to die. He underwent excruciating pain while people watched.
Then God turned away.
He was made to be one of us. He grew in a woman's womb, was raised by a simple man, limited by His flesh, and - though He was sinless - He took my sin, and was separated from God.
{via}
Jesus did not come to make my life perfect. Through this life, I will be betrayed, disowned, mocked, beaten, condemned, and finally, I will die. But because of His sacrifice, I am no longer separated from God - He will never turn away from me.
I was five years old. Joy and I, the only girls in our co-op classroom, were tired of sitting in our little corner, and when our teachers vanished for some reason, we saw the opportunity and took it. In no time flat we had dominated the room, building a massive (you know, for two five-year-old girls) fort that the boys weren't allowed to go near. After we got bored of flaunting it, we sat inside and told each other stories. We took toys and built up our treasure store. The boys eventually knocked our fort down and we hollered at each other for a while.
Meanwhile, our teachers were in a back room, watching the TV. As we terrorized the boys, our country was being attacked. As our fort fell, so did the World Trade Center. As we yelled and fought, thousands of people were dying.
Any one of them would have gladly been a five-year-old in a co-op classroom.
Despite what Shakespeare says, I believe a name holds a lot of weight. A rose would simply not smell as sweet if it swapped names with a skunkweed; or, at least, you wouldn't see people so eagerly sticking their noses towards it. But, then again, if in the beginning Adam had named the unfortunate namesake a rose, instead, we would avoid the roseweed and prefer the skunk. And that's just plain confusing, because we've been conditioned to think of a specific thing when we hear a name.
In my case, I've got a ton of names. Each one inspires a different image.
(By the way, I totally meant to attach a deeper meaning to this, but I couldn't come up with one. If you do, feel free to leave it in the comments. I'm just going to resign myself to the fact that this blog is purely quirky.)
Charlene.
The given name. While it's not exactly a secret, not everybody knows it, and it receives interesting reactions. I've heard often "That's a pretty name", commonly "Oh, I thought it was Charlotte", and not a few times "Your real name is Charlene?" It's an elegant name that I've never thought really suits me. But it makes for a bunch of interesting nicknames. ;)
Charli. The name. The one I use to introduce myself. The one all my friends know me by. The one that gets the coolest comments ever. The one that, apparently, is impossible to spell. Tack on my middle name, Rae, and you've got my pen name.
Charlenie, Char, & Char-Char.
The common pet names. The first one is my title among my cousins, the second is used by my friends, and the last only (hopefully) by my sister. I'm not particularly fond of any of them, but they don't embarrass the heck out of me. Well, except maybe the first one.
Charcoal & Chuckle-doodle-doo.
The cringe names. The first I absolutely despised until I met Ashley, or Ashes, and realized what a hypocrite I am. The second one I didn't plan on sharing, 'cause when people call me that I turn into Godzilla, but I smile like an idiot when I think of it, 'cause that's what my daddy calls me. And no, that doesn't mean I don't turn into Godzilla when he calls me that.
"Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding but must be controlled by bit and bridle or they will not come to you." ~Psalm 32:9
Upon first glancing over this, I got a bit miffed. Horses aren't dumb, and from my perspective, they've got plenty of understanding. And they don't necessarily need a bit to be ridden, much less come to me. So maybe their teeth occupy more space in their heads than their brains, but that doesn't mean they're dumb!
Whoa-ho-ho-hold up, there. First off, did I seriously get miffed by the words of God? (And second, never did He call them dumb, so I'm going to forget I even said that.) But anyway, I half-halted and paused to think about what He really meant there.
I remembered that, when I went trail riding for a friend's birthday a couple weeks ago, the particular horse I was on was feeling rather peckish and swung his head to the side every chance he got to snatch at a juicy cluster of grass or leaves. Every time I had to tug back on the reins and say, "Hello. I'm still up here," he'd grudgingly listen and get back to work. But now I'm relating with the horse instead of the rider.
Often I snatch at the little goodies at the side of the path (computer, books, and other things that vie for my attention) and often I ignore God's tugging at the reins. I get caught up in how good this looks right now and forget that if I'd just focus on the road and get back to the barn, I'd get a nice hosing-down and get put into my cozy stall where dinner waits (not to mention I'd be with all my buddies). It's not hard to remember that I've got a rider Who's directing my steps toward heaven, but it's often difficult to surrender that control over to Him. (And, because I'm hard-headed and obsessed, it's easy to get miffed.)
~Charli Rae|Job 39:19-25|
PS--Ben's birthday was Saturday. He's seventeen now. This time next year we'll be packing him off to go to college. :(
I hear it all the time. Sometimes
it’s in jest, but often the speaker truly believes that death is the only way
their situation can get worse. Why is that?
Maybe non-believers have reason;
subconsciously realizing that death will be much, much worse than life. But as
a Christian (and an American), I really have no excuse - yet I often catch
myself thinking it, even if I’m not
dramatically spouting it aloud. God showers me with thousands of mercies every
moment, and not to mention, I live in a land of incredible ease. So I skipped
breakfast. Am I really starving by lunchtime? So my friends shun me, make me
feel like a freak. Is the solitude really all that bad? So I stub my toe. Is
the pain really bad enough to make believe I’m gonna die?
And that’s not even biblically
correct. As Christians, through Jesus we have gained entrance into heaven.
Death is fine, better than living here. For us, death isn’t a way for our
situation to get worse; it means we can spend eternity with our Father. So
really, in tough times, in pain, why do we say “I’m gonna die!” like it’s a bad
thing? Shouldn’t we be saying “I’m gonna LIVE!”?
"A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any. So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, 'For three years now I've been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven't found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?' "'Sir,' the man replied, 'leave it alone for one more year, and I'll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.'"
~Luke 13:6-9
"Cut her down!" I keep expecting God to say. "I keep looking for fruit and find none!"
He's given me fifteen years. Maybe sometimes I've produced a small, barely-edible harvest, but much of the time I'm barren. Why should I use up God's resources? Surely they would be better used by another, more productive recipient. One who seeks out opportunity, who yields to His hands, who craves His soil.
{both pics via pinterest}
But He does not cut me down. Instead He sends me Jesus, Who has been put in charge of caring for the vineyard. Jesus' tender care makes me want to yield to Him, and His presence makes the soil so much richer. He calls me to blossom, to make His time spent nurturing me valuable.
I don't know the set time limit that I have, but I do know that, with Jesus' help, I will make the best of that time. One day my harvest will be bountiful, a sweet addition to the Father's table.
I hate sleeping. Maybe because I don’t do it often. Sitting
up in bed, forced to listen to my sister’s deep breathing, I hate myself for
not doing the same. I lie on my back and stare at the clock’s projection on my
ceiling. Minutes move slower at night. I know it.
The black air turns milky with lazy sunlight. The darkness is
giving me a few precious moments to fall asleep. That’s when my strength melts,
my resolve fades away. I stop praying for my friends and family, for the world’s
broken condition, and start begging. Most often, silent tears twist my face.
Sometimes I’m granted the two hours of silence left. Others I lie awake until
someone gets out of bed.
One might think that if I get to sleep, it’s better. I
believe it’s worse. If I fall asleep, I always wake up with a feeling of dread.
I fumble to the bathroom, switch on the light, and expect my reflection to
distort into a horrid monster. But it’s only me looking back.
If darkness remains, I turn out the light and return to my
bedroom. Something follows me. It’ll grab me if I don’t get into bed and under
the covers quick enough. Who knows what it plans to do then?
It must have been some bad nightmare to warp my imagination
in such a way, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was about. All I
know is, if I go back to sleep, it’ll haunt me again. Lying awake is torture,
but sleeping is worse. Because then I’ll have to wake up.
Opposites. After 'mom', 'dad', the alphabet and letters, opposites are the first thing a child learns. Good and bad. Open and closed. Clean and messy. Sweet and sour. Nice and mean.
But really, what is one without the other? We know how light it is in the morning only after our eyes are adjusted to the dark.
Food is most satisfying for one who has gone without.
Love is more fulfilling when it survives a period of hate.
And this broken world draws all the more attention to the awesome power of our wondrous God.
An adjective used to describe me yesterday was 'manly'. It resulted, I'm ashamed to say, in quite the little tirade. And it was over such a silly thing as nail polish.
Now, let me clarify. The only times I have worn makeup was rather begrudgingly at various slumber parties, the last of which was four years ago. Nail polish I have worn, very unhappily as it tends to make my fingers feel goopy, but only once has it been willing - when I was testing out the 'newsprint nails' that were sweeping through the blogosphere a few months ago. I dress myself for comfort rather than style. I'm rather happy with the way I am and I like to think that all attempts to convince me otherwise have failed miserably.
[via pinterest]
I would rather my hands be judged on the work they do rather than what color, shape, or design happens to be embossed on the nails.
[via pinterest]
People pay attention to my lips because of the words that slip past them, not how shiny they are.
[via pinterest]
No one can come to me and say, "Wow, Char, that eyeliner really makes your eyes pop!" If they notice my eyes at all, it's because my eyes did the work on their own.
[via something... forgot where exactly]
And about my clothes, I've heard several rather insulting things, one of the worst being, "You should really start shopping in the girls' section."
[via pinterest]
I don't think badly of you if you wear makeup, and I like listening to girls chattering about their nail polish. I'm just as quick on the draw as the next girl to compliment you on a cute new (or even old) skirt or pair of shoes.
I'm not manly. I just won't go out of my way to be girly, either.
So, this post was going to be about food, wasn't it? Oh, well. I'm very fickle - and I have changed my mind once again. We all know what good food is, don't we? It's a big subject, with lots of opinions, tastes, and varieties. Wanna know something similar? Music. I figure it's an appropriate topic as we enter the Christmas season. :)
Bad music makes you want to squeeze your ears until your head explodes, and, in my opinion (which doesn't have to be shared), is anything that makes your body vibrate with the bass. Good music can influence your emotions - make you happy or sad - and your actions - make you want to dance or cry, or sometimes, better music can make you do both. But great music... well, that's different for everyone.
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Influences:
Star of Munster, an Irish reel
For me, great music, the best music, makes my heart physically hurt when I listen to it. It fills me with indescribable joy and sadness in the same instant.
(Just to clarify, we're talking the actual music here, not the lyrics. Great songs can have wonderful lyrics and still be bad music. The opposite is also true.)
Hark the Herald Angels Sing
Influences:
"Greengrass" - Irish/bluegrass
The instruments that make up great music for me are fiddle (sometimes violin; yes, I am aware they're technically the same instrument), guitar, bagpipes, and flute. I'm sure there are probably more, and, of course, my opinions about music changes as I grow. But my current favorites fit the criteria for great music. I find myself holding my breath as each song starts. All three are by the same people, Keith & Kristyn Getty, an Irish couple who have amazing hearts for God and use their musical talents for His ministry. Their Christmas songs combine their homeland's most famous reels with traditional lyrics. I absolutely love them - I hope you will, too. :)
Two of them are up; the last won't work. :( It's What Child is This? and has Spanish influences throughout the song. Well, they're the first three songs on the Joy: An Irish Christmas CD; if you want to give someone an amazing Christmas present, there it is. :) What's great music to you?
Halloween. An annual holiday celebrated on October 31st. Activities of the day include carving faces into pumpkins,
donning creative and elaborate costumes, wandering from house to house in search
of candy, hanging out with friends, pulling pranks, telling frightening
stories, watching horror films, lighting huge bonfires….
Many Christians get the willies come the 31st.
Maybe it’s because, even if it’s not known, the history of Halloween is, in
fact, a horrifying story.
All Hallows Eve. An annual holiday signifying the end of the harvest, the start of winter, the season of death. It also came just before All Saints Day, the day when souls worthy of heaven would ascend... therefore All Hallows Eve was their last chance to reap revenge on those who harmed them during life. Ghoulish faces were originally carved into turnips or potatoes (us lazy Americans found pumpkins much easier to carve). Costumes were not for fun - they were to disguise yourself from the spirits haunting you. The 'trick-or-treat' tradition was, rather than children, the poor begging for bread in return for praying for the giver's dead relatives (spirits with more prayers found easier passage into heaven). 'Sacred' bonfires were lit and embers were carried in the carved vegetables to light sacred fires of their own, which, of course, scared the spirits away.
Yeah, all that said, Halloween kinda scares me. But I still dressed up. But didn't get any pictures. I plan on wearing the costume again, though, so...
im: a common prefix meaning 'not' or 'the opposite of'.
The thing about blogging... it brings out the liar in me. The pretender. The fraud. The one who likes to make everyone think I'm perfect. Well, here's a good dose of the truth.
I chew my nails.
Most days, I don't get around to brushing my hair until well after lunch.
It took me forever to find out where {brackets} were on my keyboard.
My room is so messy that you can't see the floor.
I write a sentence and erase it a bajillion times before I'm satisfied.
I get really stressed when people ask for my help.
I don't read my bible nearly as much as I want to.
Check out the button on my sidebar to visit Kendra's blog and join the rebellion against perfect blogging. =)
